PRIDE ANTHOLOGY 2024

_____________________________

THE UNOFFICIAL BATTLETECH FANZINE

 TABLE OF CONTENTS

SOLARIS EXCERPT
TREN TALKS
SPECIAL THANKS

SHORT STORIES

WHITE LIES, BLOODY TRUTHS

Albert Ross
LEAP OF FAITH
Ryn Mackie
SOLARIS CITY BLUES
Jason ‘Po Ding’ Livermore
HEAR OUR VOICE
Jordan Versus
PIRATE BURIAL
Milla Koponen
THE WHITE GIANT
Eric Haiko
BE GAY, DO CRIMES
Jamie Kaiju Marriage

(Continued)
BETTER TOGETHER
Bryan Young
WE HARDLY KNEW YE
Kyle ‘Blimp’ Kruso
SHELTERING WING
Robin Briseño
THINK ABOUT THE FUTURE
Russell Zimmerman
FLINCH
Griffin D. H. V. Souza
CORNER CASES
Dana Harris

FEATURETTES

AFTERWORD
Michael A. Stackpole
LGB-7Q LONGBOW C-KIT
HPG OUTGOING
Important links and resources

OTHER

CREDITS
COPYRIGHT

(Continued)
ART PAGES

CATNOPUS
Tera
BONDSMAN BULLYING
Jordan Versus
BE GAY
Samantha Richardson
GET REKT
Samantha Richardson
 SOLARIS EXCERPT

“Hello everybody, Duncan Fisher here…”

You know, when I was asked to write a short intro for this Anthology, I thought to
myself, “Short? Have they heard me speaking?” But then I realized that the person
who was asking knows me and my alter ego, George Ledoux pretty well. They
know I try my best to treat everyone with respect until they show me that they
deserve none from me.

As Duncan would say, “I’m all about ‘heart’”. I appreciate people with heart and
some of the best folks I’ve had the pleasure of meeting via BattleTech are all about
that. Some of them are also LGBTQ+ and I can appreciate the effort that being true
to oneself can be difficult when talking about a video game. In my mind, games are
for everybody and no one should be excluded. Well, unless you’re a dick. I have
absolutely no patience with people like that.

Battletech is for Everyone.

Whether you’re in the arena or on the battlefield, all that matters is what kind of
’Mech you’re piloting and whether you can keep it from overheating or exploding.
Of course, some people just like overheating and exploding, and I guess that’s cool
as long as you keep the splash damage to a minimum.

So, welcome in! Have a few stories and some fun and I’ll see YOU in the arena.

- Excerpt from Duncan Fisher, or maybe George Ledoux

 TREN TALKS

Heya! It’s Tren.

As a voice actor/audiobook narrator for BattleTech, I tend to spend most of my

time speaking other people’s words. So when I was asked to say a few words of my
own here, I gladly accepted.

For those who don’t know, I’m gay. I’ve got friends who are gay, straight, bi, demi,
pan, ace, trans and all of the other variations in the grand spectrum. When I first
found myself being drawn into the BattleTech community, I’ll be honest, I was a
little worried that I’d get a lot of chaff for being gay.

But much to my surprise, the people have, by and large, been very welcoming and
accepting. I hope to have many more years of friendships forged and maintained
here, and to meet many of you in person when I get to a convention.

In the meantime, I will continue to speak the words I’m given. And as long as you
keep listening, I’ll keep speaking.

Well bargained and done.

- Trendane Sparks
 SPECIAL THANKS
From Milla

There are five people BattleTech Pride Anthology owes everything to:
Philip A. Lee, for their tips, tricks, and help, Scrivener recommendation
(check it out!), and work on Shrapnel, is what sets the style and very essence of
Pride Anthology. They and their work are the very core I have built Pride
Anthology on.
Jamie Kaiju Marriage, whose casual bantering and throwing of random—but
amazing—ideas out in the wilderness, is what gave birth to this fanzine. They are
the source of the idea, and they let me run with it—like a little candy burglar in a
store—I took the idea, and made it into a little candy factory.
Albert Ross, who is utterly amazingly addicted to reading, helped me read
through all the submissions, and proofread everything three times over, while I
missed every little grammaricky squiggle along the way with my feedback and
edits.
Bryan Young, whose writing inspired me to get on this journey, to start writing
BattleTech. I grew up with MechWarrior games, Harebrained Schemes’
BATTLETECH was the first time I realized MechWarrior games are in fact part of
the BattleTech universe, the game I saw people play decades past. Generally “tie-in
books” are terrible, that is kind of an expected fact for anyone coming in from
Movies or Video Games, so I was never too keen on reading anything of
BattleTech, I just loved the lore, the universe, the tabletop game(s), the video
games, but I decided to give it a chance, and I read A Question of Survival. Turns
out I wanted to read and write everything of BattleTech.
 My unnamed partner, who lets me do all the weirdest things, never doubts or
tells me to not dive into yet another project, and ever cheers me on. Even though
there are four other names above, I owe the most to them ♥
Besides them five above, massive thanks go to Ray Arrastia and John Helfers
for listening to all my weird questions and inquiries without ever reaching
f—without ever pressing the block button. And a huge cheers to Jason Hansa for
his amazing feedback on my stories.
Also crazy big thanks to all our cats who did not cause a bigger mess.
And you, dear reader, dear browser, dear page turner, have given me—given
us—the most valuable thing one can give; Your time. Thank you so much!

Without further ado; Welcome to BattleTech Pride Anthology!

 WHITE LIES, BLOODY TRUTHS
ALBERT ROSS
@blundertross

REINOSA TOWNSHIP
PLANET EBRO
FILTVELT COALITION
7 NOVEMBER 3073

The Arethusa was burning, the DropShip’s form broken and crumpled like a
shattered egg, spewing thick black smoke into a sky already choked with clouds.
The town burned with it, dilapidated buildings collapsing into rubble amidst the
screams of the residents who had once tried to eke out a living in this remote place.
But Erin Gossow couldn’t think about that right now. All she could focus on
was the bloody knife in her shaking hands and the corpse of a pirate at her feet.
Things were supposed to be better here.
She and her crew had fled the terrors of the Jihad. They had packed up
Arethusa, their Danais-class DropShip, on Robinson, filled it with as many
desperate refugees as they could, and ran as fast and far as they could to a world
that should be outside of the Word of Blake’s attention, beyond the devastation that
rocked most of the Inner Sphere.
 For a time it had worked and they had managed to build something
resembling a life. Erin had got an apartment near the DropPort with her first
officer—a home, with a friend—and kept busy running orbital hops. She had even
met someone, Anja, fallen in love with her, and Erin had almost gathered the
courage to ask if she wanted to get a place together, just them.
Such petty things. Such petty, unimportant things that were nevertheless the
keystones to living.
But the problem with being far from the centers of power, was that you also
tended to be far from the bastions of defense; pirates had come to Reinosa and
burned it to the ground. They had bombed the DropPort. They were breaking into
buildings and taking what they could. They were roaring with laughter at the
destruction they caused, racing through the streets in coughing, rattling vehicles.
One had broken into Erin’s place, shot Braccus when he tried to stop them, then
shot him again when he wouldn’t stop screaming.
So Erin, moving on autopilot, had pulled a knife from the kitchen and pushed
it right into the pirate’s kidneys. It had been such an easy thing to do, really, like
sliding through a fish fillet. One little push—in and out—was all it took to cut the
thread of a man’s life, leave him bleeding out on the floor.
Her eyes flickered from the knife to the body then back again.
“Fuck!” she squeaked, dropping it like it burned her hand.
She could hear more shouts from outside. The panicked cries of the
townspeople, the harsh barks of the pirates in their red paint and mismatched gear.
Her wide eyes flashed from the door on its broken frame, to the body of the pirate,
to the cooling sack of meat that had been Braccus.
Immediately Erin staggered and wretched, choking back sobs even as vileness
splattered from her mouth. When the last heave subsided, she wiped her eyes, then
her mouth and leaned her head against the wall.
“Okay, okay… Okay… damn it…” she whispered hoarsely, struggling to
control her breathing.
 She needed to focus, to pull herself together. She had survived growing up on
the cold streets of Tharkad, she had survived the massacres of the Blakists on
Robinson, and she could survive this. She had to. There was no other way.
More shouts, closer this time, from inside the building, other pirates finished
with their predations on her neighbors. There was no way she could stay here, but
where the hell could she go? Braving the wilderness outside town meant a slow
death long before she reached the next settlement. She needed to get out of her
apartment, start running again and… escape? Steal a vehicle?
Her eyes were drawn back to the window towards the nearby ’Port. Arethusa
was dead, its corpse a broken monument to savagery on the blackened, pitted
ferrocrete. Her DropShip that she had spent years begging, borrowing, cheating,
and stealing to ‘acquire’. There would be no leaving the planet, not that way.
“One thing at a time,” she muttered, fingers twisting, mind racing as she tried
to figure a way out of this. “One thing at a time… Shit, get it together girl…”
“Georg, you in there?” Came a rough call from outside. “Put it away and let’s
get going before the militia arrive!”
Erin froze, still and silent as a startled animal. There was predictably no
answer from Georg.
“Georg? You alright in there?” said a second voice.
Erin, trembling, grabbed the knife and scurried across the room, placing it in
Braccus’ cold hand with a whispered “Sorry”, before slipping away and cramming
herself into a wardrobe with more haste than care.
She heard what was left of the door crash open for a second time, gruff, muted
swearing when the pirates discovered their friend’s body, and two voices in
argument until a third shut them up with a shouted order. It remained loud enough
for her to hear the word “footprints”.
Eyes screwed shut, Erin knew she had messed up. There had been a lot of
blood when the pirate went down. A lot. She must have stepped in it when trying to
frame Braccus for his killer’s death, giving away her presence.
 There was an instant, deathly silence as Erin imagined the pirates prowling
around her home like dogs on the scent, sniffing every corner with the muzzles of
their guns, ready to flush her out. She daren’t move, daren’t breathe, clamping a
hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs that were in danger of returning. Here on the
edge of death her mind wandered to Anja. Neither of them had perfect pasts but
neither of them deserved this. She hoped against hope that Anja was okay, that her
easy smile would survive to brighten the world. Erin wished she would be around
to see it again.
The creak of a floorboard brought her crashing back to reality. One of them
was close. She could hear their padding feet on the carpet and imagine hot breath
hissing through their lungs. A pause. Something had gotten their attention.
A shout, cut off by an almighty cacophony of gunshots filling Erin’s tiny
apartment, the wardrobe doors doing little to stifle the sounds. Every snap was a
jolt through her system, a shot of fear through her as she expected the next one to
smash into her hiding place… to smash into her.
It lasted for too long, seconds stretched to eternity, but then as suddenly as it
started… silence, almost as agonizing as the noise. She cowered in the dark, eyes
wide and mouth shut when she heard the tap of footsteps coming her way, not even
trying to hide their presence. They were coming for her, to rip her from her hiding
place and…
No… Not now… she had spent too many years clinging to life to give up now.
Erin grit her teeth and balled her fists. She had come too far to just die in a
wardrobe. The feet stopped in front of her, someone gripped the handles, and as the
doors were flung open she burst out, fists flailing, shouting a war cry that was little
more than a panicked scream.
A fist connected. Someone grabbed her, held her fast. She struggled against
them, but her arms were pinned.
“Babe, hey, it’s alright!”
What…
 What!?
Erin focused on the person that held her. Those bright blue eyes and easy
smile framed by a tumble of messy black curls. It was a face she knew well, one
she had dreamed about oh so recently.
“Anja! What—?” she exclaimed, launching herself again at her opponent,
only this time to wrap her in an excited, relieved embrace. She pulled away only so
she could kiss her on the lips, to savor the taste, desperately trying to confirm the
vision was real. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving you, silly!” Anja told her. “I’m glad you’re okay!”
There was genuine warmth in her words but as the shock of the last few
minutes subsided, Erin noticed more details about her girlfriend. The hard edge to
her eyes, the spots of blood on her cheek like red freckles, and the laser pistol she
was holding with confident familiarity.
She wasn’t alone, either, there with two other people Erin knew only as some
of Anja’s friends from about town, both of them looking anywhere but at her. She
had only met them in passing and now they were in the same room she could see
the common themes in tattoos—a black and white bird—the same hard edge, and
the way they stood uncaring among the bodies of the pirates, holding ballistic rifles
like they knew how to use them. A familiar itch on the back of her neck warned her
this was as big a bunch of miscreants as she had ever met.
“Anja, what’s going on…?” She tried to pull away but was held gently yet
firmly.
“Babe, you love me right?” Anja asked.
“Yes…” That part wasn’t a lie.
“Then can you trust me too?”
“I… yes…” And that part might not have been the whole truth.
“Good,” Anja beamed. Her smile really was breathtaking. It had been one of
the first things Erin had loved about her. She held Erin’s face in her hands and
kissed her on the forehead. “Do you know if any more of your crew—don’t look at
him, look at me—do you know if your people are still alive?”
“I… I don’t know…” Erin shook her head, tears pricking at the corners of her
eyes.
“Hey, hey…” Anja hushed her, stroking her hair. “Let’s go find them.”
“Why…?” The tears were coming freely now, despite Anja’s efforts. “My…
my ship!”
“Babe, it’s okay, it’s alright, I have another way to get us off world!”
“What… how?”
Anja smiled, sweet as anything. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”
All Erin could do was nod. Really, what other choice did she have?

The air was filled with the bitter scent of this one-sided war, burning particles
drifting from pillars of smoke, a malign accompaniment to the sounds of
destruction all around them.
Out in the streets, a hastily-packed bag over one shoulder, everything was so
much worse. It reminded Erin of when she had last run for her life on Robinson.
That had been hell, but at least she’d had her DropShip. Now all she had was vague
promises from a woman she wasn’t sure she knew anymore. A woman who was
leading her numbly along, armed friends escorting them down streets that were
eerily deserted, towards the DropPort. The charred bulk of her destroyed Dainais
was an uncomfortable waypoint in the distance, an omnipresent reminder of what
had happened.
“Ravi, buddy, give me some good news!” Anja holstered the pistol and spoke
into her wristcomm. Her other hand was firmly in Erin’s, a fact that was both a
comfort and a concern to the traumatized woman.
 Erin remembered Ravi as a short guy, kind of shy, furtive, though nice
enough. All of them had been ‘nice enough’, and now they were the type of people
she used to run from in an instant. Only a lack of warpaint and mismatched armor
separated them from the pirates that were devastating the town.
“Yeah, I know but— Yeah, don’t you worry about that,” Anja continued, only
her side of the conversation audible. “Just make sure it’s ready for us, okay? Good.
We’re on foot on Castilla, coming up to La Navera, be ready for us in… ten,
fifteen? Yeah, no just be ready.”
Anja puffed out her cheeks and sighed when she cut the link. One of the
others, a balding young man Erin thought might have been named Graham, raised
his eyebrows at Anja but said nothing.
“Everything alright…?” Erin asked. She felt so out of her depth right now. Put
her on the deck of a Dropper at full burn and she knew exactly what to do.
Anja laughed, a little humorlessly, but that smile washed it away. “Just
keeping heads on shoulders.”
“And what about my crew’s heads?” Erin asked. She slowed her down like an
anchor, forcing Anja to look at her.
“Babe… don’t worry about it, I have people helping to look for them,” Anja
said reassuringly.
“‘People’…?” Erin frowned, coming to a dead stop. A picture was forming
about Anja she wasn’t sure she liked. “What do you mean ‘people’? Who are
you?”
Anja opened her mouth but was interrupted by the other of her ‘friends’,
Chichima, a lady with pink hair, one ear, and a palpable sense of urgency. “Uh,
boss?”
Boss?! Erin thought, though any more questions were forestalled by a bass
rumble of a Leopard-class DropShip passing over at the speed and altitude of a hot
drop, windows on the street rattling in its wake. Judging by the livery and amount
of visible rust, it belonged to the Ebro Militia.
 “Ah shit, we’re out of time,” Anja swore. “We’re going to have to run for it!”
Erin dug in her heels and refused to budge.
“No!” Erin snapped. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on here now! Who
even are you?! Isn’t the Militia a good thing?”
A brief look of annoyance flashed across Anja’s face, followed by one that
was trying so hard to be patient. Erin felt it was the first honest expression she had
seen all day.
“Look, that thing’s going to set down at the ‘Port,” Anja explained, pointing
towards the burning ‘Ship in the distance. “Which is where the pirates set down,
which means all those pirates that’ve been merrily ransacking the town are going
to be coming in our direction. Understand?”
Erin nodded mutely, pulling her fingers free of Anja’s grip.
Anja sighed. “Look, you know I have a, uh, storied past, but it’s… worse than
I may have been letting on.” she explained, avoiding Erin’s eye.
“Oh?” Erin folded her arms.
“Yeah, well, me and my pals, we used to be, uh… self-contracted
mercenaries.”
“Freebooters,” Graham rasped.
“Scalliwags,” Chichima smirked.
“You were pirates?!” Erin exclaimed, aghast.
Anja went a shade of red at odds with her usual confident demeanor, mixing
with the dried blood still on her face.
“I… look, there’s not a lot of options out past the borders,” she argued. “And
we’re more the… smash and grab from overconfident arseholes kind than—” she
gestured around them. “—the indiscriminate loot and pillage kind. We had a big
score against some rivals, ‘Coyotes Rojas’, that got real upset about it and we had
to lay low for a, uh, really extended period… guess they eventually found us.
Either the Militia get destroyed by the Rojas and the Rojas become stronger, or the
Militia win and do some digging as to why they attacked this place…”
 The bottom fell out of Erin’s stomach. “This is your fault… Braccus death…
It’s your fault…”
Anja’s face dropped. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
There was an explosion in the distance, off towards the DropPort, and engines
could be heard from further into town. Looking in that direction, her face hardened
again.
“Come on, we need to get going,” she said, holding out her hand.
Erin took a step back. “You give me one good reason why. You tell me why I
should trust anything you say… babe.”
Anja flinched. “No, it— I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d react like
this! How I feel about you is real! What did you want me to say? ‘Hi, I think
you’re cute, by the way yo ho ho I’m a pirate’?”
“Can’t this bloody wait?” Graham groaned.
“Shut up, Gaz!” Anja snapped back.
“He’s got a point,” Chichima chimed in.
Anja rounded on her, then stopped. The engines were getting closer now, the
growl of ICEs loudening until a dented, scratched car came screeching around the
corner behind them, horn blaring. The three pirates began to push Erin to one side,
raising their guns, and it seemed like they were a hair’s breadth from pulling the
trigger when it skid to a halt scant meters away.
“Get in the car!” Wu, another of Anja’s ‘friends’, was in the driver’s seat and
next to him was…
“Syd!” Erin cried out. The skinny engineer looked confused and terrified.
“Hey chief,” they said, managing a wobbly smile.
“In the car! Right now!” Wu yelled shrilly, Syd frantically nodding in a way
that Erin didn’t want to argue with. They bundled in the back, not enough room
causing an awkward limb situation. The doors had barely closed when Wu
slammed on the accelerator.
“What’s coming?” Anja asked, squashed between Erin and the door.
 CRASH! A tank, its profile overly tall, skid around the corner and into the
front of a building. Its tracks rattled, engine revved, and turret swung as it pulled
itself free.
“A Vedette?!” Anja yelled, blanching.
The turret fired a deafening burst of shells, causing Erin to flinch, but the
shots went wide, taking the roof off a nearby building.
“Drive!” Chichima yelled.
“And what is it you think I’m doing?!” Wu replied irritably as machine gun
rounds chewed up the road around them. One smashed the rear window and passed
through the roof at an angle, leaving a fist-sized hole and somehow missing them
all. The tank was hellishly fast, keeping up with them despite the head start.
“What did you steal from these people?!” Erin shrieked.
“Ravi, we’re coming in hot with company up our arses, get ready to move!”
Anja ignored her, barking into the wristcomm, pausing only as Wu smashed
through the flimsy DropPort security barrier. She was stressed but also collected;
Erin was seeing a new side of her. “I don’t care, just do it! Yeah, through it if you
have to! We’ll be right w—.”
A violent jolt and the world turned upside down. There was noise, there was
screaming, there was pressure, pain, and trauma, a tumble of bodies and a
confusion of space and time as the car flipped twice, slid on its roof, then came to a
final stop.
Erin looked around blearily, realizing there was a gap where there had been a
person and a door. Anja’s face appeared, a bloody trail tracing down from her
hairline, and she helped Erin get free. They collapsed, dazed, in the shadow of one
of the massive storage warehouses, only able to watch as Wu and Syd freed
themselves, limping. As Chichima pulled Graham out of the wreckage, his neck at
a wrong angle. As the tank bore down on them.
Panting, with a mad smile, Anja looked at Erin. “You wanted to know what
we stole?” Then, into her wristcomm, “Ravi, now!”
 The gargantuan warehouse doors smashed outwards with a resounding crash
as a metal giant came through the still-closed portal, shedding torn pieces of metal.
It looked around, its bulbous cockpit like a single great eye in its cowled head. It
had two fists, dozens of launcher tubes across its chest and arms, and the squat
muzzle of a heavy bore cannon that spoke with the voice of a thunderhead. The
Vedette was frantically trying to reverse when its front burst open like a burning
metal flower.
The cyclopean ’Mech stomped forwards, standing protectively over the
wrecked car. Some armored vehicles—a big, eight-wheeled car and three
mismatched hovertanks all in monochrome livery—nosed their way through the
gap left behind it, followed by another BattleMech. This one was a common
enough type that Erin recognised as a Vulcan, though she didn’t know which
variant.
She watched it numbly as Anja helped her up.
“You alright?” she asked.
Erin was shaking. Everything hurt, she felt sick, and in the last half an hour
she had watched three people die, one by her own hand. She was not alright.
“Come on,” Anja said quietly. “We need to get moving before reinforcements
turn up.”
In other circumstances, Erin might have appreciated the attention. But over
Anja’s dead comrade? That didn’t feel right. She kept glancing over Erin’s
shoulder, eyes filled with something unidentifiable.
Erin pulled away, folding her arms across her chest.
“What’s your way offworld?” she asked, fear translating to bluntness.
“What?”
“You said you had a way offworld; what is it?”
An impish smile broke through and Erin had to work hard to not let it affect
her.
“We’re… going to steal the Rojas’ DropShip.”
 “Is that why you’re rescuing me… my crew… because you need us to fly a
DropShip?” Erin replied, aghast. “Oh god, is that the only reason we’re together,
because I have— had a DropShip? Was I just your escape plan this entire time…?”
The smile disappeared and Anja paled.
“No, no, I…” she floundered. “Okay, I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t occurred
to me this past year but—“
“Seriously?!”
“But that’s not why I’m with you! You’re smart, funny, gorgeous, and more
courageous than you give yourself credit!” Anja pleaded.
“I’m going to ask this again, so answer carefully: Why should I trust you?”
“Because it would have been easier for me to leave you behind and capture
the bloody thing myself!” Anja replied, pointing at the BattleMechs. “I have the
people for it, people who can fly a DropShip well enough themselves!”
One of whom died on my behalf… Erin thought. It was an unspoken fact, and
she appreciated that it had remained such.
“Whether you trust me or not…” Anja took a step towards her. “I do love
you.”
Erin scowled and grit her teeth, suddenly furious, waved an angry finger right
in Anja’s face, then… half-screamed in frustration when a genuinely hurt look in
Anja’s eyes caused the feelings she had for this aggravating woman to break back
through. If it had been real, all those beautiful, happy moments, then she wanted to
give her a chance.
“Screw you!” She told Anja. Then she pointed at the towering Cyclops,
“Screw that!” She pointed towards the sound of fighting, “And screw them!” She
sighed, running a hand through her short brown hair. She was tired… so damn
tired. “Oh for god’s sake… Let’s steal a damn DropShip.”
“That’s the spirit!” Anja smiled, closing the distance and kissing her on the
cheek. Erin let her.
“We still need words,” Erin told her sternly. She hadn’t processed Braccus'
death, her killing the man that killed him—knife in the kidneys, dead on the
floor—and she couldn’t deal with this on top. She could feel parts of herself
shutting down in an effort to compartmentalize and she hated it. “Go, deal with
your people.”
“Yes ma’am,” Anja replied. “You deal with yours, I’ll meet you in the
Packrat—the big car.”
“What DropShip even is it?” Erin asked as they strode towards the waiting
vehicles.
“A Union,” Anja explained. “Like a Danais, right?”
“Yes but no,” Erin frowned.
“Egg is an egg,” Anja shrugged.
She made to leave and Erin stopped her. “I may not entirely trust you right
now, but I do still love you, Anja Valo.”
The woman smiled, reaching her eyes this time, and nodded. Erin squeezed
her arm and let her go, ducking inside the ‘Packrat’.
“Chief!” Called the last member of her small crew, Khalid, sat next to a pale
and shell-shocked Syd. The bearded systems officer seemed better than the
engineer and his face was full of joyful relief.
“You look like shit!” he said cheerfully.
“Better days, worse days,” Erin replied offhandedly.
“Braccus?” he asked.
As Erin strapped herself into a seat across the bay, all she could do was shake
her head.
“Oh… damn…” Khalid understated.
Erin nodded, looking up only when Anja returned, closing the heavy door
behind her.
“Okay folks, it’s showtime,” she announced. A spark had returned to her, a
glint in her blue eyes. “Our enemies are engaged across the aerodyne runway, so
while they’re distracted we’ll make our move on the Union, which should still be
out the way of the fighting… for now.”
“What’s the plan?” Erin asked.
“Keep pace with Ravi’s Cyclops, so he, Francesco’s Vulcan, and Lola’s
Harasser can intercept any threats; Patty’s Pegasus is unarmed so will bring up the
rear. When we get closer we’ll break away and charge the ramps,” Anja explained.
“What about the guns…?” Syd asked.
Anja grinned. “We go really really fast.”
“Oh… good…”
“The crew aren’t going to let us just take it,” Erin pointed out.
“Got my attack dogs in the Blizzard, we’ll figure it out.” Anja’s grin took on a
savage aspect and she offered Erin her pistol, handle first. “Know how to use this?”
Erin nodded and took it, not that she’d ever shot anyone before. “What about
you?”
Anja winked and opened a cabinet at the back of the vehicle, revealing a rack
of carbines. “Anyone else?”
“Gimme!” Khalid demanded, doing a grabbing motion with his hands. “Used
to be AFFS navy!”
Anja glanced at Erin—who nodded—then handed him the gun. Erin knew
that about his history. Whether he was a good shot, however…
“Okay, you all know the plan, go go go!” Anja practically shouted into her
comms, slapping the side of the car for dramatic effect. She stood, gripping a
handle with her free hand.
With a ponderous drumbeat, the Cyclops built momentum into a steady jog,
the Vulcan easily keeping pace. The Packrat lurched into motion with a fusion
engine whine, pulling in behind the ’Mechs.
They passed around the bulk of the warehouses and the landing field swung
into view. First came Arethusa, still on the pad where it had always been. Where it
had died. Erin looked at it for a moment, her grief hardening into anger.
An eye for an eye…
 Past it the field opened out, flashes of light and puffs of smoke marking the
boundaries of an intense battle between the Rojas and the Militia, humanoid shapes
of BattleMechs distorting any sense of scale. In the near distance, their path clear,
was the Union, so much like her beloved Danais in shape and form, only a
practiced eye being able to tell the slightly larger size of the military DropShip,
along with the weapon emplacements that covered its surface.
Erin fixated on it. It was her target, her goal, her reason for living. All she
needed to do was get on that ship, get it flying, and… she would figure out the rest
later. She glanced at Anja, whose eyes were glued to the unfolding battle, the ghost
of a smile on her lips. It was always something to see a person in their element and
here, bouncing along in the back of an armored vehicle, riding through a war zone
towards a high stakes objective, Anja was definitely in hers.
Despite her misgivings, Erin began to smile. At least until Anja looked her
way and she quickly turned back to the window.
“Incoming, two-fifteen! Smash Lance, intercept! Grab Lance, floor it!” Anja
ordered and Erin flinched as the Packrat weaved around the Cyclops’ legs. She
followed it out the rear window until it became lost in a cloud of smoke when
dozens of rockets spewed forth from its chest. Hundreds of meters away,
something staggered as it became wreathed in explosions, slumping to the ground
in sheets of flame.
Erin’s stomach skipped sideways as their driver fully opened the throttle, the
chained star of the fusion engine pushing them to ludicrous speeds across the open
ground.
It would only take them seconds to reach the Union but they might as well
have been hours. Spotting their approach, it lashed out with its weapons, sending a
panicked hail of missiles, shells, and laser beams their way. The Packrat swerved
nauseatingly to avoid the barrage that tore up the world around them, some shots
seeming to miss by scant meters. Amidst it all, Anja laughed with feral glee, her
face pulled into a wide grin, looking to Erin both savage and beautiful in equal
measures.
Suddenly, the afternoon light gave way to tungsten gloom when their vehicle
sped up and through the open door with a thud of suspension then climbed the
internal ramp at reckless speed, throwing Erin and the others against their
restraints. It emerged onto the circular expanse of the first hold, brakes squealing as
their driver narrowly avoided slamming into a bulkhead.
“Alright let’s move!” Anja yelled, somehow still upright. “Smash, get here!
Either you’re coming with us or making this our pyre!”
Erin grit her teeth, heart pounding, and followed her insane pirate queen of a
girlfriend out into the echoing hold. Despite the situation, she was immediately
more comfortable with deck plates ringing beneath her feet. Gunshots echoed
throughout the steel cavern and sparks flew from the Packrat. Seems like she was
right about the crew.
The Blizzard was in the hold right after them, its hover systems allowing for a
less traumatic stop. On its roof, the little turret spun around, loosing a brace of
SRMs with flagrant disregard for their surroundings, while its passengers—Wu,
Chichima, and some people Erin didn’t know—disembarked.
The gunfire slowed but did not abate, and Erin could only watch as Chichima
fell, her pink hair turned red.
“Take the elevator!” Anja yelled. “Go!”
She stood up and let off a burst from her carbine before charging forwards,
yelling, the team from the Blizzard doing likewise.
“Erin, come on!” she shouted.
Erin looked at her crew—Syd openly terrified and Khalid pretending not to
be—still sheltering behind the Packrat and realized they were looking to her for
guidance.
“Sod it…” she muttered, following Anja’s lead and ushering her pair of
misfits into a tense charge towards the elevator in the center of the hold, used for
moving cargo—and ’Mechs—between levels. Before she got close, the last of the
defenders danced as their body filled with bullets, dead before they even hit the
ground.
With sharp gestures and sharper words, Anja ordered her vehicles onto the
elevator, positioned to grant cover when they ascended.
“You alright?” she asked Erin.
No, Erin thought. “Yeah”, she lied.
Anja’s smile lit up the gloom. “Isn’t this fun?”
No, Erin thought. She shook her head.
“You’ll be fine, hun,” Anja said quietly, her distracted expression making Erin
wonder who she was trying to convince.
A switch was pushed, ill-maintained gears clanked and rattled, and the
platform ascended. Erin huddled behind the Packrat again, body tense, waiting for
gunfire to start anew.
It never came. The upper hold was deserted, tools abandoned, some kind of
tracked vehicle half-assembled in one of the bays.
Anja, frowning, pointed towards a doorway leading to the interdeck stairwell.
It was the only way to get to the upper levels, including the command bridge at the
very apex of the ship. Her people advanced, cautiously making their way inside…
only to be met by gunfire from further up the shaft.
They scattered back outwards, Wu collapsing as he scrabbled at a sucking
wound in his chest. A short, stout woman stepped past him carrying a grenade
launcher. She shot up the stairs with a thunk-boom, silencing the defenders.
All this, Erin could only watch in a dissonant mix of horror and admiration.
They were ruthless, they were effective, and–despite the damage they were doing
to their escape vehicle–they clearly knew what they were doing. Without pause,
more of them advanced, taking better care this time as they did so. From behind
and below, there was the metallic rumble of heavy machinery.
“Ravi, buddy, please tell me that’s you!” Anja hissed into her wristcomm. A
pause. “Oh thank god. Button up and wait, we’re working on it.”
 There was a tightness around her eyes now. She might have been ruthless, but
she was not heartless.
“Come on,” she told Erin.
They went up the stairs in the wake of the more experienced and better armed
people, past the disconnected parts of two Rojas—more bloody footprints—to the
very top of the snaking flight. Erin clutched her girlfriend’s laser pistol like a
useless lump of metal, its presence little more than a talisman.
At the top, Erin’s lungs and legs burning, they entered the warren of corridors
and chambers that marked the areas set aside for human habitation. Cramped and
stale, they were far more claustrophobic than the cargo bays but even so Erin felt a
little more confidence seep in. This was her environment. Her element.
“Goddamn…” Khalid wheezed.
“Get it together, we need this fat bastard in the air,” Erin told him, making a
good show of not feeling awful. She caught Anja looking her way, a hint of
approval in her eyes before she turned back to her crew, leaving Erin with a hot
touch of color in her cheeks and a sense of annoyance at her own weakness. “Get it
together…” she repeated to herself.
Around the corridors they went, past store rooms, cabins, and mess halls, and
with every unimpeded footfall Erin thanked the tendency for cash-strapped
companies to skimp on the number of technicians they employed.
Anja started sending her people off in pairs to secure gunnery posts and other
critical systems, leaving just herself and Erin’s crew to scale the last of the stairs to
the command bridge door. More shots echoed from deeper in the ’Ship, telling her
where pockets of resistance had been encountered.
Erin’s hands were shaking. This was their last hurdle, their last barrier, and it
was firmly closed against entry.
Pressing an intercom next to the door, Anja spoke into it. “Heeey,” she said,
sweet as anything, “If you don’t open the door I’ll use breaching charges and
pulverize you to red miiist.”
 There was a pause, during which the sounds of distant fighting intensified
then abruptly cut away.
“You’re bluffing,” came the gruff reply, attenuated by the intercom. Erin
hoped he was right.
Anja looked at her, shrugged, then made her next move. “Yeah, but what if
I’m not?”
“You’ll wreck the electronics!”
“Sweetie, we both know a bicentennial crap-pile like this can survive a bit of
shrapnel.”
Another pause and the door cranked open on a mechanism that screamed out
for oil.
Anja flashed a roguish smile, stepped into the doorway with Erin on her heels,
then gasped as a burst of red appeared on her torso, accompanied by the
reverberating thunderclap of a discharging pistol.
In the curved room of the command bridge, Erin could see nervous faces at
the consoles, and a man with gray hair standing at the captain’s station holding a
pistol, his face twisted in fury.
“Get off my shi—,” he began to bellow.
Erin’s hand moved on instinct, shock and grief giving way to something else
as she raised the pistol and shot him square in the chest, the bright beam punching
a dark crater right through to his heart.
He went down heavy and unmoving, leaving behind a sort of stunned silence.
Erin desperately wanted to check on Anja, every nerve screamed for her to do it,
but there were more pressing matters to attend to.
One thing at a time.
“Either you get off this ship peacefully or you’re going cold out the fucking
airlock!!!” she screamed, putting all of her pent-up feelings into that single order.
Not waiting to be told twice, the bridge crew scrambled to comply, the four
survivors tripping over themselves to get out. She ignored them, deciding they
could be someone else’s problem, hurried to the captain’s console, rudely shoved
aside its former occupant, then strapped herself in.
A glance over the controls reassured her of the familiar setup, similar in
layout to a Danais in enough ways to make it workable. Readouts showed the
engine was warm and pre-flight already done, the pirates not wanting to hang
around. Something boomed against the hull, shaking the entire superstructure of
the ship. Either the Rojas would destroy their way offworld rather than let someone
else take it or the Militia wanted the prize.
“All hands prepare for emergency launch!” she spoke into the tannoy.
Whoever wasn’t strapped in when the thrusters fired would only have themselves
to blame. “Engineering go for launch?”
“Uh…” Syd floundered.
“Damn it, Syd!” Erin snapped, turning their way. The console next to her,
between her and Syd, was occupied by Anja. She looked paler than usual,
struggling to stay conscious and sit upright under her own power but she managed
a lopsided smile.
“Go easy on them, hun…” she said, voice husky with effort. One of her
people, having caught up, finished strapping her in, while another tied off a
red-soaked bandage, the two of them then hurrying to secure themselves.
For a moment, Erin wobbled, almost overtaken by fear and concern. With
supreme effort she looked past Anja to the engineer’s station.
“Syd?!” she snapped.
“All green cap’n!” the engineer squeaked.
“Initiating primary ignition sequence!” Erin announced, flicking some
switches and gently pushing up a throttle.
Immediately, the DropShip began to rattle, then tremor as if caught in a
groundquake. The force of its thrusters battled against gravity as they tried to push
its thousands-tonne mass into the air.
Then, eye on the altimeter, Erin saw it begin to move, first slowly then more
rapidly as momentum increased, forcing her down into her chair and pushing the
DropShip into the sky on a column of fire and smoke. On the aft viewscreen,
Reinosa and its DropPort fell away to a distant smudge before being lost entirely
beneath the clouds. To the fore and sides, the skies went from soot-smudged gray
to blue, to navy, then finally to star-speckled black as they pierced the veil of
atmosphere and entered the chill expanse of space.
The shaking stopped as air resistance and gravitational pull dwindled to
nothing. Anja’s pirates whooped and cheered. Despite everything she had been
through, despite everything that had happened, Erin couldn’t help but grin along.
They had really done it. They had stolen a DropShip.
She looked sideways at Anja. The woman was slumped slack in her harness,
fully absent of consciousness, the hint of a faint smile on her lips.

UNION-CLASS DROPSHIP SUN, MOON, & STARS

EBRO SYSTEM
FILTVELT COALITION
8 NOVEMBER 3073

Erin floated through the corridors of the Union, skilfully pulling herself along via
handholds built into the walls for just such a purpose. Technically it was her Union
now, the remnants of Anja’s pirates happy to let her continue the business of
captaining, the more ship-savvy of them allowing themselves to be ordered around
for things like checking systems and making sure it would survive a KF jump.
All thrust was cut while Syd checked the engines. They had enough
momentum to keep them going and plenty enough time to do what they needed.
Over a day had passed with no sign of pursuit from the planet and Erin had already
negotiated passage with the JumpShip that had brought the Rojas in. Out here, the
captains were pragmatic and didn’t care what your purpose was, so long as you
paid your fee and didn’t drag them into it.
Lost in her thoughts, Erin nearly overshot her destination, the captain’s tiny
cabin and its one bed.
One that was already occupied.
“Hey you…” Anja said weakly, under covers attached to the mattress. She
was lucky the bullet had missed anything critical and even luckier she had a medic
on her team with plenty of experience pulling them out of people. She would heal
and, given time, hopefully regain full use of that shoulder.
“Hey you,” Erin replied gently, pulling herself over so she was next to the
bed. “I’ve been thinking, and I discussed it with my crew...”
“Oh?”
“Looks like you need a DropShip and we need a job; any chance we can sign
up with… what do you even call yourselves?”
“The Bloody Magpies,” Anja grinned. “And you’re more than welcome in our
ranks.
“Although there is one condition,” Erin said.
A single raised brow.
“No more secrets, okay?”
Anja nodded and smiled, softer, warmer. “I think I can do that.”
“Good,” Erin replied, then moved in to seal the bargain with a long, gentle
kiss on her partner’s lips.
 LEAP OF FAITH
RYN MACKIE
starfleetskunkworks.tumblr.com

TASANGALIA RIVER DELTA

VIRENTOFTA
SMOKE JAGUAR OCCUPATION ZONE
3 JULY 3059

A wave of heat washed over MechWarrior Xan as she fired a barrage of lasers at an
enemy Wolverine. Searing beams of light flashed, drawing a straight line from her
Orion IIC to the Highlander’s ’Mech. Something deep inside its structure broke
and it lurched as the pilot struggled to get it under control.
That hit the gyro. Xan grinned triumphantly as she thumbed the firing stud for
her Gauss rifle. Her ’Mech bucked beneath her as the massive cannon’s magnetic
coils spat a round of nickel-iron alloy towards her target. The Wolverine’s armor
crumpled as the slug drove into it, its autocannon flashing a last roar of defiance as
it spun to the ground.
The shot went wide, splashing a geyser of water from the shallow river in
which they battled. Xan’s trinary, a force of fifteen Smoke Jaguar BattleMechs, had
been whittled down to only two machines. They stood valiantly against a lance of
Stirling’s Fusiliers, a detachment from the legendary Northwind Highlanders
mercenary regiments.
She turned her attention to MechWarrior Carson, who was fending off two
Fusiliers in his battered Warhammer IIC. Lightning arched across the battlefield as
he fired his remaining Particle Projector Cannon. The blast struck an enemy
Ostroc, staggering it as its onboard electronics tried to compensate for the burst of
energy.
Air shimmered above the Warhammer as its heat sinks desperately worked to
shed the excess heat generated by its engine and weapons. Its left arm dangled
from a thin shred of synthetic myomer muscle, and the ’Mech limped from a fused
hip actuator. Carson, an aged solahma warrior, had often lamented having not died
honorably in battle. Though he fought with the tenacity of his Clan’s namesake,
Xan noted ruefully that his chance had likely arrived.
She floated her crosshairs over the mercenary Ostroc. She sent another round
of laser fire towards the machine, scouring armor off its center torso and left arm.
Sweat soaked the padding of her heavy neurohelmet as another wave of heat
flooded the cockpit. She could hear the actuators inside her cooling suit whir as
they worked overtime to pump coolant to keep her body temperature down.
The Ostroc’s attention drifted from Carson’s mangled BattleMech and it fired
its own lasers at Xan in return. Most of its shots missed, but the cerulean beam of
its extended range large laser connected with her ’Mech’s left leg. The Orion
lurched as warning lights flickered through its cockpit: the laser had spot-welded
its knee actuator.
A wave of vertigo flooded through Xan’s neurohelmet as she struggled to
maintain the machine’s balance. She cursed under her breath as she marched her
’Mech from the boggy river onto a berm of solid ground for better footing. Her
cockpit’s heat stubbornly refused to go down, suggesting damage to its heat sinks.
She responded with a thunderclap from her Gauss rifle, holding her
hotter-running weapons in reserve. The slug tore through the Ostroc’s hip,
snapping its leg off. As it tumbled to the ground, the armored cowling over its
cockpit exploded outward and spat its pilot and their ejection seat into the sky on a
jet of flame.
In the corner of her eye Carson made his last stand. He had shifted his
attention from the Ostroc to deal with his second opponent, a Marauder. As his
PPC flashed, the Marauder returned fire in kind. Its own twin PPCs tore through
Carson’s cockpit, vaporizing the head of his Warhammer in a dazzling flash of
angry blue light.
As the Marauder set its sights on Xan, she got a better look at its condition.
Armor plating hung from carbonized holes in its squat, birdlike torso, and the ends
of its arm-mounted PPCs glowed white hot. It sluggishly plodded forward, the
river’s brackish water splashing over its backward-canted knees.
Throwing caution to the wind, Xan fired all of her weapons at the Marauder.
Her heads up display flickered in protest as her cockpit’s temperature rose to
dangerous levels. Xan slammed her fist on her fusion reactor’s emergency override
as an alarm warned of an imminent shutdown.
Her gambit paid off as most of her shots landed. The Marauder staggered
under the onslaught of her Gauss rifle. Gouts of steam jetted from the river’s
surface as her lasers melted globs of searing metal from the ’Mech. The Fusilier
machine finally succumbed as her missiles blasted through its internal machinery.
As it dipped face-forward into the river, its autocannon sounded a death rattle of
high caliber shells.
Those parting shots hammered themselves into Xan’s ’Mech. Her vision
swam under the neural load as she struggled vainly to keep the Orion upright, to no
avail. As the war machine tumbled to the ground, the last thing Xan saw was the
front of her cockpit collapsing inward.
Xan found herself wandering through a dreamscape of waist-high flowers, running
her fingers over their stems and taking in their light fragrance. Neophyllum tenax,
she recalled. They often grew while the years’ last snow was still on the ground,
heralding the arrival of spring.
She had taken an intense interest in the plant life around the sibko training
facility where she grew up; she could cite their proper names, growing conditions,
and medicinal uses from memory. Her studies had to be performed in secret, of
course, as they were outside of the warrior program’s approved curriculum.
Nevertheless, her passion had become an open secret in her sibko, and had become
a source of derision from the rest of her cohort.
She was interrupted by the arrival of her sibkin as one of them pushed her to
the ground. The gentle stems of the flowers sprouted razor sharp thorns that tore
into her left thigh as she fell. The taunting of her sibkin echoed in her head as her
blood began to boil.
“Poor Xanthippe,” her assailant, Marcus, mocked. “Not fast enough, not
strong enough to be a real Jaguar.”
“We should just end it here, quiaff? Let her corpse feed the plants she loves so
much,” another teased.
With a snarl, she leapt up at her attackers and suddenly found herself in a
’Mech bay. Her sibkin stood around her, delineating a Circle of Equals, as she
faced off against Marcus. The dark silhouettes of BattleMechs loomed beyond the
circle, bearing silent witness to the deadly contest.
Xan leapt at her opponent, leading with a left jab. He easily countered it, but
she followed with a haymaker from the right. His head snapped to the side as her
fist connected with his jaw. He used the force of her blow against her, however,
and hooked her leading leg with his foot. She fell to the ground and gasped with
pain as he brought his MechWarrior’s boot down on her face, splitting her nose
along a hard edge.
“Sloppy, Xanthippe. If I did not know any better, I would think you trained
among the scientist caste. You certainly daydream like one of them, quiaff?” He
stepped back and gestured at her to attack again, a smug grin playing across his
face. “Prove to me you belong here.”
Her eyes welled with tears as she tore after him again. This time, he easily
sidestepped her, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and spun her out of the circle.
As she stumbled past her sibkin, the room shifted around her again. She was
now on an unfamiliar world, watching as a man with a face remarkably like hers
climbed from the cockpit of his Stormcrow. Two mud-spattered Elemental soldiers
clambered atop the ’Mech to assume positions on either side of him. The visors of
their toadlike battle armor reflected an alien sun.
The man raised his hands in surrender. His eyes met Xan’s, and in that
moment she sensed his resignation and despair. One of the Elementals raised its
BattleMech-grade laser and vaporized the man in a wash of furious crimson light.
Though she couldn’t see past its faceplate, she felt the massive soldier’s eyes
meeting hers. As if by telepathy, its gruff accusation echoed through her skull:
“This is what you deserve, stravag.”

The first thing Xan felt when she drifted back into consciousness was a sharp pain
in her left leg. Her mind latched onto it like a life preserver, carrying her back into
the waking world. It subsided, briefly, then pulsed again with more intensity as she
stirred. She snapped awake, the controls of her Orion IIC materializing around her.
The ’Mech’s cockpit lay shattered; her eyes traced a path from the sky beyond its
broken frame to the long piece of armored cowling protruding from her thigh.
“Savashri,” she hissed in frustration.
The sound of someone, or something, scrambling up the side of her ’Mech
caught her attention. She reached for her flechette pistol, but the movement
sparked another wave of agony from her skewered leg. She nearly dropped the
weapon as the face of an unfamiliar woman peeked over the edge of the broken
canopy, sporting short blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks.
Xan swung her pistol up to take a shot, but pain lanced through her leg and
her vision began to blur. She gasped as her grip loosened on the weapon and it
clattered to the ground. The other woman snatched the pistol and leveled it at Xan.
Her bulky cooling vest, primitive compared to Xan’s suit, bore the sword and
shield of the Northwind Highlanders.
Xan was surprised to find herself afraid. Her training had prepared her to face
death stoically, but what it had not prepared her for was the fear of failure. She
locked eyes with her enemy and adopted an expression she hoped looked brave and
defiant. “I dare you to do it, Spheroid,” she challenged. She pointed angrily at her
injured leg, “I cannot stand, let alone fight.”
Several heartbeats later, the woman lowered the pistol with a sigh. “Is that
what Smoke Jaguars do? Put their injured warriors down like lame horses?”
Xan stared wordlessly. Her dream of a man being incinerated by his own
warriors rose unbidden to her mind.
The Highlander swallowed nervously, thrown off by the Clan warrior’s
furious gaze. She gestured to the name stenciled on Xan’s cooling suit. “It’s
Xanthippe, right?”
“Xan.”
“Charlie.”
Xan gritted her teeth through another wave of pain, which only made her
countenance more fearsome. “You intend to take me as a bondsman, quiaff?”
 The Inner Sphere warrior balked. “Hell no!”
Xan’s pulse pounded in her ears as a new wave of fear gripped her. “Then kill
me or leave, you honorless surat! Either way, be done with it!” She unbuckled her
safety restraints and tried to stand, but fell back into the command couch as her leg
gave out.
Charlie slipped the pistol into her waistband and reached through the canopy
to grab a bright red first aid kit affixed to a nearby bulkhead. She elevated Xan’s
leg, administered an antibiotic gel around the wound, and began to wrap gauze
around the protruding shard.
“What are you doing, freebirth?” Xan hissed.
“I can’t remove it. If it nicked something important it could be keeping you
from bleeding out.”
Xan was baffled at the Inner Sphere pilot’s willingness to aid her. “Use the
HarJel, if you must.”
Charlie cocked an inquisitive eyebrow, clearly unfamiliar with the term.
“The yellow canister, next to the antiparasitics,” Xan sighed in exasperation.
Charlie rummaged through the kit and produced the canister, looking
nonplussed. “This is hull sealant!”
“It can also form a tight seal in wounds like this,” Xan explained. “It is not
perfect, but it will hold.”
With Xan’s guidance, she sprayed its contents around the edge of the armor
shard. Xan sucked air through her teeth as the black gel expanded to fill the space
between the shard and the wound. Once assured that the setting gel could apply
adequate pressure to the wound on its own, Charlie eased the shard out carefully.
She wrapped the leg tightly with gauze and fastened it in place. “It’s going to be
difficult to walk on until we can get you to a field hospital.”
“We?”
“Yeah, unless you want to stay here and rot.”
Xan sat back, resigned, as Charlie tried to power up the ’Mech’s
communications gear.
“Fuck!” Charlie shouted a short time later. She spat a stream of curses
directed at the comm unit and at Clan Smoke Jaguar’s technicians for not building
sturdier equipment.
“Are you done yet?” Xan’s voice was acerbic. It occurred to her that Charlie
had arrived unarmed and without any of the emergency gear that she should have
had. “Can you not use the comm unit in your own ’Mech?”
Charlie hesitated and a strange expression crossed her face. “No. It… doesn’t
work.”
Xan suspected there was more to her story, but didn’t have the energy to
interrogate the woman. Instead she sighed and rolled out of the command couch.
With Charlie’s help, she lifted the back of the seat to reveal a compartment
containing a pack of survival gear and a flare gun. Charlie fired a brilliant red
signal into the deepening twilight and they both settled in to wait.

Xan jerked awake. The smell of sausage wafted into the Orion IIC’s cockpit, where
she had spent the night. Her spirits were momentarily lifted before she remembered
that it would be from the unpalatable emergency rations that Charlie had retrieved
the night before. A disappointed groan escaped her lips as her mind shifted from
fitful sleep to reality. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
As if waiting for the cue, a blonde head popped into the cockpit. “Mornin’,
sleepyhead.” Charlie slipped a warm meal pouch into Xan’s hands. “What kind of
outfit doesn’t pack coffee in their rations?”
“Coffee?” Xan inquired as she fished for sausage bits.
“Coffee? Java? Cup of Joe? Really?” Charlie sighed incredulously. “It’s a
caffeinated drink brewed from roasted beans. Do you really not have that in the
Clans?”
“Maybe the civilian castes do,” Xan shrugged. “There are caffeine pills in the
ration pack. The blue ones.”
“Blake’s beard, you’re a joyless lot.”
Xan ignored the gibe and returned to poking at her breakfast.
“Listen,” Charlie pressed cautiously. “No one came for us last night. We
should consider heading out.”
“Heading where?”
“The Highlander’s FOB.”
“So you are taking me as a bondsman.”
“No!”
Xan rubbed her temples in exasperation. “I do not understand.”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “We don’t take slaves.”
“Then what?” Xan cast an arm towards the swamp beyond her cockpit. “Will
you send me on my way with nothing to my name?”
“No, you’ll be a prisoner of war.”
“I would not be free either way,” Xan explained, punctuating each syllable in
the way a sibko trainer speaks to an obstinate child. “At least as a bondsman I
would belong to your ‘Clan’, as you do. I would have the opportunity to prove my
value and earn my freedom. No such opportunity awaits me as a… a war prisoner
from a dead Clan.”
Charlie rubbed her neck in frustration, but seemed to consider Xan’s words.
Finally, she blurted, “I don’t know how you just… accept that.”
“It is our way,” Xan said matter of factly. She was nearing the end of her
patience as the conversation threatened to become circular. She imagined she could
see the next words forming in Charlie’s mind as she tried to rein in her frustration.
Finally, Charlie acquiesced. She pulled a beaded bracelet off her wrist and
slipped it around Xan’s as if it were a traditional Clan bondcord. “That's how you
do it, right? I'm the boss until I take this off?” She rolled her eyes again before
giving her first order. “Then let’s get going, MechWarrior.”

They spent their first day following the river in relative silence. Charlie had found
a sturdy branch for Xan to use as a walking stick as they looked for a passable ford.
Several times throughout their journey Xan pointed out potential crossings, but
Charlie stubbornly refused any that would have required a swim. Though she
defended herself by pointing out Xan’s injured leg, Xan couldn’t help but think of
the strange look that had crossed her face when she had asked about her ’Mech.
As the sun began to set the river gave way to a stagnant morass and the pair
were besieged by tiny blood-sucking insects. Xan cursed the swampy river delta as
she swatted at her neck. They found the driest patch of ground they could and
Charlie began to set up camp.
Xan lowered herself to the ground with a heavy sigh. “We should light a fire.
The smoke will keep the bugs away; the last thing we need is to get a fever from
one of these flies.”
“You see any kindling around here?” Charlie gestured to their damp
surroundings.
Xan looked up at the trees around them and pointed out an especially scraggly
looking one. The tree looked quite dry, and the orange-leafed vines crisscrossing its
trunk offered convenient handholds for climbing. “This one looks dead. Perhaps if
you climbed it you could snap off some small branches to use as tinder?”
Charlie shrugged off her pack and tested the plant’s strength. After satisfying
herself that the vines could carry her weight, she climbed to the nearest limb. It
was too thick to break off, but it split into several smaller branches at its end. The
wood creaked laboriously as Charlie shimmied along it to try to snap off one of the
smaller pieces.
As Charlie worked, Xan examined her bondcord. She had never seen anything
like it. The pattern of the cord's red beads was broken only by a small pendant
hanging from its center. Emblazoned upon it was the image of a bent old man
carrying a child upon his back. She wondered what it meant to the strange woman
she traveled with.
As she eyed the pendant, the enormity of the life change before her began to
sink in. Integrating into the life of the Inner Sphere would not be like integrating
into a new Clan. With what she had seen of her new companion, she feared she
would not be up to the challenge.
Her ruminations were interrupted by a sharp crack. The branch that Charlie
had been dangling from had broken where it met the trunk. Xan watched Charlie
fall to the ground, and the heavy limb followed. With a grunt, Xan hoisted herself
up and hobbled over to help.
As Charlie struggled to lift the branch off herself, a chitinous figure scrambled
from its broken end. The creature was approximately the size of a large rat. Its four
spider-like legs joined at a hard-shelled carapace that was bisected by a mandibled
maw. Two spindly arms ending in serrated pincers clicked together menacingly.
Xan recognized the creature as a wood crab, a species native to Virentofta.
They made their colonies in the trunks of large trees, which usually died when a
colony became large enough. She also knew many more of the creatures would
follow.
The wood crab lashed out at Charlie, who brought her arm up reflexively to
protect her face. The claws never found purchase, however. Xan brought her
walking stick down on it, cracking its shell. With a fierce war cry she batted its
broken body into the forest. She turned to Charlie, huffing with exertion. “We must
go, now!”
Charlie’s eyes widened as more of the creatures poured from the wound in the
tree and converged on their position. She strained against the branch atop her to no
avail. Xan jammed her walking stick beneath it and put her whole weight behind
the makeshift lever. The stick creaked in protest, but its hard wood held up against
the hollow, dry wood of the tree limb. Together, they lifted it just enough for
Charlie to shimmy out.
She jumped to her feet, scooped Xan into a fireman's carry, and ran deeper
into the forested bog. The loud sloshing of muddy water under her boots echoed
through the darkening forest, beating a steady rhythm over the staccato chittering
of the pursuing swarm.
Xan urged her to come to a stop when she was sure they had left the wood
crabs behind. Charlie set her atop the roots of a gnarled willow tree. Its red leaves
hung like a curtain, shielding them from the night outside.
Charlie leaned against a root to catch her breath. Sweat streamed in rivulets
down her face and into her cooling vest, which was doing the opposite of what it
was designed to do in the swamp’s humid heat. She shrugged out of the bulky vest,
desperate to cool down. “Did we lose them?” she asked.
“Aff. I stopped hearing them some time ago.”
“Good.”
“We did, however, leave the pack behind.”
Charlie cursed under her breath. “Is… is there any chance we could get it
back?”
“Neg. Now that their nest has been disturbed, the wood crabs will be
territorial for days,” Xan sighed, frustrated at having made a mistake. “I did not
expect to see them this far north.”
Charlie’s face fell. “Our rations… our flare gun…” She turned abruptly and,
with a howl of frustration, kicked a spray of water into the air. “Shit!”
Xan tugged at her bondcord nervously. Without the flare gun, they faced little
chance at rescue. They could survive a short while without food and she had spent
enough time studying the local flora to be able to forage. The lack of clean
drinking water, however, presented a more immediate threat.
Not strong enough to be a real Jaguar, Marcus’ voice echoed through her
mind, snapping her out of her reverie. She channeled her worry into her best
imitation of a kit master performing a morning inspection. “Get ahold of yourself,
freebirth!” she snapped at Charlie. “We did not come all this way to give up now. I
can find us food, and if we are lucky, I can find us water. You know where the
Highlander base is, and I know the area.”
Charlie heaved a sigh and turned to face Xan. A glimmer of hope began to
shine in her eyes. “Right. Okay. I guess we can do this. Not like we have a choice,
right?”
“Neg, you do not,” Xan said sternly. “Now, lift me out of here and let us find
some place dry for tonight.”

The next morning, Xan found Charlie with a high fever. Sweat poured down her
face and she struggled to breathe. At Xan's insistence, they stopped midmorning in
a small clearing and Charlie slumped against the gnarled bark of an old tree with
oak-like leaves.
She did not object when Xan asked to check her for signs of infection. Clad
only in MechWarrior's garb consisting of a cooling vest, athletic shorts, and knee
high boots, much of Charlie's body had been exposed to the elements. Xan had
seen many ground crew and infantry fall similarly ill from bloodborne parasites
carried by the small bloodsucking insects native to the river delta, and she knew
what to look for.
She carefully examined Charlie's bare arms and legs for the telltale sign of
bites. As she ran her hands down her tricep she encountered a small, hard lump.
She lifted the arm to take a closer look, finding a small implanted device just
beneath the skin. She moved on quickly, making a mental note to ask about it later
should it present an obstacle to their journey.
It did not take much longer to find a series of red, angry bumps across the
back of Charlie’s thighs. Though Xan herself had acquired many bites, these ones
were accompanied by scarlet streaks reaching like tendrils through the veins and
capillaries of the sick woman’s leg. Xan knew the infection could be fatal if not
tended to.
The disease was endemic to the area, and the garrison’s quartermaster had
planned accordingly. If they still had the first aid kit, its antiparasitic pills would
have made the infection easy to treat. The pills were packed with a concentrated
powder refined from a local flower; Xan was confident she could identify the plant
if she were to come across it.
She cursed under her breath. Without Charlie, she had no way of finding the
Highlanders’ base, and no one to vouch for her with the mercenary company. If she
were found by them, she doubted they would grant her any kind of honorable
future. She tried not to dwell on her fate should the Smoke Jaguars find her.
“You were right about me,” Charlie groaned abruptly.
“What?”
“I’m no warrior.” Sweat ran in rivulets down her face as she struggled to
speak.
“Now is not the time for this, you need to conserve your energy,” Xan urged
firmly.
“No, you don't understand,” Charlie croaked. “I could have called for help. I
was afraid. The water… my ’Mech's comm system worked. I couldn't bring myself
to dive back into the water. I’m not a warrior like you.”
Xan was furious. If she is no warrior, what does that say about me? Xan
grabbed Charlie’s shoulders and pulled her up so their faces were nearly touching.
“Neg! You are better than that. I need you to be. You belong in a cockpit. Do not
forget that.”
Something still nagged at her. She bit back her anger as she reevaluated the
course of events, and she came to a realization. “If your comm system worked,
why did you leave your ’Mech? You could have called for help and waited for
retrieval, quiaff?”
“The cockpit was flooding.”
Her suspicions confirmed, Xan let her frustration dissipate with a sigh. “How
did you expect to call for help underwater? How do you even know your comm
system worked, submerged as it was?”
Charlie slumped back as Xan released her grip. She reached up and brushed
the medallion hanging from Xan’s wrist before slipping back into feverish sleep.
Without painkillers from the first-aid kit, Xan’s search for the required flower
was interrupted by frequent breaks and she used the opportunity to examine her
surroundings more closely. With her knowledge of Virentofta’s flora, she was able
to gather a small amount of food for herself and her companion. She was also
relieved to find a trove of pitcher plants, which contained water that she knew was
reasonably safe to drink.
By mid afternoon, she had located the flower she needed and returned to
Charlie with her foraged provisions. Her MechWarrior’s suit included a breathable
body sock underneath its coolant tubes; she tore several long sections from it and
stuffed them with flowers. She slipped the makeshift tea bags into the pitcher
plants and set them aside to steep overnight. It would not be perfect, and the
resulting tea would taste abominable, but Xan hoped it would be enough.

Charlie’s fever took two days to break. Xan was relieved to see her stir awake,
rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “How are you feeling?” Xan asked.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” she paused. “I need you to know you were
right.” At Xan’s puzzled expression, she continued, “I fight for the best merc outfit
in the Inner Sphere. ’Mech jocks from Galatea to Outreach would do anything to
be in my position. I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t very good at my job.”
A smile pulled at the corner of Xan’s mouth. “Good, then I will not have to
kill you.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to?”
Xan blushed and cast her eyes away. She was embarrassed to admit, even to
herself, that she had begun to appreciate the mercenary’s company. “We should get
moving as soon as possible,” she deflected.
Charlie rose shakily to her feet and took Xan’s hand in her own, slipping the
beaded bracelet off of her wrist. “I don’t think you need this anymore.”
“I am free?”
“You always have been.”
Xan’s curiosity got the better of her. “What does it mean to you?” she asked,
gesturing at the bracelet.
“This?” Charlie seemed surprised at the question. “Well, I suppose the Clans
don’t have anything like rosary bracelets, do they?” At Xan’s puzzled look, she
continued, “When I was very young, I got caught in a rip current during a family
trip to the beach. I wore myself out trying to get back, and nearly drowned.
Luckily, my uncle was with us. He was a surfer, you see, and practically lived in
the ocean. He paddled out to me and pulled me onto his board. We were so far out,
though, we had to wait for a boat to come get us. I was… more scared than I’ve
ever been in my life.”
“So to make me feel safer, my uncle gave me this,” she pointed to the
bracelet’s pendant. “St. Christopher. They say he watches over travelers, lost
children, sailors… and surfers,” she said, a grin playing across her face. “He
always wore this for luck, and he told me as long as I had it with me St.
Christopher would keep me safe. So far, it’s seemed to work. It got me through my
gender transition, it got me through the academy, and it got me out of the
underwater coffin that used to be my cockpit.”
Xan struggled to wrap her mind around such unfamiliar concepts. The idea
that a bracelet could protect anyone felt laughable, and she had no idea what a
surfer might be. Her life had been almost exclusively built around the study and
application of warfare, punctuated by stolen moments scouring through botany
texts. Among the many questions that rose to Xan’s mind, one grabbed her
attention. “Gender transition?”
“Oh, that must be a weird one too,” Charlie tapped her chin in thought. “Well,
I was born with male anatomy, and so I was raised like a boy. But when my body
started to… develop… I began to realize how wrong it felt. Having to navigate life
every day as something you know you aren’t, it takes a huge toll.”
Beyond being aware of anatomical differences between men and women, and
that some people had preferences in which category of person they preferred to
couple with, Xan had little context for what it meant to be raised as a boy versus as
a girl. She understood the world in categories of warrior and civilian, trueborn and
freeborn. Gender had simply never been a consideration of hers.
“The doctors helped me delay the rest of puberty until I was old enough to
make an informed decision,” Charlie continued. “When I did they hooked me up
with a hormone regulator.” She lifted her arm to present the small device implanted
beneath her skin. “It needs to be switched out every few years, but otherwise I live
a very normal life now. For a MechWarrior, that is.”
Xan absorbed this new information silently, her mind abuzz. Charlie seemed
to sense her discomfort, and offered a change of subject. “Perhaps we should break
camp and head out?”
Relieved, Xan agreed. They retrieved their meager supplies and struck out
towards the Highlander bivouac.
Xan and Charlie found themselves walking the banks of a swift forest river as they
left the swamp behind. Charlie led the way, pointing out any obstacles that
presented a tripping hazard as Xan shuffled after. Still, she struggled to navigate
the narrow and treacherous path. The soil was damp, and she had to catch herself
every other step as her plasteel boots threatened to slip out from beneath her.
Suddenly, the soft ground gave way beneath Xan’s feet. She toppled down the
steep riverbank, scrambling for anything to arrest her fall. Her grasping fingers
carved deep furrows into the loose soil as she abandoned her hold on the walking
stick. Finding no purchase, she tumbled into the river as Charlie yelped and
reached out for her.
Xan was quickly swept downstream. The rapids dunked her beneath the
surface and her injured leg screamed in agony as she kicked to keep afloat. She
sputtered and gasped for air as she was pulled past a bed of tall rocks which stood
defiantly against the river’s onslaught. She caught a brief glimpse of Charlie
hopping along the shore, clumsily attempting to follow as she pulled her boots off.
The current slammed her against the rocks and her lungs burned as she
aspirated a mouthful of water. She desperately tried to wrap her arms around a tall
outcropping but found no purchase on its slick surface. She flailed as she was
yanked away from the promise of safety; her vision exploded with stars as her head
cracked against another rock beneath the water’s surface.
The forest around her began to blur and the world seemed to narrow to a
point. Vignettes from her life played through her mind as her brain struggled for
oxygen. Playful games with her sibkin bled into vicious battles for dominance as
they trained for war. Her ’Mech’s autocannons spat depleted uranium into a
battered opponent during her Trial of Position to become a MechWarrior. Has my
whole life really built up to this moment?
She suddenly felt a strong arm wrap around her as Charlie caught up and took
hold of her. Charlie kicked, keeping them both afloat, and slowly made for the
riverbank. It was no simple task, as Charlie only had one free hand, but they
eventually made it to safety. They climbed up the bank into a mossy clearing and
collapsed, panting for breath.
Xan rolled to her side and heaved, exorcising the water from her lungs.
Afterwards, she couldn’t help but notice how vibrant her surroundings were. The
colors of the forest seemed richer, the plants more fragrant. Even as the adrenaline
in her system broke down and pain returned to her leg, she couldn’t help but feel
more alive.
She was startled when Charlie broke into mad laughter next to her. It echoed
through the forest, driving a flock of small green birds from the trees nearby. Xan
rolled to see Charlie sitting up, catching her breath.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe I did that!”
“Are you alright?” Xan asked tentatively.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been better,” Charlie grinned madly.
A smile tugged at the corner of Xan’s lips as she sat upright and started
wringing water from her dark curls. A feeling of warmth rose in her chest as she
regarded her traveling partner, who had cast aside her fear for the sake of someone
she barely knew. She struggled to think of even one example of a Smoke Jaguar
exhibiting that level of care. To her surprise, she realized she admired the Spheroid.
Her reverie ended abruptly when she noticed a BattleMech crumpled at the
edge of the clearing. A mangled Vindicator painted in Highlander livery lay on its
side. The armor of its left torso was charred and peeled back: evidence of an
internal ammunition explosion. The cockpit, however, appeared intact. Xan’s heart
skipped with a mix of hope and trepidation at the prospect of finding a way to call
for help.
She and Charlie scrambled over to the ’Mech excitedly. Xan leaned against its
smooth metal frame as Charlie scaled the intact parts of its chest, wrenched open
the hatch, and clambered inside. Time slowed interminably, and Xan tapped her
fingers against the ’Mech anxiously as she waited for her companion to return with
news.
Finally, Charlie emerged from the cockpit holding a blackened neurohelmet.
She slowly clambered down the Vindicator’s chest, carefully navigating the
handholds presented by the breaks between its armor plating. When she reached
the bottom, she dropped to the ground with her back against the ’Mech.
Xan started to ask about the comm system when Charlie placed her forehead
against the face of the helmet. Xan froze when she noticed that Charlie’s lips were
moving, silently mouthing unfamiliar words that carried the weight of deep
meaning. When Charlie finally looked up, Xan searched her face for a sign of what
she might be thinking.
“Renée,” Charlie said finally, tears running down her cheeks. “Neuro
feedback. She didn’t make it.”
Xan sat down awkwardly next to her, favoring her bandaged leg. “She fought
to the end, and she died with honor.”
“Yeah.” Charlie nodded solemnly and wiped the tears from her face. “I
managed to raise HQ. They’re sending a pair of VTOLs to come pick us up.” They
sat quietly next to each other, each wrestling with their own tangled feelings.
Xan finally broke the silence. “It cannot have been easy to jump into the water
after me,” she offered. “I appreciate that you conquered your fear.”
“I didn’t have a choice, I just… leapt. I couldn’t let you drown.” Charlie
looked back at the river thoughtfully. “It’s funny. It doesn’t seem so scary now, on
the other side of it.”
Xan’s gut seized. She struggled to find the words to express her own fear, and
how much she envied Charlie’s newfound perspective. Flustered, she blurted a
different question: “Was it scary before, when you did your ‘transition’?”
Surprise flashed across Charlie’s face, but quickly softened into a knowing
look. “Yeah, it was. When something changes that shifts the way you relate to the
world around you, it’s terrifying. It was scary to put myself out there, not knowing
how people might react to truly seeing me. Not knowing if there was even a place
for me as myself. It felt like… a leap of faith.” She placed a reassuring hand on
Xan’s shoulder. “But hey, you know what? Just like with the river, things aren’t as
scary on the other side. Not only that, but life is better now than I could have ever
imagined before.”
Charlie’s testimony punched a hole in Xan’s composure. Her eyes stung as
she fought back tears. “My whole life, I never quite seemed to measure up, never
quite seemed to belong.” Her fingers traced the thin scar that ran across her face,
the remnant of a fight with her sibkin, Marcus. “I have never admitted it before, not
even to myself, but I have been terrified my whole life that the defect lies with me.
It is what kept me fighting. It is why I drove myself to be the best. In hindsight, I
think I had something to prove. But someone like me does not get that
opportunity.”
“Someone like you?” Charlie’s brows knitted together in thought. “Do you
mean… are you freeborn?”
“Worse,” Xan’s voice fell to a whisper. “I am dezgra.” Charlie’s eyes searched
questioningly, and she explained, “I am dishonored, and not eligible for frontline
service. For four years, I have been waiting here while other Jaguar warriors earn
glory. I will never win a Bloodname. My genes will not be carried on to future
generations.” She chuckled ruefully. “I suppose none of that matters now. I have
lost my Clan, and my Clan has lost everything.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” she rubbed her wrist where the rosary bracelet had been a short
time before. “I was fifteen when my sibko was summoned to the Star Captain’s
office and informed that our genefather had surrendered to the Draconis Combine.
The victors did not accept him as a bondsman, so he was executed by his own
warriors. The Combine soldiers requested that his offspring be preserved, so we
were allowed to continue training and eventually test out. Those of us who
survived became MechWarriors, but were relegated to garrison units.” She was
unable to hide the bitterness in her voice.
Charlie slipped the rosary off of her wrist and held it aloft thoughtfully. “I
think I get it now. No wonder this was so important to you.” She took Xan’s hand
and placed the beads into her open palm, “I’m not gonna lie, things are going to be
pretty different in the Inner Sphere. I don’t think I need this anymore. But I think
you could use it.” She gently closed Xan’s fingers around the bracelet. “I promise
you there is so much life on the other side of this.”
Xan couldn’t hold her tears back anymore. They streamed freely down her
face, running over the scar that declared to the world the trials her Clan had put her
through. Decades of abuse at the hands of her sibkin and trainers dropped from her
shoulders like a heavy weight. The accusatory voice at the back of her mind fell
quiet for the first time in her memory.
She felt Charlie wrap her arms around her; she pressed her face against the
other warrior’s well toned bicep and sobbed.
For the first time that Xan could remember, she felt at peace.
 SOLARIS CITY BLUES
JASON ‘PO DING’ LIVERMORE
@AceKaller

BOREAL REACHES ARENA

SOLARIS CITY
SOLARIS VII
WOLF EMPIRE
15 SEPTEMBER 3151

Emerance Kaine gripped the control sticks on her Thug tightly as she licked her
lips. The salty taste always reminded her of battle, and the temperature was
beginning to rise in her cockpit. She still had not had contact with her opponent,
and it was nearly five minutes into the fight. Any longer and the producers would
likely grow impatient and start goading the combatants into a fight.
That was fine with Emerance. She knew that she could take her opponent,
Jake Reyes, in his Zeus at any time. Reyes was deliberately drawing out the fight,
and she wasn’t quite sure why. That part made her uneasy.
She kicked her ’Mech up into a run and crested the snow-covered ridge ahead
of her, hoping to see some kind of contact on the other side. She saw only the
gently blowing snow for what seemed like endless distance in front of her.
 She was about to open a comm line and try to goad Reyes into committing
when a warning alarm sounded in her ears. As her computer screamed warnings of
incoming missiles, she juked her ’Mech to the right. The dodge worked, as most of
the slew of missiles whizzed past her. The few that didn’t impacted against her
right torso, but did scant damage thanks to the Ballistic-Reinforced Armor carried
by her 13U Thug. Her battle computer could not find her opponent, meaning he
must be on the extreme range of his long-range missiles.
Toggling several of her heat sinks offline, she fired a blast from her twin
snub-nosed PPCs off in the general direction from which the missiles had come.
She knew she wasn’t going to hit anything, but the heat rising in her cockpit told
her that her Triple-Strength Myomers would soon engage. She also toggled the
Supercharger on her engine into high gear and pressed her ’Mech forward at its top
speed. She had no desire to fight Reyes at long distances, and the quicker she could
close, the better.
A PPC bolt flew over her head, another missed shot, and this time her
computer was able to get a lock. Reyes was about eight hundred meters away,
barely cresting a low ridge, only exposing enough of his ’Mech to get guns on her.
She dropped her crosshairs and waited for a missile lock. As she waited, she
toggled her multi-missile launchers into long-range mode, waiting for the LRMs to
load. She heard the satisfying thunk as they loaded, just as the gentle whirring in
her ears told that her computer had achieved a hard missile lock. She pulled her
trigger and sent twelve missiles downrange, bracketing Reyes’ Zeus with
explosions.
Rather than stand and fight, he backed down the hill out of sight. That was
fine with her. Her superior speed was fast bringing her into range, and she would
soon be at optimal distance for the fight that she wanted. As she crested the ridge,
she saw him back into a cluster of trees. He snapped off a shot with his PPC, as
well as his large laser, both connecting with her upper torso. She responded just as
quickly, firing off two bolts from her PPCs, one catching him in the torso and the
other in the right arm that housed his LRM rack. The temperature in her cockpit
was getting to dangerous levels.
She charged towards him at top speed, toggling her MMLs to fire short-range
missiles and launching two more PPC blasts squarely into his torso. He stood at the
edge of the treeline and responded with his medium lasers, cutting small ridges into
her lower legs, but failing to slow her momentum. As her missile reticle turned
green, she squeezed off a dozen SRMs in his direction, most of them pockmarked
his upper torso, appearing to rattle him somewhat. He shot off his LRMs,
impacting on her torso without exploding, due to the combat being below his
weapons minimum arming range.
The heat in her cockpit was rising even higher, but she chanced another shot
with her PPCs. Though the heat was stifling and she was having trouble breathing,
she knew it was optimal for the TSM powering her ’Mech and her speed
maintained constant as she approached melee range. When she closed to within
arms reach, she triggered a final blast from her SRMs before bringing both of her
PPC barrels down onto the Zeus’s shoulders. Metal screamed in protest as the
ad-hoc clubs smashed armor plating, wrecking one of his shoulder joints and
sending him off balance. His ’Mech crashed onto its back with a thud, tossing up
compacted bits of snow and dirt as it landed.
She lowered one of her barrels in line with his cockpit and waited. Discretion
was the better part of valor, and he signaled his yield, powering down his ’Mech
and granting her the victory. She leaned back in the command couch, savoring her
win, she placed the foot of her ’Mech on the toppled titan she had just defeated and
raised an arm to the adoring crowd.
A few hours later she found herself in a bar called the Rusty Actuator, a favorite
haunt of hers post-fight. It wasn’t the highest class of bars, but neither was it a
dive. The food and drink were cheap, and she could expect a reasonable amount of
privacy. She was at her normal table and seated across from her was her agent,
Paul Michaelsson, smoking a cigarette and watching a different fight unfold on one
of the screens behind her.
“Am I keeping you from something, Paul?” she asked.
Michaelsson did not shift his gaze. “Just catching the end of this fight. You
should pay attention. You and Anne Kraft are on a collision course. Give it six
months and the two of you will be ready for a bout.”
She clicked a few buttons and the mini holo-vid screen at their booth brought
up the fight that Paul was talking about, a pair of Awesomes pummeling each other
at medium range.
“I could take her blindfolded, and you know it. Matty Volkevitch is next on
my radar.”
Michaelsson blew the smoke off to the side. “I’ve told you before, you
shouldn’t take that fight. There’s mob money there, and you’re not ready for that,
kid.”
“You mean there’s big money there. The guy has been dodging me for the
better part of the year. That purse is looking mighty sweet, I’ll find a way to get
him to fight me.”
Paul shook his head and seemed poised to continue the fight when their
server, a beautiful blonde wearing a tight miniskirt and an even tighter top
appeared. “My name is Kate. Can I get you anything? Drinks? Food? My
number?”
Emerance smiled. “A scotch, neat. For now. But the night is early, sweetie.
Don’t go anywhere without telling me, yeah?”
“You got it.”
She walked off after taking Paul’s order, and Emerance turned to see an
incredulous expression on Paul’s face. “You are hopeless sometimes, Kaine.”
“Being preachy again, Paul? Can’t you let a girl have some fun?”
Paul scoffed. “Mechbunnies are nothing but trouble, Emerance. There’s
plenty of better ways for you to pick up a girl if you’re looking.”
Emerance chuckled. “Like church?”
Paul took a long drag on his cigarette. “No, but hell, you could just straight-up
hire someone and it would be more trustworthy than some Mechbunny you picked
up in a bar.”
“Is that your advice as my agent, Paul, go hire a hooker?”
“Nothing wrong with that, but no, that’s not my advice. You’re rising fast on
the fight circuit. Don’t do anything to screw it up, that’s all I’m saying.”
Before the argument could continue, Kate returned with their drinks. She set
Paul’s down in front of him and brushed her hand up against Emerance’s arm as
she set her Scotch down. “I saw your fight tonight. It was really something. That
clown never stood a chance.”
Emerance winked at her. “Thanks for the confidence. You working late
tonight?”
“Nah, I get off in a little over an hour.”
“Perfect timing. I’ve got some stuff to discuss with my friend here, but I’m
looking to go clubbing a little later. Make sure you don’t leave without stopping
by.”
Kate blushed slightly. “Sounds like fun. In the meantime, just let me know if
there’s anything I can get for you two.”
As Kate left, Emerance put her hand on Paul’s arm. “No lectures, please. I put
my ass on the line out there, let me have a little fun, right?”
Paul shook his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Kaine.”
Several hours later, Emerance and Kate walked through the door to Emerance’s
apartment. She slammed the door shut, tossed her clutch on the counter, and
pressed Kate up against the wall, kissing her passionately.
“Told you it would be a fun night.”
Kate smiled. “Not over yet, I hope?”
Emerance grinned. “Not by a long shot. Come on.”
She led her by the hand over to the counter where her purse rested. As she dug
through it, Kate kissed her on the back of the neck. “What are you looking for?”
Emerance pulled out a small bag filled with a light-colored powder. “Ever do
dust?”
Kate raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I have. What’s it like?”
Emerance cut two short lines of the powder on the counter. She dug around in
her purse until she found a small glass tube. She quickly inhaled one of the lines
herself before handing the tube over to Kate. “It will kick your senses into
overdrive, trust me.”
Kate hesitated for a second. “Won’t this stuff get you banned on the fight
circuit?”
Emerance smiled as a wave of euphoria passed over her. “Not a chance. This
stuff won’t show up on a standard drug screen, and it’s technically not on the
prohibited list for the Gaming Commission, so it’s clean.”
Satisfied, Kate inhaled the second line. She coughed slightly and stumbled a
bit backward, blinking deliberately. Emerance put her arms around her to steady
her.
“Easy there, girl. You okay?”
Kate smiled and nodded. “You said something about sensations?”
 Emerance kissed her quickly on the lips. “Come on, I’ll prove it to you.”

Emerance had lost track of time. It seemed like only a few minutes, but hours had
passed as they explored each other's bodies. The drug-induced euphoria served to
heighten the pleasure as the night wore on and eventually the pair wore each other
out. Emerance lay on her back, with Kate snuggled up against her, tracing her
fingertips across the skin of Kate’s belly.
“That was insane.”
Emerance chuckled. “I told you. Hope you weren’t disappointed.”
“Not in the least. It’s not every day a girl gets to spend the night with a
real-life MechWarrior. When you said yes, you just about knocked me on my ass.”
“Hey, we’re just people like the next guy.”
“Glad you enjoyed the evening,” Kate sighed. “It’s getting super late though. I
should be going.”
Emerance kissed her gently. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
Kate smiled. “Much as I’d love to stay, I really should get going. My
roommate will be freaking out if I don’t show up before morning. She worries a
ton about me.”
Emerance squeezed her arm. “Whatever works for you. Just don’t be a
stranger, okay?”
Kate nodded and smiled sheepishly. “You know where to find me. I work
pretty much every night, usually the early shift. I think I’m normally gone by the
time you drop in.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
Kate dressed quickly, kissed Emerance on the forehead before she left, and
was gone. Emerance smiled gently and drifted off to sleep.

She woke hours later to a knock on her door. At first, she ignored it, but the
knocking persisted. “Fine, I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses.”
Grabbing a silk robe that was hanging from the foot of her bed, she quickly
wrapped herself in it before making her way to the door. She tried to blink away
the slight ringing in her ears, not entirely recovered from the previous night. She
looked out the peephole to see an attractive brunette with her hair in a ponytail.
“Who is it?”
The woman flashed a badge up to the peephole. “Detective Nina Wickersham,
Black Hills PD. Is Emerance Kaine there?”
Emerance rubbed her eyes before opening the door. “What can I do for you,
detective?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you this early. Can I come in?”
Emerance nodded and gestured for the detective to come in. “Have a seat if
you want.”
Wickersham shook her head. “Thank you, no. I was actually wondering if you
would be willing to come downtown with me. Something has come up that we
could use your help with”
Emerance frowned. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Not that I’m aware of. As I said though, something has come up that I could
use your help with.”
Emerance sighed. This was not exactly how she had envisioned spending her
day. Something was obviously wrong, and she wasn’t going to get much more
information out of the detective without going with her. At the very least, the
police had managed to send an attractive detective her way to make the whole
situation a little less mundane.
“Give me a few minutes to get dressed and I’d be happy to help.”
The detective nodded and Emerance dashed off to her bedroom to dress
quickly, if somewhat awkwardly, her reflexes and balance still not being up to par.
She put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a comfortable pair of boots, and a leather
jacket. She touched up her makeup from the night before, at least making herself
somewhat presentable for the cute detective, then walked out to meet her.
The detective had opened the blinds and the sun was streaming in, nearly
blinding Emerance.
“Sorry about the light.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m all set. Lead on, detective.” She grabbed a pair of
sunglasses and put them on before following. As they made their way down the
stairs, Emerance couldn’t help but notice the woman’s athletic curves. Focus, Em.
Things are weird here, don’t get lost daydreaming over the pretty girl.
Nina led her downstairs to a waiting car and proceeded to drive about three
blocks. As they approached, Emerance realized something was very wrong. There
was a Black Hills Police cordon blocking off an alley, and a coroner’s van stood
waiting to accept its victim.
They pulled up and exited the vehicle and Emerance’s heart began racing.
What was going on? The detective led her over to where a gurney was being
wheeled towards the coroner’s van.
She unzipped the body bag, and Emerance gasped. It was Kate from the night
before, lying lifeless with what appeared to be a gunshot wound to the temple.
Holy shit, this is not good. What the hell happened?
“You recognize her?” Nina asked.
Emerance nodded. “Yeah, her name is Kate. She’s a server down at the Rusty
Actuator. I just saw her last night.”
Nina pulled out her phone. “We know.” She showed several holo-selfies
featuring Emerance and Kate from the night before. She watched Emerance’s
reactions carefully as she paged through the images.
“I only just met her last night. She seemed like a nice girl.”
Nina flipped through several images taken inside Emerance’s apartment
featuring the two of them. “She was at your place last night? What time did she
leave?”
Emerance shook her head. “I’m not sure. I think around four. I didn’t look at
the clock when she left.”
“What did you two do?”
“We went clubbing, then hooked up at my place. She was kind of a
Mechbunny.”
“You never met her before last night?” Nina asked.
“No. We met at the bar, my agent was there, you can confirm with him.”
Nina nodded. “What did you do after she left?”
Emerance was nervous. Why were there so many questions? “I went to sleep.
The first thing I remember after that was you knocking at my door.”
“I understand. Do you own a firearm?”
“What? Yes, I do, an Imperator forty cal.”
Nina nodded. “We’ll need to see it, I’m afraid.”
“Wait, what? You think I had something to do with this?”
Nina shrugged. “You were the last person to see her alive, we have to cover
all our angles. Is there a problem?” Nina narrowed her eyes.
Emerance shook her head. “No, no this is just all a bit much to take in. I only
just met her, and now she’s dead, you know?”
“I understand. Can we go back to your place and get your gun? That should
help clear up this whole thing.”
“Of course.”
The entire ride back to her apartment, Emerance’s heart was racing. What had
happened? Who had killed Kate? And why were the cops suspecting her of the
whole thing? She barely knew the poor girl.
Emerance led the detective up to her apartment and went straight to the
drawer where she kept her gun. It was conspicuously absent.
“I don’t understand. It was right here. I don’t know what happened to it.”
Nina frowned. “So you’re saying it was stolen?”
Emerance shrugged. “I’m saying I don’t know what happened to it. I know
how this must look, but as you can see, I kept it in an unlocked drawer, anybody
could have taken it. Hell, half the time I don’t even keep my door locked. This is
supposed to be a safe neighborhood.”
“I understand. Look, you have to realize this looks bad for you. Your gun goes
missing right after a Mechbunny that you hooked up with was found shot to death?
It’s not enough to charge you with anything, but you can believe that we’re going
to go over the scene with a fine-toothed comb. Is there anything you want to tell
me now?”
Emerance’s heart was in her throat. “No. I mean, obviously, I didn’t do it.”
Nina nodded. “Then you have nothing to worry about. I’ll be going now, but
make sure that you keep yourself available. Here’s my card.”
With that, the detective left. Emerance was alone with her thoughts. This
couldn’t be happening to her. Where was her gun? What would she do if it was
somehow linked to Kate’s murder?
The first thing she did was call Michaelsson. She went over what had
happened, and he advised her to lay low for a while. She didn’t know what else to
do. This situation was beyond bizarre.
She decided to clear her head by heading downtown for a drink. She avoided
the Rusty Actuator but found her way to a middle-class bar that she had never been
to before. Nobody would recognize her here, other than if they were ’Mech fans,
which was unlikely. She ordered a Scotch and sat down at the bar.
This day has been insane. A little hair of the dog will do you good.
A few minutes later, a man sat down next to her. “Emerance Kaine?”
 The man was nondescript, middle-aged with dark brown hair, and was dressed
in a casual suit. Everything about him was a nothing.
“Who’s asking?”
His face betrayed no emotion. “A friend, I hope. I understand that you had
some trouble with the police earlier today?”
“How did you know about that? Who are you?” she asked forcefully.
“As I said, a friend, possibly. Or an enemy. That part is up to you.”
She was growing impatient with this man. “What are you talking about?”
He smiled. “Matty Volkevitch will offer you a challenge in the next
twenty-four hours. Accept it. The fight will be at The Factory. You will, of course,
put up a good fight, but ultimately lose.”
She was now growing angry. She took a sip of her scotch. “Wait, you’re
telling me I’m going to get a fight, and I’m supposed to take a dive? Why would I
do that? I could beat Matty in my sleep.”
The man shook his head. “Winning is not the point. The point is putting up an
entertaining match. Matty has friends who wish to see him win. I hope you can
understand that?”
She waited a moment before responding. “What are you, the Mob or
something? I’m not getting in bed with you guys.”
He smiled wryly. “Speaking of things in your bed, I understand a girl that you
were acquainted with was recently found dead from a gunshot wound. Let me be
plain. It would be most unfortunate if the police were to come into possession of
your missing firearm.”
Her face went cold. “You’re threatening me?”
The man shook his head. “I am encouraging you to do the right thing.”
“I’ll think about it.”
The man smiled. “Don’t take too long. You’ll be getting the challenge soon.
Remember what to do and everything will be okay.”
With that, the man turned and left. Emerance was dumbstruck. This could not
be happening. She was being blackmailed to take a dive. There was no way she
was going to cooperate, but what would happen to her if she didn’t? Did the man
and his associates have her gun? Had they used it to kill poor Kate?
She pulled out her phone and called her agent immediately, made her way to a
booth in the back corner of the bar for privacy, and explained the entire situation.
“Paul, what do I do?”
“Don’t take the fight, for one. I mean, I can’t advise you to take a dive, but I
can advise you not to take the fight. It’s not worth it, kid.”
“If I don’t take the fight, the threat is still there. There’s no way around that. I
have to take the fight, but I can’t take a dive.”
“If you’re hell bound on taking the fight, then you should consider not
winning it. I’m not saying dive, I’m saying just don’t win. If what you say is true
and they have this leverage on you, there’s really nothing else that you can do.”
Emerance could not believe what she was hearing. Her own agent was telling
her to throw a fight? Was there anyone she could trust? She felt desperately alone
and she didn’t know why, but her mind wandered to the detective from earlier in
the day. What if she just came clean and explained the entire thing to her? Would
getting out ahead of the problem be a solution? She had to try.
She pulled the detective’s card out from her pocket and dialed the number.
Wickersham agreed to meet with her right away and, twenty minutes later, the
detective was walking through the door of the bar. Emerance flagged her down.
Sliding into the booth across the table from Emerance, she dismissed the
server and turned to her. “So, what did you need to talk about, Miss Kaine?”
Emerance explained the entire situation, including the man who had
threatened her and the threat about the gun. When she was finished, she paused,
waiting for the detective’s response.
“Do you believe me?”
Nina sighed. “I don’t know what to believe Miss Kaine. This is quite a story
that you’re spinning, you have to understand that?”
 Emerance shook her head. “I know, but it’s the truth. And besides, why would
I come to you with this if it weren’t true?”
Nina shrugged. “To get ahead of a situation that’s spiraling out of your
control? Look, I appreciate you coming to me with this, but you have to see things
from my perspective. This looks like you are trying to get ahead of some bad
news.” She paused and took a drink of water. “Look. I can’t advise you what to do.
That’s your choice. But it’s going to be bad news for you if your gun turns up as
the murder weapon. There’s no way around it, I’m sorry.”
“I understand, detective. Please believe me?”
The woman paused. “Look, my gut tells me that you didn’t do it. This whole
thing is too neat. But there is going to be a problem if the evidence turns up telling
a different story. I appreciate that you’re in a difficult position. I’ll do everything I
can to help you, but you’ve got to level with me. Is there anything you’re not
telling me?”
Emerance closed her eyes for a moment to steel herself. “You’re going to find
drugs in Kate’s system. And if you get a warrant, you’ll find them at my place as
well. Me telling you this is cardinally stupid. You could bust me on this alone, I get
it. But you have to see I’m telling the truth.”
Nina nodded. “I hope so, for your sake.”
THE FACTORY ARENA
SOLARIS CITY
SOLARIS VII
WOLF EMPIRE
19 SEPTEMBER 3151

Emerance dodged her ’Mech to the left just in time to avoid the triple PPC bolts
from Matty Volkevitch’s Awesome. The fight was going just as she had expected,
with Volkevitch wanting to fight at long range. Thus far, she had obliged him,
trading at range with her long-range missiles. She hadn’t done a tremendous
amount of damage, but she had done enough that she was winning the trade.
Currently, the fight was on the extreme range of her snub-nosed PPCs, and
she knew that she wouldn’t get the full damage output from those cannons unless
she could close the gap. There would come a time for her to make a move, she just
had to be patient. She fired off the last of her LRMs, and the system notified her
that the MML launchers would now be loaded with short-range missiles.
The time had come. She squeezed off a shot from her PPCs, creating enough
heat to activate the Triple Strength Myomers that moved her machine. She pushed
her throttle up into full, closing the range as quickly as she could.
Volkevitch fired off another alpha strike, two of his shots connecting with her
torso and severely depleting the armor there. She fired her PPCs again as she ran,
ignoring the heat buildup in her cockpit as she knew it was strengthening her Thug.
Her shots struck true, melting gobs of armor from Volkevitch’s right leg and torso.
His armor was getting dangerously thin just now, and it was the perfect time for her
to follow up with a dozen SRMs. The missiles corkscrewed their way toward
Volkevitch’s Awesome, peppering the broad torso of the ’Mech.
Volkevitch got off one more alpha strike, connecting once again with two of
his PPCs. One impacted her torso, while the other one severely damaged her leg,
and she almost stumbled to the ground.
If you’re going to throw this fight, now is the time to do it.
But she could not bring herself to take the dive. She fought to keep her ’Mech
upright and continued her charge toward Volkevitch’s Awesome. She fired another
round of SRMs off before closing to point-blank range.
Then, just as she had in her previous fight, she raised her Thugs arms like
giant clubs and brought them down onto the torso of the Awesome. One arm
smashed through a weak spot in the armor and tore into the internal structure there.
The other landed a crushing blow to the head, shattering the protective cowl and
mangling the cockpit within—as well as the warrior.
The crowd went wild. She sat back in her command couch and exhaled,
fighting off the brutal heat buildup in her cockpit.
That was it. She had won. Things were about to hit the fan.

She awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of her phone ringing. It was
Detective Wickersham.
“Emerance, listen carefully. I’m breaking protocol by coming to you with this,
but I wanted to give you a heads-up. A gun turned up in your case, and it looks to
be yours. On top of that, it looks to be the murder weapon.”
This was all too much. “You have to believe me, I didn’t do it.”
“Listen, I’m starting to believe you. When I raised some red flags, some big
money moved in quickly and escalated the whole case to the Wolf Constabulary.
The case is out of my hands now, but I feel like you’re being set up. Can we meet
and talk about this?”
“Of course. When and where?”
 “I can’t come to your place, and it’s not safe to come into the precinct. Most
everything is closed down about now, but there’s a coffee shop called Override I
frequent over on Sixth and Main. Meet me there in like half an hour.”
Emerance dressed quickly and took a cab to the coffee shop in question. As
she got out of the taxi, she spotted Detective Wickersham, somehow looking
radiant as ever, approaching from her car. As the detective got closer, suddenly her
eyes widened.
“Get down!”
Emerance complied and dropped to the ground just as gunshots rang out. The
ping of bullets could be heard hitting the wall of the building next to her and she
instinctively looked for some cover, dodging behind a large planter. More shots
rang out, thudding against the planter wall and kicking up specks of ferrocrete.
Detective Wickersham returned fire, huddled behind a parked vehicle. And
then there was silence. After a few moments, the sound of sirens could be heard,
and, within minutes, uniformed officers of the Black Hills PD were on the scene
taking statements. Emerance laid as low as she could, letting Nina take the lead on
explaining everything. After nearly an hour, the scene was clear, and Nina turned
to Emerance.
“If I didn’t believe you before, I do now. We need to talk. But not here. Come
on back to mine, it’s the safest place I can think of.”
Minutes later, Emerance found herself in Nina’s apartment. It was a neat little
studio in a fairly middle-class neighborhood in the Black Hills. Nine offered her
coffee, which she accepted, and the two sat down next to each other.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Emerance nodded. “I’m used to getting shot at, remember?”
Nina smiled softly. “Fair enough. Now, about what I wanted to talk to you
about earlier. Shit has really hit the fan with your case, it got bumped up to the
Wolf Constabulary, and my guess is there will be a warrant out for your arrest in
the not-too-distant future. In the meantime, we have to get some evidence to prove
your innocence, and I think I know how. Are you game?”
Emerance shrugged in resignation. “Do I have a choice?”
“I was doing some digging before all of this blew up, about that fighter you
mentioned. Turns out Matty Volkevitch is connected to the Fanzini crime family.
They’re big into Mob issues: protection, extortion, money laundering, that sort of
thing.”
Emerance nodded her understanding. “Okay, but how does that help?”
“Well, we know who is framing you. The thing is just getting the evidence to
prove that you are innocent and the Fanzini’s are behind everything. We don’t have
much time. This is a long shot, but what if we can get you into close proximity to
the man behind things?”
“How would that even work?”
Nina leaned in, brushing a lock of her golden brown hair out of her face. “You
go straight to Enrico Fanzini. Tell him that you made a mistake, beg his
forgiveness, and try to get back on good terms with him somehow. All the while,
you’ll be wearing a wire. Hopefully, we can get him on tape saying enough to clear
you.”
Emerance sighed. “Call me stupid, but how am I supposed to get close to this
Fanzini guy? Are you forgetting, they tried to kill me just a few hours ago.”
Nina nodded. “I know. And that’s why I say this is a long shot, but you do it
in the open. He’ll be at the headquarters of his company. Meet him there. He’s not
going to try to kill you there, it’s too public, too dirty. It’s the only way I can think
of to get evidence to clear you. And we don’t have much time, we’ll have to do it
before the Wolf warrant drops. Once that happens, it’s out of my hands.”
“I’d be lying if I said this didn’t scare me half to death. There’s a million ways
this thing could go wrong, you know.”
Nina reached out and took Emerance by the hand. Her touch was electric. At
any other time, Emerance would be blissfully happy, but at just this moment she
was scared. Yet somehow, the detective’s touch made her feel safe.
 “You can do this. It’s the only way. We get evidence on tape against Fanzini
and your warrant goes away. I know it’s not like a ’Mech fight, but you’re a strong
woman. You can do this.”
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Three hours later, Emerance found herself walking through the front doors of
Fanzini Holdings Limited. The office was immaculate, decorated in a modern style
indicating it had been recently renovated, and she noticed at least two people who
were likely guards or musclemen of some kind. Taking a deep breath, she made her
way to the reception desk.
“My name is Emerance Kaine. I’m here to see Mr. Fanzini.”
The woman behind the counter, a gorgeous brunette with full lashes, looked at
her. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Fanzini is a very busy man. Do you have an appointment?”
She shook her head. “No. But tell him I’m here. He will see me.”
“One moment, please.”
The woman got on the phone, speaking in hushed tones so that Emerance
could not hear her.
“You’re doing great,” the voice of Detective Wickersham came through the
tiny receiver Em had in her ear.
Emerance resisted the urge to say something, knowing that it would blow her
cover. She was wearing a tiny transmitter, attached as a button on her jacket, that
was transmitted directly to Nina outside in a Black Hills PD undercover van. The
entire thing was being recorded.
The secretary put the phone down. “Mr Fanzini will see you. His office is
impossible to miss, just take the elevator to the top floor.”
 Emerance nodded her thanks and headed for the elevator. The ride up to the
top floor seemed an eternity.
“Everything is going great. Remember, just act naturally. Let things play out
as they will. I’m right outside if anything goes wrong.”
Again, she didn’t know why, but Nina’s words were reassuring to her. Soon
the doors opened into a small foyer, where another secretary sat at her desk. She
waved Emerance toward the large set of oak doors that marked the entrance to Mr.
Fanzini’s office.
Emerance stepped through into an opulent office, decorated garishly with lots
of gold and shiny objects. The office was almost a cliche for a Crime Boss’s lair.
Behind a large wooden desk sat Enrico Fanzini. He was a short man, with jet-black
hair and a matching mustache.
“Miss Kaine. Very bold of you to come here. I would ask how you found out
my link in all this, but I suspect that pet cop of yours had her hands in it. No matter.
What can I do for you, Miss Kaine?”
Emerance took a deep breath. “I’m here to apologize.”
Fanzini feigned a smile. “Apologize for what, my dear?”
“For the fight. For not doing what I was told. I realize now that it was a
mistake. I’m here to beg your forgiveness and to try to see if we can clean this
whole situation up.”
Fanzini stood up. “My dear, you are correct, you made a grave mistake. But
how do you propose to fix things? The fight is done, and you, I hear, are in some
legal trouble. What could you possibly offer me from inside a jail cell?”
“So far we’ve only got him for fixing the fight. Try to get him to admit to the
murder.”
“You lost Matty as your fighter on the take. I can take his place. I’ll be your
stooge, do whatever you want. You’re powerful enough to make this whole thing
go away.”
Fanzini scowled slightly. “My dear, you give me too much credit. You think I
can fix a murder charge?”
Emerance swallowed deeply. “I know you can because you’re the one that set
me up in the first place. You had that girl killed just so you could leverage it
against me. That was my first mistake, I should have seen how serious you were
when you’d be willing to kill just for leverage.”
“You flatter me, dear. And you are correct, your biggest mistake was not
taking me seriously. What’s the life of one girl in the big scheme of things? For
that matter, what’s your life in the big scheme of things? I think you know too
much, my dear, and I don’t make a habit of employing people who mess up as
badly as you did. I was content to let you rot in jail, but you’ve pieced together too
much. I think it’s time for you to have an accident, and then that pretty little
detective friend of yours can disappear as well. It will all clean up rather neatly.”
“That’s it, we’ve got him. Find some way to get out of there. Now!”
Her mind was racing, looking for an escape. Then she heard a familiar voice
from behind her.
“You should have listened to me, kid. I tried to give you an out, but you didn’t
listen. You had to go and win that damn fight.” Michaelsson stepped into the room,
carrying a gun.
“Paul? You were in on this?”
Paul shrugged. “Don’t look so surprised, kid. Money talks in this town. I’ve
tried to warn you away from Mob money for a long time, but you wouldn’t listen.
You kept pushing. You forced my hand. I didn’t want to have to kill that girl, but
the whole thing presented itself so neatly, and the order came down. That’s what
you should have learned, learned to take orders. Now it’s too late.”
Emerance was panicked now. “What do you plan to do, shoot me here?”
Fanzini spoke up. “No, but you are going to take a ride with Mr. Michaelsson
here. And shortly thereafter, you’ll end up floating in the Solaris River. I’m afraid
it’s over for you, my dear.”
Just then, the door burst open, and Detective Wickersham came through the
door with her service weapon drawn and pointed at Paul. “Drop it, Michaelsson.
Don’t tempt me.”
For a moment Paul considered his options, but after a tense few seconds, he
dropped the gun.
“Paul Michaelsson, you are under arrest for the murder of Kate McGee. And
Enrico Fanzini, you are under arrest on the charge of conspiracy to commit murder,
as well as a host of gaming violations.”
Fanzini scoffed. “You’ll never make it stick.”
At that moment, several uniformed officers from the Black Hills PD walked
in, cuffing both Michaelsson and Fanzini.
“Maybe, maybe not. But either way, she’s walking out of here safe and sound.
We’ve got everything on tape. A jury should eat that stuff up. You’re going down,
Fanzini, this is over.”
Emerance walked over to Nina.
“You did great. Just like I said you would. Now it’s time to get you home.”
Emerance was riding the high of adrenaline just then, and looked at Nina,
confident and powerful. Now was as good a time as any.
“Tell me something, Detective. Would you like to grab a coffee?”
“I would love to, Miss Kaine.”
Be Gay page art
 HEAR OUR VOICE
JORDAN VERSUS
@versusjordan.bsky.social

QUXIN COMMUNITY HOUSING

NEW CENTURIA
CHENNAI IV
CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION
29 NOVEMBER 3148

Shan Wilcott sat in his apartment kitchen drinking oversteeped oolong tea and
reading a flimsy, low-contrast, beige newspaper with the words “PATRIOTIC
SPOKESMAN” printed across the front in bold green letters. He peered through
square reading glasses that accentuated the thin avian quality of his face, the bags
under his eyes and the laugh lines that had gotten a touch too deep for someone just
past fifty. He lowered the teacup to bite into a slice of toast generously portioned
with strawberry jam, and read the second paragraph of the headlining article.
“The arms of the bronze statue of Sun Tzu-Liao located in Baihua Park were
found missing last night. Police have not identified the culprits but believe the act
was connected to a string of vandalisms associated with the Disharmonist
movement, and vow justice for the desecration of the national symbol, with
damages estimated close to 40,000 yuan.”
Half-distracted as he read, the toast waiting patiently, a glob of jam lept at the
opportunity to find a new home in the middle of his crisp white shirt.
Shan cursed and went to the sink, unbuttoning the shirt without removing it
completely and stretching it under a cold tap, struggling to choose a free hand for
the dishrag.
Ren, Shan’s second and youngest son, made a drumroll of his footsteps down
the stairs.
“Miss your mouth, dad?”
“Better my shirt than your bottomless stomach!” Shan called back, heavy with
sarcasm.
Ren made a coy grin; strawberry jam was not common in Chennai IV’s
households. It showed up with a handful of other imported goods at a small
convenience store three buildings over, but in the Wilcott household wars were
fought over jam.
“Shouldn’t you be at school already?” Shan called over the sink.
“Afternoon class today.”
A grunt of affirmation.
“And you?” Ren said, pulling a pair of worn shoes on without bothering to
undo the laces.
“Working from home, then flying out to Victra tomorrow. You will be okay
for a couple of days on your own, yes?”
“Sure, no worries.”
“And you will call me if you are in trouble?”
Ren rolled his eyes. “Trouble? ‘course not. Thought I might invite some
bands, maybe get a keg, girls, drugs, trampolines on the roof–”
“Yeah okay smart guy” Shan said, proffering an open seat at the breakfast
table. Ren settled for coffee and started on his own toast. “You know… the diem’s
address is today,” Shan said, his shirt wet but unmarred. He returned to his
newspaper. “You should watch that. Important to pay attention to how the state
handles things in times like this. You might learn something.”
“Think it’ll be worthwhile? Seems like all we get is a ‘hang in there’ and a lot
of nothing.” Ren loaded the toaster with two slices of seedy brown bread and
turned the dial to burn it just a little.
“Hanging in there is exactly the point,” Shan said with an air of wisdom.
“Hard times happen. Happened even when they built this city in the thirty-sixties.
Not even Sun-Tzu Liao works miracles, we only get out what we put in.”
“Some people put in more and get out less,” Ren said, a little quieter.
“Pheh!” Shan exclaimed. He grinned and spoke in the playful, self-assured
way people only do when they want to make a point and don’t want to hear an
argument. “You don’t need to be worrying about that, okay? That’s not your
business. Your one job is to complete your apprenticeship and get a job with a
caste. Why you chose to learn about fixing ’Mechs I don’t know, but you have to
commit to it now.”
“I like ’Mechs.”
“Hah! And I like jazz guitar! But there is no money in that, even with the
artisan caste. You’re smart. You could have been intelligentsia, maybe a doctor or
something.”
“Xia likes ’Mechs too, there’s more to it than the money.”
Shan’s mouth softened, and he readjusted his glasses.
“I know. I am proud of him, and I am proud of you too, Ren. You both do
what you love and I’m glad you found something decent. If you had told me you
wanted to play jazz guitar, hah!”–Shan had a habit of making lively single-syllable
noises during his speeches–“I do wish it didn’t take him so far away, though.”
“Me too,” Ren said, spreading the jam. His brother had joined the CCAF
Home Guard. It kept him in the Sian commonality, but recruits were rarely
stationed on the same planet they joined from, instead basing in economic centers
and strategically placed worlds. Chennai IV had been anything but for most of its
existence.
Shan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I just want what is best for you boys. I want you to have as many if not
greater opportunities than I had, and that only happens if you keep your nose clean
and work hard.”
He set down his newspaper.
“Don’t get caught up in the riff-raff. New Centuria was not built on handouts,
and it will not survive on them. Everyone has their chance, not everyone takes it.”
The rest of breakfast was spent in silence. Ren was quiet. He had become a
master of external passivity in the years since his mother had left. Inside, a heated
argument was raging between him, his father and the myriad faceless authority
figures whom his father agreed with. Directorship. Diem. Nobility. Chancellor.
Words were being exchanged that would never be spoken. A sense of confidence in
himself and his ideas was being imagined that fizzled as soon as he looked up from
his toast. A feeling of bitterness stewed, bitterness that the “riff-raff” whose lives
were just as complicated as his were so easily dismissed. Bitterness that it was just
“good enough” for him to be a citizen, when some people inevitably wouldn’t.
Ren caught himself sinking a little too far into his thoughts. He set his plate
and mug in the automatic dishwasher and made for the door.
“Ah-ah! Where are you going then?” Shan raised his eyebrows.
“Meeting Julia and Amad for lunch first.”
Shan’s playful grin made Ren want to go back to politics.
“That Julia is quite pretty, yes?”
“Oh god…”
“You’re eighteen, Ren, surely–”
“Dad come on, I’m too busy with school.”
Shan chuckled and waved his dismissal, “Okay okay, just be careful. It’s
getting bad out there. People are being crazy.”
“I’ll be careful, Dad. See you later.”
 Now facing the balcony, Ren let out a tense sigh. He ran his fingers through
his dreadlocks and exhaled through his nostrils like a heatsink for his frustrations.
There was no arguing with his father, he had learned that a long time ago. It was
far easier to just nod and avoid providing too much of an opinion. Small conflicts
put him on edge. Lying to his father, and remembering the lies, wore on him far
worse. Lying about his romantic relationship with Julia and Amad, which had been
going on for over a year, and about where he was going today.
He checked that his jacket was zipped before he made his way towards the
stairwell.

You brought water right?” Julia rocked back and forth on a black iron chair, at the
window of a small cafe advertising bubble tea in glossy window posters. She
avoided a shallow puddle of rainwater on the round table stationed between Ren
and herself. Julia had an iced latte. Ren was on his fourth.
“Yeah, a dozen bottles.”
“Leave any room in your pack?”
“For what, souvenirs?”
“Sure!” Julia leaned forward, showing a white straight grin under maroon
lipstick. “I want ten dog tags from you by the end of the day, soldier.”
“Woof! That’s a little dark.”
“Well excuse me for trying to fire you up!” She blew a strand of hair out of
her face and did something silly with her eyebrows.
Julia McEverty was a month younger than Ren, a foot shorter, and several
magnitudes prettier. She had most recently dyed her hair a shade of purple that
looked better on her pale skin than the chartreuse green from last month, and a pair
of gold piercings was nestled in the dimples she made when she smiled, which she
did often. That languid smile, paired with her blue, heavy-lidded eyes, made her
look smug in a way Ren secretly loved.
She was dressed in the same mint green work jacket as Ren, which was part
of their technical apprenticeship uniform, though she wore it better. He knew she
was wearing the same shirt he was as well, hidden behind the zipper. For all that
their outfits matched, Ren did not find himself as remarkable to look at. He had his
father’s dark complexion and kinky hair, and his mother’s hazel, almond-shaped
eyes. He was a little heavy in the middle–thank you strawberry jam–and while that
bothered him, it did not seem to bother Julia or…
A heavy object thudded onto the table, the small amount of brownish
rainwater on its surface splashed both Ren and Julia
“Look alive, rebels.” Amad, Ren and Julia’s boyfriend, began unzipping his
own pack on top of the table. “I brought the good stuff.”
“A present? For me? You shouldn’t have.” Ren said, wiping a droplet from his
nose.
“Nope, a trade, hand me a water bottle.”
Amad was two years older than Ren or Julia, a couple inches taller than Ren,
and in Ren’s opinion, remarkably gorgeous. His short and curly black hair joined a
well-groomed full beard and mustache that gave him the look of a classical
philosopher who made LoFi on the side. His eyes were sharp black, and his skin
was caramel and free from blemishes. Looking and speaking to Amad gave you the
sense he was important, like a sheng noble’s son or the next Solaris VII champion.
In reality, he was in the same ’Mech tech program as Ren and Julia, albeit near his
graduation. Ren handed him a bottle and in return received a small brown cloth
parcel. Opening the drawstrings, he found the barrel of a Ceres Arms Type-115
semi-automatic pistol. He quickly drew the strings closed again.
“Woof, good stuff indeed,” Ren said with some hesitation.
“This part of the plan now?” Julia said.
 “It’s just for your protection. Not just that either, check the bottom, there’s a
gas mask.” Amad sat in a third chair, elbows on his knees.
“So, let’s go over this one more time.” Amad waited for Ren and Julia to set
down their drinks and pay attention before he continued.
New Centuria was the administrative center of Chennai IV, which had seen an
economic downturn since the HPG blackout 16 years ago that cut fast,
long-distance communications for the entire Inner Sphere. Far from anything else
in Sian Commonality, Chennai IV had simply been forgotten, much as it had been
when the system was abandoned during the 3rd Succession War; until it was
resettled during the reign of Sun-Tzu Liao.
Despite no loss in manufacturing capability, the lack of HPG communication
represented a logistics problem that made doing business with systems as far out as
Chennai just a little too unreliable. Recovery was hampered by the blackout as
well, and as far as Ren and many of the Capellan working castes were concerned,
the Directorship appeared singularly concerned with securing the interests of the
Duchy, and waiting out a period of austerity until the rest of Sian commonality
came to their rescue. For a Capellan society, one which should in theory be able to
rapidly reallocate production, this was a bitter pill to swallow.
Into this fertile soil of discontent, an old seed grew. The Disharmonism
movement arose from rekindled interests in the writings of Liu Huang Kamkin, a
radical Capellan thinker from the early thirtieth century whose essays made their
way through Capella’s underground media channels, primarily niche analog and
offline formats.
Kamkin wrote of the injustice of the position of servitors, who she saw as an
exploited workforce vital to Capella’s industry, yet conveniently denied the ability
to organize and negotiate in the manner of a proper Capellan caste. She also wrote
of the gross hypocrisy of the nobility, who’s existence she argued was incompatible
with Capellan ideals, and perverted the self-governing blueprint of the caste
system. Kamkin’s essay Our Great Disharmony had become the namesake of an
underground political movement in Chennai over a century later.
Amad, who had first explained Disharmonism to Ren not long after they met,
was also the trio’s contact into a wider network planning to send a message to their
powers at be. They were not to be ignored any longer. Sitting across from his
confidants, Amad explained how they would hi-jack a planet-wide broadcast.
“But before I can do that, I need two people I can trust on the ground at the
diversion.”
“There’s a diversion now?” Julia interrupted.
“I didn’t find out until last night, but I understand the thinking. And I would
be happier about it if I had two people I can trust out there.”
Julia and Ren were equally loud in their disappointed expressions.
“Bro,” Julia spoke up first, “that’s bogus.”
“Yeah,” added Ren, “we want to do this together.”
“Come on guys,” Amad sat back. “It’s going to be like… super dangerous at
the main event.”
“Oh but it’s okay for you to go?” Julia said.
“Yes. Because at least forty percent of it was my idea, and because this isn’t
my first rodeo.”
“What is a rodeo?” Ren asked.
“I think it’s like that time he got Willis to spray paint that mural on Preekness
drive, you know, the one of the St. Ives Second Lancers but Diem Fei was in
between the horses—.”
“Shut up. Look…” Amad leaned forward again and steepled his fingers. “I
don’t know what’s going to happen today. I know no matter how controlled our
side is, the other side will come at us with their worst. Gas, batons, bullets, and by
the end? Arrests and executions. Part of controlling this is splitting the cops
attention so my people can get the job done with fewer of any of those. You’re
going to have time to smash the hell out of some buildings and bolt back home. I
can take care of myself but… I want, I need, you two to take care of each other and
make it out today. Okay?”
Ren and Julia looked at each other and back to Amad, at once defeated and
won over. They put their hands on top of his.
“Okay. We trust you,” Ren said. “We will make it out today. You have to
promise to do the same thing.”
Amad grinned. “It’s a deal. Oh, and Ren? I see those coffee cups and I know
how you get. No extra flashy stuff.”
Ren balked. “When am I ever flashy?”
Julia interjected. “That time you tried to see how many Harmon Light small
lasers it would take to make a heat sink incandesce?”
“Actually…” Amad said, straightening out of his chair… “One of you could
have told me the seats were wet before I sat down.”
The three of them laughed away the afternoon. They were going to need it.

CHENNAI PEOPLE’S BANK

NEW CENTURIA
CHENNAI IV
CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION
29 NOVEMBER 3148

Ren awoke with a sputter, coughing through smoke and lukewarm water being
poured over him. Powdered concrete sparkled in his vision like fireflies on the
hazy red heat waves. A figure resolved, leaning over him. Ocean seashell noises
gave way to the crackle of burning plastic and melting car paint, and a voice asking
him how many fingers he could see.
“Two,” he sputtered, wiping a string of drool, sweat, and tears from his chin.
“Okay, I don’t see any bones sticking out. How do you feel?”
“Like I fell out of a moving bus.” An apt description given that is exactly
what had happened. He patted himself down, a sharp sting on his right arm and
side where the pavement had taken some skin. His green work jacket had lost
more.
“Looks like your bag took the brunt, six of the water bottles burst. You must
have hit your head though. Can you walk?”
Ren looked up at Julia, her expression one more of impatience than concern,
underlit by the burning city. He took the proffered hand and stood up, sore but
intact, noting where a bus was sticking out like a big green tongue from the bank’s
front entrance. Ren had anticipated riding on the arms of the crowd for actually
pulling off a wicked stunt like that, save for the total absence of the crowd he
remembered being there a moment ago, whenever a moment ago actually was. A
handful of the remaining protesters were looking for an unbroken window to bring
into compliance with the rest of the boulevard. The crowd had apparently moved in
the time he’d been napping on the curb.
The scene of the city itself was bleak. New Centuria had been constructed
quickly and efficiently, brutalist rectangular ferrocrete buildings laid out in squares.
To make up for the looming gray atmosphere, cubical tree-boxes were sculpted
directly into most of the architecture at seemingly random intervals, each
containing a small tree tended to either by the nearest tenant or a servitor. The New
Centuria bonsai, as they were called, were a symbol of Chennai IV itself. Seeing as
many of them burning or smashed as he did made Ren shiver.
“Hey.” Julia shook his shoulder. “Chennai to Ren! Are you good? Time to go
home.”
Ren swatted her hand away. “Psh! You need to go home.”
“Seriously, you sat out cold for a while. I think you took out a newspaper
stand with, like, your body. I got the call from Amad ten minutes ago.”
Ren imagined the scene of several thousand workers crowded outside with
Amad at the Penjing building, Directorship headquarters. Most of them would be
servitor or commonality caste members, dotted with artisans and the more liberal
intelligentsia members; not that you would be able to tell from the dress code. Just
like at the courthouse, demonstrators showed solidarity with light blue T-shirts
marked with a stylized Capellan Confederation insignia in a harsh contrasting red,
except that the dao sword had been replaced with a combination wrench–an image
taken from Our Great Disharmony.
Still, as with any protest, some showed up to stand out. Mock CCAF uniforms
were donned in a motley of stickers and patches, some anarchistic, others just plain
silly. Some dressed in black, with shiny red holovisors that interfered with public
security cameras in place of masks; Ren and Julia had their own in the style of
sunglasses, courtesy of Amad’s supply bag. One man had dressed like Jesus Christ,
wearing a makeshift crown of green wire and carrying an eight foot tall plywood
cross mounted on a roller skate.
“Ren!”
“Yes, thank you Julia, I am good to go.”
“Let me walk you home. I don’t need you passing out on the street.”
“I only did that one time!” Ren mocked before he started following Julia
down the block.

Despite having climbed in and out of an UrbanMech dozens of times since taking
on his apprenticeship, being in the presence of one as it walked by was a whole
different thing. It was just a shame this ’Mech was out to make him and anyone
else wearing his shirt a crater.
Going off the green and lilac colors, it was the local militia. They knew they
would face resistance, but a ’Mech was a level of force he had not considered.
How did they have the time to respond this quickly? Worse, what was happening at
Directorship HQ?
“Think it saw us?” Julia whispered. Like him, curiosity seemed to have won
out in its battle over abject terror.
“Either it hasn’t seen us or doesn’t care,” Ren said, more a wish than a real
observation. “Check out the main gun.”
Julia slid next to him and stared at the reflection. “Mydron Excel eighty
millimeter LB-X. Very cool. Scary, but cool.”
“This isn’t configured for crowd control…”
“Maybe it’s just to make a point?”
A hiss from Julia’s backpack startled the both of them, Ren making a sound
that brought shame to his ancestors before covering his mouth. Julia giggled at him
while she pulled out a compact radio from the satchel Amad had given her.
“Hey guys, you there?”
“Hey! Where are you?” Ren said
“Penjing Building. You made it out yet?”
“Mister Flashy hit his head, I’m walking him home.”
“I’m all good!” Ren interjected. “Hi babe!”
“Hi babe. Where are you guys?”
“Uhh, Preekness Drive, heading towards Quxin community. Listen, Amad,
there’s an UrbanMech out here.”
“What?!” Amad rose a few decibels. “They were supposed to come west! Get
clear of that thing now! They—”
Those were the last clear words Ren heard before fire, noise, and motion took
hold.
At first Ren thought the UrbanMech had fired on them, but the fact that he,
Julia, and the van they were hiding behind had not been reduced to a crater made
that unlikely. Then he noticed the UrbanMech was staggered. Armor flaked from
the barrel-shaped colossus like incandescent petals.
Another rising pitch from the south and a flurry of bright blue shapes flew
towards the UrbanMech, one hitting the ’Mech and four others crashing into an
office building. The crackle of exploding reinforced concrete made Ren’s teeth
itch. He turned to Julia, who was staring in the direction the missiles had come
from.
A giant figure was approaching from the west road, a black blur against the
orange sky. It was bipedal, humanoid, and holding a weapon in its right hand. It
was coming fast. The UrbanMech was not waiting to receive another hit, and the
kaboom of its LB-X autocannon was enough to send Ren and Julia stumbling.
Ren grabbed Julia by the wrist and headed out from the van. He only hoped
that in the twenty or so feet to the next alley, neither ’Mech would notice or care. It
was a long run.

“Enemy contact made, heading east on Preekness Drive. One UM-R63. Let’s make
a good first impression shall we?”
“Another UrbanMech heading towards you from Lihua Boulevard,” called
out a woman’s voice from the radio. “Keep it brief, save the flash for when we
aren’t fighting in a god damn city, Captain.”
The man known only as Captain strafed right, the armor on his Firebee’s
shoulder making a plume of sparks against the surface of an office building and
reducing a pair of maple tree boxes to splinters. An LB-X shot grazed the armor on
his left side. His arm raised, he fired his plasma rifle, and a white hot disk of
superheated matter smashed into the UrbanMech’s center mass.
“Flash?” The Captain mused as he fired his multi-missile launcher again, this
time from his short-range ammo box. The UrbanMech’s center torso split open like
a frayed metal cabbage and coolant bled from heat pipe arrays. The ’Mech
collapsed to its knees.
“I resemble that remark, Mei.”
“Yes, you actually do,” scoffed the voice again.
“Okay, Amad, you there, brother?”
There was a pause before another voice came into the comms. “Still here,
Captain.” Although it sounded like he needed to shout to be heard.
Captain smirked and rested his hand on his chin. While Amad was piled in a
crowd, being lobbed at with gas cans and riot shields, he had a cushioned seat.
Who had the harder job?
“We’re doing good,” the Captain said. “I have ’Mechs coming to my position,
hopefully some of the armor near Penjing Building is headed towards either me or
Mei. What’s the situation?”
Another pause. Amad’s voice came through again, definitely shouting over
the noise. “Fei has gone to ground. We have the rooftops. Local forces are moving,
and it looks like they are more worried about you.”
“Get started on our overture.”
“I have two friendlies on Preekness.”
“I saw them, they ducked south towards Mei.”
“…I have to get them.”
The Captain raised an eyebrow at this. “…Ah, two friendlies.”
“Yes.”
“Good grief… Okay, Leave Penjing to Rodriguez.”
“Sir!” the feed cut with a crackle of static
“Hmph,” the Captain chuckled. “Wouldn’t have been any use arguing.” He
registered two more UrbanMechs coming from north and east. With the turn of a
dial, his Firebee’s stealth armor came online and he began to walk. “Time to take
out the trash cans.”

LENOX DISTRICT
NEW CENTURIA
CHENNAI IV
CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION
29 NOVEMBER 3148

“Give me a hand!” Julia said, her reach just shy of the wall Ren had climbed onto.
He grabbed her arm and hoisted her up, and both of them dropped to the ground on
the other side. “Phew! Okay… left here.”
They stayed low, walking east again. Occasionally they heard the thrum of
missiles and the din of lasers. Ren tried to ignore it. What had he been thinking?
They wanted to make a point, they wanted to show that working Capellans could
still bite back even when the system had muzzled them. As the pair of them
walked, they passed the occasional body strewn with so much dust he couldn’t
make out any features. It made him sick. He looked at Julia, and her expression
was unreadable, fixed forward, determined. Ren saw in her face the reasons she
was out here.
All three of them, Ren, Julia, and Amad, had become citizens. They had
proved their dedication to the state and secured secondary education. Julia’s
brother had not. He was still fifteen, still had a chance after remedial education, but
Julia and him both knew it was a long shot. Her brother was timid, socially
anxious, and had difficulty in situations of ceremony. It was easy for the system to
write these things off as laziness or apathy. For Julia this was not just political, it
was personal.
So why am I out here? Ren dreaded, wondering if any answer would be good
enough. His brother was a citizen light years away serving the CCAF. His father
was intelligentsia. He had lived well, better than many people he knew. While
others stressed about finding an assignment in a dead economy or whether their kid
would even have a choice, he’d been getting fat on strawberry jam and doing
exactly as he was told, until now. The image of his father burned in his mind. The
words coming unbidden, the rebukes, the demand to ignore what he saw and think
only of himself. He started to mutter.
“It’s not good enough if it’s just me… It’s not good enough, god damn it…”
Approaching an intersection, a Heavy Tracked APC turned the corner
opposite them. The tank’s machine guns swiveled to meet them. Ren, fighting
another inner battle, did not even notice. Julia threw herself and Ren onto the
ground of a recessed shop door as the bullets came. Glass from the door and
windows exploded around them with a deafening clatter. Both of them screamed.

Mei Ming’s Spider clipped the top of a building with its toes as she descended on
her jump jets. Damn if fighting in a city was not the worst kind of fighting, she
thought. No room, too much cover, various levels of elevation, and sometimes you
land feet-first on top of an APC you didn’t even see and have to suddenly keep
from losing your balance, as she had just then. A ’Mech’s gyro was an incredible
instrument, but having to physically feel your machine’s loss of balance made Mei
curse the damn thing.
 She had little time to curse before the Valkyrie she had jumped away from
came barreling straight through the building she had jumped over, taking her
Spider in the chest with a left hook and wrecking one of her lasers.
“You absolute freakin’ dickweasel!” she screamed as she brought her Mech’s
clasped hands up and bashed them against the side of the Valkyrie’s head. It was
enough to send the enemy ’Mech spinning, and its salvo of chest-mounted missiles
flying harmlessly into the sky. Mei fired her last working laser into the Valkyrie’s
back as it regained its balance, armor dripping off in thick chunks. Even as the
enemy ’Mech was ready to fire its own laser, Mei gave her opponent no space. A
brief pulse of her jump jets and she placed a hard kick into the Valkyrie’s chest, its
arm mounted laser just catching her Spider’s shoulder. The green and lilac bonsai
painted on the Valkyrie’s chest crumpled, and it fell on its back with a satisfying
groan of metal and myomer fibers giving up.
“Dickweasel, Mei?” a voice came over the comms.
“Having fun on my channel, Rodriguez?” Mei scoffed, still catching her
breath and waiting for the temperatures to come down in her machine.
“I would never miss an opportunity to hear this,” Rodriguez laughed.
“Don’t you have better things to do? I thought Amad left you at
headquarters.”
“HQ is secured. I can’t believe it, but I think we actually have the city. I
wouldn’t be surprised if Diem Fei is en-route to Victra now.”
Mei paused at this. They had actually done it, taken New Centuria like they
had wanted to. Doubtless tomorrow would be a harder fight, but to think it had
actually begun. Something in her fired up, and she forgot about the heat in her
cockpit.
“Well, don’t get sloppy. Keep our VIP safe. Captain and I will finish cleaning
this up.”
“Rrrroger! Oh, and try not to step on Amad’s friendlies.”
“Here’s hoping.”
 Mei flipped a dial on her Spider’s controls and her viewscreen shifted from
the dust-strewn scene outside into a vibrant infrared picture. There was too much
dust and smoke to see much on the ground. She set her throttle to a slow lumber,
walking back up the boulevard, turning a grim expression at the damages. Mei had
only been in urban combat on one other occasion during her time with the
Fourteenth Sian Home Guard, and beyond the tactical complexity of such a varied
environment, she hated feeling disconnected to those on the ground. Clad in her
metal giant, buildings and tunnels broke like sand castles under a child’s foot. For
anyone who might be in those places, the world had come to a sudden and violent
end.
A blue flash broke across Mei’s vision, light and sound exploding from the
decimated storefront thirty feet ahead of her. Warning klaxons signaled as she
registered a blip on her radar. Coming down from a stream of jump jets, another
enemy ’Mech landed with an earth-shaking thud across from her. A Vindicator,
wearing the green and lilac of the planetary guard, did not hesitate to follow up
with its lasers. Mei’s last remaining laser melted off of her chest along with most of
her remaining armor.
“Really!” she screamed, frustration and panic warring for attention as she
faced her prospects. Mei no longer had weapons, had suffered a fair amount of
attrition, and now had to face a ’Mech substantially larger than her own. A ’Mech
which looked so fresh, the Chennai IV militia must have been keeping it oiled and
polished in a glass case since the Second Succession War.
A voice broke over her comm. It was male, middle-aged, and surprisingly
professional.
“Enemy insurgent, shut down your ’Mech immediately or prepare to be fired
upon.”
Mei considered this, taking as long as she thought she could to calculate her
odds.
“How do I know you won’t just fire on me anyway?”
 “You do not. Shut down now or we can turn the possibility into a guarantee.”
The Vindicator leveled its PPC at Mei to back up the point.
“Is that supposed to scare me at this range?” Mei scoffed.
“The field inhibitor is off, and whether or not the gun survives I guarantee you
will not.”
Mei cursed under her breath and continued to hesitate, fingers stuck between
the throttle and the ignition. She still had her speed, and she had cooled down
enough to make another good jump. There was a chance her opponent wouldn’t
react quickly enough, reducing her guaranteed death to a mere more-than-likely.
“Last chance, dirtbag. Shut down your ’Mech now–”
The enemy was cut off by a miniature sun slamming into the Vindicator’s
shoulder and throwing it off balance. The sun burst into white fire, boiling armor
and causing all of the paint near the ’Mech’s right torso to bubble and combust.
Mei took her chance, darting forward to throw a left hook into the Vindicator’s
head while it was distracted. Maybe it was years of intuition as a bare-knuckle
boxer, or maybe her off-the-shelf targeting computer was secretly an ancient Star
League relic that turned any pilot into a mechanized wing chun master, but
regardless of the reason Mei took out the medium laser on her opponents head unit.
An eye for an eye. Honor restored, Mei’s satisfaction fell apart as the Vindicator
followed up with its own swing, crushing into her side and sending her spinning.
As she hit the ground, she felt a harsh snap in her head that shot down every nerve
in her body. The gyro which connected her own sense of balance to that of the
’Mech had given out, and the feedback sent her perception spinning. Dazed, weary,
and slowly making to undo the strap of her neurohelmet, she spoke to her dead
comms. “Captain… I call dibs on that one…”
Striding forward and taking its stealth suite offline, a Firebee painted half black
and half sky blue trained a scarlet gun on the surprised Vindicator. Captain fired his
plasma rifle again, and the white hot slug struck the Vindicator’s left leg. The
plasma rifle not only hit with enough force to break off armor, the slug would
liquify and burn at extremely high temperatures, compounding the ever-present
problem of ’Mech cooling. The Vindicator would not be able to jump without great
risk of overheating. A stream of long-range missiles came barreling towards
Captain’s Firebee, peppering his chest and arms.
“I know you are the last one out here,” Captain called out to his opponent
over the comms. “Even if you kill me, I’ll leave you weak enough for my men to
pry you out of that ’Mech.”
“Even if? You’re out of your weight class, punk!” the enemy called back.
The Vindicator fired its PPC without the field inhibitors, blowing a chunk out
of the Firebee’s right side. It was a daring play, and the PPC remained intact.
Captain regarded the indicators ticking his remaining armor down from yellow to
red, and he returned fire with his plasma rifle. The shot went wide and struck an
overturned sedan, spinning it for a hundred feet as it melted down like ice on the
hot pavement.
“I wouldn’t have done all of this unless I knew I could beat you, Sang-wei.”
The Vindicator’s pilot hesitated. “Wait… that voice!”
The Firebee unleashed the last of its short-range missile supply, blowing off
chunks of armor across the Vindicator’s arms and torso. The enemy combatant
shouted in frustration, firing its PPC again. The gamble did not pay off a second
time, not only did the shot go wide, but the PPC exploded and took the arm and
shoulder with it in a shower of sparks and slag. The Vindicator stumbled
backwards, melting myomer fibers of its plasma-burned leg sloughing onto the
pavement, the once venerable machine reduced to a giant broken marionette.
Captain imagined the heat in his opponent's cockpit must have been unbearable,
and he could hear the enemy panting through his words.
“But why? This city took care of you, dammit! I took care of you. The
Capellan Confederation—”
“It is insufficient,” Captain cut in, “for the Confederation to solely take care
of me, Sang-wei Decker. You cannot say the same for my comrades, for the
servitors of New Centuria, for the disharmony you have overlooked… That we
have all accepted for too long. I offer this because you are an honorable man, and
had the courtesy to do the same for my comrade. Shut down your ’Mech.”
“This is madness! This is hopeless, don’t you understand? The Confederation
is bigger than you, bigger than all of us. What hope do you have when the Home
Guard learns of this? They have to be looking for you now!”
Captain lowered his weapons and spoke in a softer, familiar tone.
“Sang-wei… Do you remember what you once taught me? The lesson of why
the Confederation has survived all these centuries, despite the Davions, despite the
Free Worlds League, even despite our own capricious rulers, the Capellan people
have always been our strength. Our unity, our dedication to each-other, is stronger
than all the powers of the Inner Sphere. That is my strength too. It is the strength of
New Centuria and Chennai IV. Let the whole galaxy try to stop us, Sang-wei, we
will not give up on eachother.” Captain took a deep breath as the words hung
between them. “Please… shut down your ’Mech.”
The Vindicator made no motion for several minutes as both ’Mechs stood
across from each other. Captain waited, swallowing his impatience. He did not
want to think that his first teacher, the man who had given him the notion that he
might become a MechWarrior himself, would draw this into a hopelessly fatal
clash of beliefs. Captain was relieved then when the Vindicator went limp, systems
going offline, and the hatch opened. A middle-aged man with copper skin and deep
forehead wrinkles climbed out, pulling a neurohelmet away from his bald and
sweating pate. His eyes showed fear, heartache, and trepidation. Captain
understood that look well. It was the eyes all people of New Centuria would carry
with them into their uncertain future.

PENJING BUILDING
NEW CENTURIA
CHENNAI IV
CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION
29 NOVEMBER 3148

Ren and Julia had been pulled from underneath a bed of ferrocrete dust and broken
glass that had buried them like root vegetables. Amad stayed with them in the back
of the tactical he had arrived in, almost unrecognizable to Ren in his combat
fatigues, a Ceres Arms Striker Carbine strapped over his shoulder. He gave them
water and helped tend to cuts and scrapes. By some miracle, neither of them had
ended the day missing so much as a finger, though Julia remained silent for the ride
and Ren could not blame her. Physically and mentally drained, clothes ruined and
in desperate need of a bath, he began to ask the questions that could not wait.
“It was never just going to be a protest, huh.”
“No,” Amad replied, and continued as his face worked in shame to collect his
thoughts. “We… the People’s Voice Army were supposed to show up in the middle
of the address. Things got complicated, I think they figured out about the ’Mechs
we snuck on-world and the timetables shifted. I don’t really know, we haven’t
debriefed—”
“Amad!” Ren snapped. “Our city looks like a warzone—it is a warzone, and
you’re talking like you’re just okay with that!”
Amad looked hurt, but Ren was not in the right frame of mind to care.
“What’s going to happen to us, Amad?”
“Well…” Amad started to speak but paused as the vehicle came to slow at the
back of the Penjing building. A crowd was packed so tightly on the courtyard and
into the streets going in every direction that it appeared as a sea of bodies. Many of
these were Disharmonists and other protestors, but just as many appeared to be
workers and city residents who had come to see if they still had lives to go back to
tomorrow morning. A podium where the diem would have given her address stood
at the center of a raised platform with a bronze Capellan Confederation symbol. A
black and sky-blue banner was laid across it with the red Disharmonist triangle in
the center. Men in gear much like Amad’s, wearing patches and shoulder plates
hastily painted with this same red, black, and blue flag, gathered at the front. A
man with black skin wearing a cooling vest and a black and red neurohelmet that
obscured his features stepped up to the podium. He was flanked by a woman in her
twenties also wearing a cooling vest, with fresh cuts on her face and arms.
“Citizens, please lend us your ears. I am the Captain of the People’s Voice
Army, who today removed Chennai IV’s military presence from New Centuria. We
are not mercenaries or pirates. We have not come to take anything from you. We
have come because we have heard your cries for injustice and we have shared in
them!”
The crowd remained mostly silent at this, perhaps stunned to see such a public
display of political defiance in Confederation space go unsilenced, or perhaps still
taking the masked man’s measure.
“We have come here today because like you, our souls cry out for the justice
the Capellan Confederation has denied you these long sixteen years, and the
centuries even before that. How can we continue to give our lives to a state, to
heedless nobles who demand our filial piety, and grant us hunger and uncertainty in
return?”
Small cheers of ascent erupted in the crowd from Disharmonist sympathizers.
To have their feelings acknowledged in such a public setting was sublimey
unfamiliar, and Ren felt a bubble of excitement rise in his stomach.
“We cannot! We shall not continue to throw away our labor and our lives for
the noble class! They tell us that the State provides. I say to you, New Centuria,
that you are the state! We can provide for ourselves!”
Another cheer arose, louder this time, and Ren hesitantly felt himself join in.
He looked to Julia, who watched the podium with a quivering smile and tears in
her eyes. She might have entered a warzone, but her brother would not become a
servitor.
Ren pulled the jacket off of his shoulders and let it fall, displaying the
undisguised, dirt and blood-smeared blue shirt of the revolution he now found
himself in, and sat with Amad and Julia listening to the shape the new world would
begin to take.
How am I going to explain this to dad?
 PIRATE BURIAL
MILLA KOPONEN
@detocroix

HALEWAY CONTINENTAL JUNGLE

CRAWFORD'S DELIGHT
INDEPENDENT WORLD
13 JUNE 3149

Lily swung out of her powered down Koto’s cockpit hatch into the cold and
dripping rain, a brown glass bottle in her pale hand. The hard ferrosteel ladder
leading to the ground was crooked from old battle damage and precariously
slippery when even only slightly wet. Her Shimmer crackled in the evening sun as
the hot internals slowly cooled down from ‘thoroughly charred’ into ‘Oh hells, I
am still burning’-levels of heat.
She swiped her sweat-drenched, short, graying hair back, staring into the
distance where a mangled Locust laid propped between the primordial trees of
Crawford’s Delight—a planet she loved to hate.
Why in the hells did you have to get shot now, Marcil?—She thought angrily,
more angry about herself than Marcil, but often unfairly projecting her anger onto
her lover and lancemate—This was supposed to be a simple convoy loot-and-run
for the pirate gang, Skulldagger Estates; me and her, shooting some militia,
stealing some swag, and fucking off before anyone else shows up for the fires.
Romantic!
Lily cursed as she three-limb-climbed down the ladder, holding onto the bottle
like a priest to a holy relic of old. ‘Braintaser’, as her pirate gang liked to call the
booze, was formally called ‘Red Skull 39 Inches’. Generally, a simple mix between
extra strong moonshine and whatever herbs her gang could find from whatever
continent they were on.
She took a swig out of the bottle, hanging onto the final rung of the ladder,
before dropping down to the rain coated grass below. The golden liquid burned her
stomach as it went down, pooling into her empty gut. Lily grimaced slightly and
took a swaying step forward, towards a burning ’Mech wreckage not far off from
her stopping point, a smaller Locust—compared to her salvaged Koto at the very
least—that was propped between ancient tall trees.
Hells. She gasped as she fell down to her knees, grasping her stomach under
the cooling vest with her free hand. Braintaser wasn’t quite the same to an empty
stomach, you really needed a strong meal before and after—Preferably very
quickly too—and even then it was often an unwelcome guest.
She retched, once, twice, like a cat with a magnum opus of hairballs, and the
moonshine, along with all the badly mixed herbs, came back up, scattering over her
vest and the grass she was kneeling on.
“Gods be fucking damned,” Lily growled, ripping grass from a cleaner spot
and swiping her mouth with it. She pushed back to her feet, combining her graceful
stumble with a half arc swing of the bottle bottom to the skies and more raw fuel
down her throat.
“You better not be dead-dead, Marcil, or I will kill you myself,” she
mumbled, dragging her feet towards the wrecked Locust ahead of her. Marcil’s
ride, destroyed by a heavy rifle shell to the side of the cockpit.
The engine of Lily’s Koto roared as she sprinted through the jungle. Thick
branches of the ancient tall trees slapping and splintering on her cockpit like mere
bugs to a windscreen. Large leaves of primordial trees desperately clung to the
cameras, causing blurry green and purple spots to appear around her viewscreen.
Lily held onto the control stick, her knuckles white, and pushed the throttle
forward ever so slightly.
“Ten klicks from the target convoy, Marcil,” she spoke into comms and
quickly glanced at the back view of her 360 degrees compressed viewscreen. A
Locust, painted light pink and deep orange like hers, ran right behind her, sporting
a pair of mismatched long-range missile pods on the sides.
“Ready for action!” Marcil chirped cheerfully. “I have a quarter ton of lerms
primed and ready. Just need that lock-on, Twee!”
Twee. Lily grimaced slightly. Marcil always had to give weird nicknames to
everyone. She gave their DropShip captain the nickname of ‘Peggy’ thanks to his
stiff leg, the Skulldagger Estates pirate countess was named ‘Peaches’ because of
an ever-present slight redness on her cheeks, and the Estates’ quartermaster was
called ‘Crates’ because she smashed her toe under a heavy autocannon ammo
crate.
Lily had known Marcil for a few decades now as they were both University of
Canopus dropouts; she used to focus on Ancient Terran Literary and Poetry, while
Marcil’s degree would have been in microbiology. Lily still held the University in
contempt: surely defending Marcil from a belittling professor—by smashing his
head to a viral cultivation project grading table a few dozen times—was not proper
grounds for expulsion from the University. She didn’t even get to finish the lecture
before the University guards apprehended her.
 “I thought we just fixed your targeting computer, Marcil? And why Twee?”
she finally asked.
“Because you’re too fucking cute, Lily. Get a badass name if you want a
badass nickname”—A short pause in the comms—“Besides, we bang, I can call
you Twee.”
“Fiiine. And the targeting computer?” Lily sighed dramatically, ensuring
every little noise of it carried over the waves, taking a small side step at maximum
speed to evade a bigger trunk in the path.
After the last time, you can call me whatever you want, but I’m still going to
complain. Lily grinned to herself.
“Galleon One fixed the right arm lerm targeter, but the right and left arms
can’t communicate together because they’re from different ’Mechs”—Marcil’s
voice changed snarkier—“and I don’t have any ammo in the right side lerms
because the ammo feed malfunctioned in that last quickie with the militia patrol.
Probably a clog again, not the first time lerm gets jammed in the feed.”
Marcil’s voice was always carefree, a hint of excitement dashed with a little
bit of snark. Occasionally the levels of snark rose vastly higher. Lily could very
well imagine the slight grin ever-present on Marcil’s face as she spoke.
“We need new parts for your radioactive chicken and supplies for the
Estates,” Lily finally said.
“The convoy should deliver, Twee.”
“Hells yes it should.”
Her Koto broke through the thick jungle, into a large opening kilometers wide
in all directions. Far into the distance, she saw a lone and slightly overgrown
ferrocrete road with the target; a convoy of two big and juicy hover trucks only
defended by a duo of light combat vehicles; a 35-ton Hunter Light Support Tank
and a 20-ton Skulker.
Ours.
Lily turned her Koto to run along the convoy two kilometers to her right. She
switched her speakers on and slid the volume slider to max.
“Hear me, convoy of Haleway Trade Militia!”—Lily kept a dramatic pause,
grinning to herself as she flipped through her mental dictionary—“You trespass on
the lands of Skulldagger Estates and mulct for such a delict is equal to contents of
those two hover trucks. Power down and live. Fight—”
Right on mark, Marcil unleashed five long range missiles from her launchers.
The missiles streaked across the meadow, leaving behind dark trails in the sky.
“—and you will die.”
Lily switched off the speakers and picked up the pace, pushing her Koto’s
extra light two-hundred to the limits.
The missiles struck around the convoy, just far away enough to not damage
anything, but close enough to give everyone a scare.

“Marcil! You stupid asshole, where the hells are you?” Lily yelled as she stumbled
over deep grooves in the dirt, leading towards the sad sight of a Locust lodged
between the massive tree trunks.
Crawford’s Delight was ever wet, but it was even worse at this time of year
with the approaching monsoon. First it was just a few drops, and now already a
dripping rain, picking up at a rapid pace, about to become a true rage of nature.
The constantly changing extreme weather pissed Lily off no end. Crawford’s
Delight could even be a nice place, if it kept the same weather for a week. Even the
monsoon would pass soon, leaving everything a swamp, until it all would dry up
into a deadland.
Lily cursed as she kept on slipping in dirt that was quickly turning into a short
and boring mudslide, finally reaching the Locust itself. She stopped to stare at the
cockpit far above her, crumpled from one side like an overripe avocado, and
blooming like a flower in the other direction.
Don’t you fucking dare being dead.
She took a deep swig out of the good old Braintaser, gulp after gulp.
“Marcil, you fucking idiot! You better not be actually dead. Get down from
there,” she yelled loudly and threw her bottle towards the cockpit, arcing too far to
one side and missing the massive cockpit looming above. The bottle fell unharmed
on the wet grass near her, next to a red lump on the ground some ways off from the
massive toes of the Locust.
“Get down from there! We lost the damn conv—” She paused as her gaze was
drawn to the muddled lump on the ground. A bloodied corpse. Torn asunder in
gore. Abandoned and alone in the rain.
Lily froze.

Shimmer slid across the purple and green field, legs planted to the ground, leaving
behind deep grooves in the long grass and soft ground below, torso twisted right to
maximum limits of rotation. The targeting computer chimed as the reticule turned
golden and she squeezed the firing stud down.
Her lasers raked across the lightly armored side of the Skulker. One of the rear
tires tore apart as the vehicle sped by her at high speed.
Lily’s viewscreen flickered as electromagnetic interference coursed through
her systems. A curse, she often thought, a curse she got when they swiped her Koto
from the hands of a drunken ex-gladiator-turned-mercenary they had fawned up.
She swooped around, running after the Skulker.
The techs of Galleon One—a Seeker-class DropShip, the moving
headquarters and one of the two DropShips making up the whole of Skulldagger
Estates—had gone through Shimmer time and time again and never found a reason
for it, but every single time she fired her weapons, the Koto went into an
interference loop, causing systems to reset randomly until it settled back down to a
minuscule nagging noise ever present in the background.
Marcil’s Locust ran in the distance, her missiles striking and harassing the
Hunter sticking around with their booty: the duo of big chunky hover trucks. This
was always their strategy: stay on the move, harass bigger enemies, and kill the
weak ones first to make the big ones feel helpless and alone.
On the side of her viewscreen, she saw the Hunter’s heavy rifle fire at Marcil
and miss, the arcing shell flying off into the horizon, shattering a hapless tree on
the edge of the clearing.
Lily fired her medium lasers at the rear of the Skulker trying to speed away,
cutting deep grooves into the armor.
Her Koto was faster than the Skulker and she was quickly building up speed
to catch up with it again. The driver of the Skulker likely realized this, as they
suddenly turned ninety degrees, sliding on grass as its wheels failed to get enough
grip to beat the momentum.
The vehicle still slowed down quickly enough that Lily didn’t have time to
stop or evade it. With sheer luck of the dice, Shimmer’s foot landed on top of the
Skulker mid-step instead of hitting it on the side to trip her over, and the Koto
kicked off from the top of the Skulker, taking a short flight before landing back on
the ground with a clunk and flashing warning messages.
She quickly flipped her Koto’s arms around to shoot backwards at the
Skulker, but there wasn’t anything left that needed shooting. The Skulker had been
stopped dead and pinned to the ground like roadkill, wheels to the side, when the
vehicle crumbled under the weight of the Koto.
“Skulker is sunk, coming for the Hunter now,” she said over the comms and
flipped Shimmer’s arms back forward and steered the Koto in a gentle arc back
towards the hover trucks, and the 35-ton Hunter still engaged with Marcil’s Locust.
“Hurry! I’ve already been hit once!” She heard Marcil’s panicked voice yell
back at her over the comms. “My babe’s all messed up, Twee!”
Lily spotted Marcil running near the treeline on the other side of the road, five
hundred meters off, her Locust smoking from a recent hit. A quick flip between the
old lance data link showed the ’Mech’s left arm and torso were torn apart. The
center torso was not much better off.
“I’m coming!” She yelled, pushing the throttle to maximum again, sending
clumps of grass flying as the Koto accelerated back to full speed.
Should not have gone after the Skulker. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
“I love you, Twe—!”
“Shut up, I’m coming!” Lily yelled over Marcil and fired her torso mounted
X-pulse laser at the Hunter. The bright light of the laser flickered in quick
succession and raked over the armor of the Hunter.
The hellish light show of her cockpit flared up again, images on monitors
rolling and displaying cross faded images of old and present data, lights of
switches flashing rapidly as the interference messed up her systems again.
Through the bright colored and quickly rolling gabor noise on her viewscreen,
she saw the Hunter fire again. The shell hit dead on Marcil’s cockpit. She saw how
the trail of the shell went through the armor, throwing bits and pieces of the Locust
out from the other side.
The ’Mech rolled around twice, long thin legs flailing in the air, tumbling into
the woods and smacking between two large trees, coming to an abrupt stop in a
matter of mere seconds.
“Marcil!” She yelled into the comms. “Marcil, reply!”
No reply.
Realization dawned on her, less an ‘ahah!’ and much more akin to a tidal
wave of horror that she’d never again see her Marcil nor feel her touch.
You fucking abandoned her to play with a stupid Skulker.
 Fucking moron.
“You fuckers!” Lily screamed into the speakers from the bottom of her lungs
as she willed her Koto towards the Hunter, head on. “You fucking scum!” She
squeezed the throttle stick so hard her fingers were cramping and her joints
cracking. The shock of seeing Marcil’s Locust take a direct hit into the cockpit
burned away to undistilled rage.
The Hunter’s turret swiveled towards the Shimmer, the nose of the stubby
heavy rifle leaving behind a trail of smoke. Fire dawned from the mouth of the
heavy rifle and a massive shell shocked Lily’s Koto, a mere glancing hit, tearing
away armor, but not enough to penetrate.
Lily pulled the firing pin down, activating her whole arsenal. Lasers slagged
and raked the armor of the Hunter, sparks flew off, and molten ferro splattered to
the ground, leaving burning craters wherever it fell. Her viewscreen started
flickering, data monitors rolled with errors, turning on and off, flicking between
view modes, as the electromagnetic interference coursed through her ’Mech again.
Interference worse than before, but she didn’t care.
She was burning from the heat, but she wouldn’t care.
The Hunter started backing away, tracks digging into the road below,
throwing ferrocrete in the air, crew clearly panicking. The hull machine gun spat
bullet after bullet, clattering against the frame of the Shimmer, tearing into armor
and external sensors.
Dead cells appeared on her viewscreen, but she couldn’t care.
“Don’t you fucking try to escape now!” She screamed, as she willed her
’Mech off the ground—into a raptor’s leap—bringing both of her Koto’s feet
forward and crushing the front of the Hunter under the whole twenty-five tons of
her ’Mech. The rear of the Hunter lifted into air as the front of the combat vehicle
budged under the weight of the impact.
The leg of the ’Mech rose in the air, stomping down, and again, and again.
One massive toe of the ’Mech’s feet bent and detached as Lily exposed her ’Mech
to torture it, a use it certainly was not intended for. The actuators groaned and
warning systems blared as the internal damage to the leg grew, but she would not
stop.
The crew of the combat vehicle, whoever were still alive, scrambled to escape
through hatches as the crazed MechWarrior turned the Hunter into a compressed
sheet of salvage. Finally, sheer pressure caused the ammo boxes of the Hunter to
explode, tearing the vehicle apart in an instant. The explosion shocked Lily’s Koto,
causing her to cry out in pain from the feedback as the leg tore apart, down to its
bare endo-steel skeleton.
She stumbled backwards, limping on a devastated leg, a mere endo-steel bone
and not much else.
Several corpses lay around the burning wreck of the Hunter, with three of the
tanker crew running away from the site and towards the hover trucks trying to steer
off the road to clear the blockage.
Three people turned into charred smear marks as her smaller lasers cut
through their hapless bodies.
“Warning! Heat levels critical,” the Shimmer kept on blaring as Lily kept on
ignoring it.
She growled into the speakers, howling with rage as she aimed her lasers at
the closest hover truck.
Interference from firing her weapons made assisted aiming impossible, but
she didn’t need a targeting computer for an almost stationary target. The large
X-pulse laser flashed, cutting through the transport with ease. A series of
explosions tore through the hover truck, scattering its burning guts around the
colorful and wet landscape.
“Warning! Emergency shutdown initiated.”
Lily saw the other truck clearing the wreckage, accelerating to flee, right
before her viewscreen turned off when the Koto’s safety measures finally forced a
shutdown from the critical heat levels.
“This can’t be real.” Lily crawled towards the corpse on the ground, tears running
from her eyes.
“You can’t be dead, this isn’t you. You can call me Twee, I don’t care.” She
paused for a moment to wipe her eyes—a pointless effort in the ever intensifying
heavy rain. “Hells, you can even ‘rawr’ at me, I won’t complain again,” she
whimpered as she reached out for the body. “Such a stupid and petty complaint.”
A shiver of disgust ran through her spine as her hands sunk into the cold gore.
She swallowed hard, and tried to gently stroke whatever it was her hand
touched—the soft bits, the squishy bits, the hard and pokey bits. “I—I’m sorry
Marcil. It should be me, n—not you,” she said quietly, between body wrenching
sobs.
She cried, and cried, until no tears came out, and she continued to cry, until
nothing came out anymore, not even the convulsions, and then, without a word, she
stood up. Lily stared ahead of her, all the few meters she could through the
monsoon, and then she started walking.
Lily walked back to her hunched giant—her tortured Koto—determined and
stone faced, grabbed onto the pegs of the ladder and pulled herself up from the
ground. Half way up, she stopped to stare into the blur of the monsoon.
Somewhere out there, not far away, but still far beyond where she could see, was
the torn body of Marcil and her destroyed Locust.
She hung there for a moment and then continued her climb up to the cockpit’s
side hatch.
Lily grabbed the handle and pulled. With a lazy hiss, and a flood of water, the
hatch opened up, revealing the completely drenched command couch and her
personal belongings—mostly trash—floating about the partially emptied cockpit.
 She climbed inside, and reached for a small compartment behind the
command couch, pulling out a decent sized hard plastic briefcase with stickers and
tags covering the surface. Lily lifted the heavy case over the back of the command
couch, flipped the locks open, and took a peek inside. The emergency survival kit
was mostly intact, vastly more waterproof than the damaged Koto itself.
Field shovel, tent, emergency rations, med kit, flares. She nodded and closed
the case again. As she was exiting the cockpit she noticed another beloved bottle of
Braintaser that had miraculously survived the battle. A wide grin dawned on her
lips again as she reached for the bottle.
No. Enough. You have a job to do.
Her hand froze and she nodded slightly, in agreement with herself.
Bury her, and then bury yourself.
She nodded again. That made sense, thank you brain.
Lily pushed out of the cockpit emergency kit first, and as she was leaving her
eyes met with the bottle of the Braintaser again.
The case fell from her hand as she jumped halfway back inside to grab onto
the bottle on the floor of the cockpit, her fleet slipped on the rungs of the traitorous
ladder, and she hit her head on the side of the hatch as she flung out from the
cockpit high above the ground.
Quickly, drink me before you die. Her brain—or the bottle—screamed as she
fell. Lily reached for the cork of the Braintaser, but the fall wasn’t long enough and
she smashed over the case that had fallen slightly faster than her, crushing the pack
under her weight. She cried out from pain as she rolled to the side from the impact.
Lily held on to her back, cursing out loud as she rolled in the grassy ground,
covered by a layer of water, bubbling in the heavy rain.
Instinctively, her hand reached for the Braintaser near her, as her body hurt all
over. She grabbed the bottle and pulled it closer, and with a painful giggle she
uncorked the bottle and poured golden liquid down her throat along with a large
part of the horrible monsoon raging around her. The cork went back on, and she
laid on her back, staring into the sky—or at least what she assumed was sky based
on the direction of the rain beating on her face—while holding onto the bottle.
As the pain started subsiding, while the Braintaser did its magic numbing the
nerves, she finally climbed back to her feet and to the smashed survival kit.
She grabbed the field shovel, kicking some of the items around to check for
anything else she needed.
Only a bottle and a shovel, that’s all you need to bury your love.
The cork went out and she took several big gulps from the bottle before
corking it again.
Lily stumbled back to Marcil’s body some ways away, her feet slipping in the
ever shifting wet muck, her vestibular organ’s function assisted by the ever
increasing alcohol contents of her blood.
“Hey Marcil, Lily is back,” she purred as she fell to her knees next to the
body, retching and vomiting next to it. She collapsed partially into her own vomit,
partially on the gored body, and partially on the flooding ground with thick grass
coverage.
Lily laid there for a while, eyes closed, feeling the ever creeping water slowly
rise, millimeter at a time. The monsoon beat around here. It wasn’t the little ‘tip
tap’ kind of rain, it wasn’t even “bucket to the face” rain, but a pair of rotary
autocannons at maximum fire rate, inside barrels of much bigger rotary
autocannons—Stop. Somewhere at the back of her booze-addled mind, a little
thought rose up above the honor guard of a Bushwacker company shooting tiny
droplets of water at her; at what point can she just swim up to the sky and leave
this stupid planet behind?
What? The little clarity inside her head asked.
A little Atlas looked up at her, holding a bouquet of flowers in
her—Stop—hand actuators. A straw hat on the head, the tiny sensor dash painted
like a red flower. “A pulse laser for the pretty girl?” A mechanical voice said,
slightly off the tone, before glitching out.
 Stop! Her sanity called.
Lily felt like she was floating, slowly riding down a tiny spiral water slide.
She felt a little dizzy, but who wouldn’t, in an endless slide, going faster and
faster—Stop!—towards the final splash into the pool that never came. The slide
just continued on and on.
STOP! The logical part of the brain screamed from the bottom of its neurons,
pulling all strings inside her body.
Lily jerked awake, face down in water, she rose like a whale breaking the
surface of the sea, going from face down to face up in a long arc until splashing
back down, flailing her hands wildly. She rolled over to her knees, coughing
violently as she tried gasping for air with water in her lungs.
She cursed between coughs, eyes tearing again, this time from pain and
horror.
Lily beat on the water, to replace the shock with something more proactive;
rage.
After a while she finally stood up again, and screamed from the bottom of her
lungs.
“FUCK THIS PLANET!”
And then she went back down, hands into the water, searching and wading the
water until her hand caught what she was looking for; a familiar metal object. She
pulled out the field shovel, lifting it above her head victoriously.
Holding the shovel over her head she started looking for Marcil’s body.
After a while she finally found the squishy thing and pulled the body out of
the mud below the water, and above the water from whatever she was holding
onto—she wasn’t quite sure what it was and didn’t really want to know either.
“Not much longer, T-Twee,” she said awkwardly and flipped the shovel open,
twisted the tightening nut as much as possible and struck the shovel into the water.
Breaking the surface like it was nothing, she sank the shovel deep into the planet
below like it was nothing, and then pulled the shovel up with anger.
 She pulled out mud with some grass, mostly dissolving in the water as it came
up, and threw it over her shoulder. Again. And again. And again. She shoveled,
occasionally water, sometimes mud, mostly just nothing, but she shoveled without
stopping. Without a moment's pause, she shoveled.
Slowly, Lily sank deeper and deeper, from knee high, to thigh high, to waist
high water.
She couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear, she could barely feel, the monsoon
somehow managed to go from horrible to even worse. And at the same time as she
was bombarded by the wonders of Crawford’s Delight, she was also bombarded by
the weirdest of feelings and hallucinations.
A thought had passed by, at some point, that the last batch of Braintaser may
have had wrong kinds of herbs, but it had gone as quick as it had come, along with
all the other weird thoughts that seemed to have come with it.
“Hey,” she heard a voice through the other hallucinations yelling inside her
addled mind.
Lily looked up from the water filled pit within a flooding forest within a
flooding planet.
She couldn’t see anything but rain ahead.
In fact she barely even saw the water surface now, even though it was much
closer to her face.
“Fuck?” she said, a little louder than intended. “Are you the Atlas again? Or is
my Koto talking this time? I already apologized for the foot.” Lily groaned and
continued shoveling, mostly water at this point, going deeper meant going under
water, and stopping meant letting the feelings resurface.
Was there even a ground anymore? Probably not.
“Lily?” the voice asked. A vaguely familiar voice from somewhere far away,
muffled by the cacophony of other voices screaming inside her head.
“What the fuck?” Lily replied again, trying to squint her eyes in the
downpour. There was a vague shape in the rain, somewhere above her and little
ways off. “I don’t want those fucking flowers.”
“What are you doing, Twee?” the voice asked again.
Lily stopped, trying to shield her eyes with her hand to allow at least a
modicum of dryness for her eyes. There was definitely a shape standing in the rain,
slightly closer to the “edge” of the tiny water pit she was in.
“Burying Marcil,” she said with a slight confusion in her voice. The other
voices inside her head grew silent, seemingly as confused. “The fuck?”
“Yes, the fuck,” the voice said again. Was there a hint of snark in the voice?
Lily stumbled in the water, splashed below the surface for a moment, and
beached up from the pit onto the casually flooding ground level, and waded to
where the corpse was. She tossed the shovel to the side—it splashed and sunk. She
pushed her hands into the water, waving her hands under the surface of the flood,
searching for the body. Her hands finally hit the gored body, and she pulled it
above the surface.
“What the fuck?” she stared into the wet dead beady eyes of a four eared
canine, bald and pearl white like Marcil.
“Found a new girlfriend for yourself, Twee?” she heard Marcil say in the
roaring rain.
Lily tossed the carcass aside and waded to the shape in the rain, only a couple
of meters ahead, still almost impossible to see through the thick curtain of the
monsoon.
Sure enough, that was Marcil, a wide toothy smile on her bloodied face,
shrouded by slightly curly, thoroughly soaked, blonde hair. Standing in the rain, in
a ripped cooling suit, tubes sprouting out from it like guts from the carcass.
“What the hell?” Lily said disbelievingly, leaning closer to see better. “I
thought you died.”
She was definitely Marcil, no snout, no extra ears, green eyes.
Lily grabbed her lip and lifted it up.
No extra teeth.
 Marcil stood there, waiting, as Lily went through her, checking everywhere to
ensure it was Marcil and not something else, and finally after Lily stopped, she
planted a kiss on Lily’s lips.
“I passed out. Not from the shot mind you, that was just shocking, I passed
out when the Locust took some flips and hit the trees,” she explained calmly, a tiny
smirk in the corner of her mouth.
Lily’s pose deflated. “I thought you died,” she managed to say.
Her head was still dizzy from the Braintaser, and her brain buzzed from all the
noises of the monsoon, but some clarity had returned and many of the voices were
just silent and watching, as awestruck as she was.
“Based on how you taste and smell”—Marcil pinched her nose with a little
giggle—“I definitely think one of us did, but that is not me, Twee.”
A tiny smile dawned on Lily’s lips as she stood there, waist deep in the flood
while Crawford’s Delight’s monsoon rain wet hell over them both.
“Merf,” was all she managed to say.
 THE WHITE GIANT
ERIC HAIKO
@erichaiko.bsky.social

KLETZIN MARSH
SÖDERMOOR
WISMAR
HANSEATIC LEAGUE
17 JANUARY 2992

Lieutenant Yulfira Siregar shifted in her seat. What she really needed was to stretch
her legs, but in a Locust that idea was a pipe dream. Having spent the last hour
loping across the marshy hinterlands of Södermoor, she did allow herself a
smoke—quite a precarious operation in that cockpit, but it was an art she had
perfected.
Drawing in the soothing smoke, Siregar stared into the vastness of the
wetland. The autumn foliage on Wismar was nothing short of breathtaking; a
hundred shades of orange, still stretches of dark water, and the occasional copse in
deep red.
The view definitely wasn’t worth the horrible smell Södermoor was known
for. It somehow managed to slither into her cockpit, despite the life support
monitor reporting 100% air seal integrity. Siregar did not want to entertain the idea
that the sweet moldy odor had probably already rubbed off on her suit. Hell, even
her hair reeked of it.
If the commander was to be believed, it was some kind of local moss that
made everything stink to high heaven. She’d never considered she could harbor
this much resentment towards a plant. She inhaled slowly, the smoke giving her
momentary respite. Okay, okay, maybe plants weren’t all bad—the real tobacco
she’d traded her hooch for was a rare joy on this planet of boredom.
I wonder what the hell the boss did to get us posted here at the ass-end of the
League. Patrolling this endless expanse of reeds and willows sure felt like a
punishment. If the brass really gave a shit about keeping tabs on this place, they
would’ve sent some aerospace girls with us… But no, they’re dead set on making
us do this on foot, clearly…
Södermoor didn’t exactly have the kinds of targets they’d usually be sent to
watch over, either. It wasn’t a huge secret that the Regional Defense Force Seven
basically operated like an oversized Convoy Protection Force, usually settling
down for a short while just to look after specific Hanseatic interests, but typically
they’d also had something worth guarding. This literal backwater had nothing
besides a dying mining industry, a couple of moss farms—the locals actually
considered the vile stuff a delicacy—and some rare waterfowl. I guess the birds are
kinda cute though, the ones with the neck ruff at least. What did the commander
call those again…?
The mating dances of the aforementioned avians was all the action they’d
seen during their months here. And that was on a good day! There’d been
absolutely nothing to report today, same as yesterday. And that’s how it’d be
tomorrow as well. And the day after that. Ugh.
Sure, they’d all heard the talk about poacher syndicates and seen the clip of
last year’s pirate raid on the Põltsamaa mining installation up in the hills. But no,
when Siregar gazed at the picture-pretty autumn view in front of her and checked
her sensor readings, she saw nothing. Zero signs of the scrappy hovercraft or that
beat up Cicada that briefly starred in the clips the Põltsamaa Rare Earth suits had
provided. They’d seemed convinced that the outlaws were hiding in the marshes,
but Siregar herself was doubtful. Hell, even backwoods bandits had standards. She
should know.
Even if there truly were some down-on-their-luck pirates lurking out here,
they could hardly pose enough of a threat to warrant the attention of a real Defense
Force company. The mere presence of RDF troops was probably enough to shut
down the operations of anyone smart enough to survive on crime in guild territory.
That said, Siregar herself wouldn’t have minded a little game of cat and
mouse with a poacher hydrocopter. Would be nice to be the bigger fish for once.
Not that the limping Cicada on the Põltsamaa tapes exactly struck fear into her
either; Siregar’s company had seen more ’Mech combat than most. Dangerous
stuff, especially for a Locust pilot. She’d always known what she’d signed up for.
And even now, years later, she still preferred immediate danger over months of
boredom. Still, Siregar felt like she was getting too old for all of this. She’d barely
gotten out of the scrap on Novgorod in one piece, with nothing but a brand-new
canopy on her Locust to show for it.
Well, maybe not nothing, for there was Annemie… Annemie, with their wild
brown hair that was in direct violation of uniform code—thank God boss wasn’t a
stickler for this stuff. Annemie, who was the only one calling her Yulie. Annemie,
who’d checked up on her in the infirmary right on their first day aboard the
Relandersgrund, the venerable Union-class DropShip they both now called home.
Siregar reckoned she should’ve felt bad for being so happy about meeting
someone who was there as a direct consequence of a lucky PPC shot almost killing
Lieutenant Rohdendorf. But she simply couldn’t, not with how things had been
since then.
Truth be told, Siregar had considered retiring herself, even before all that.
During her weeks in the infirmary, she’d gotten as far as requesting the discharge
forms. She’d felt like the doc had cut out not only that shard of metal, but also the
last remnants of her fighting spirit.
But once Annemie’s bedside visits had become a daily occurrence, all ideas of
mustering out had quickly faded. Even the broken collarbone had started to feel
like a minor inconvenience. Shit, this is starting to sound all sweet and mushy, like
one of those Canopian dramas Gran used to live on, all sweet and mushy like that.
Ugh.
Lieutenant Siregar glanced down at the radio controls, where Gran looked
back at her from a photo taped to the console. She couldn’t help but chuckle as she
punched in the next waypoint and hit the throttle. No one would care if she came
back a bit early today. Again.

HERRING COMPANY BARRACKS

SÖDERMOOR
WISMAR
HANSEATIC LEAGUE
22 JANUARY 2992

The patter of rain made the deserted admin barracks feel almost cozy. A mug full
of aronia tea helped too. Commander Marijona Kļava had decided that Wismar was
all right.
With half of the company out on patrol, it was a good afternoon for some
reading. Major Peñaranda had needed some cajoling, but had eventually printed
out all of the Södermoor data he had access to. He doesn’t suspect a thing. I
suppose he doesn’t really care where we get posted as long as it’s quiet. Same
office, new view. The old man was good at what he did, but had the intellectual
curiosity of a dead goldfish.
Marijona smiled to herself as she spread out the maps. There was something
here, she was sure of it. The Captains-General would not send the Relandersgrund
here out of pure goodwill towards Põltsämaa Rare Earth. Sure, this was supposed
to be a straightforward and uneventful assignment. Unreasonable as they might be
at times, even the Cap-Gens knew how bad the inter-guild conflict had been on the
ground on Novgorod. One week after the League had intervened, Marijona’s lance
was already down two pilots and a BattleMech. Both lieutenants had lived, but the
venerable war machine had been wrecked beyond measure.
I wish Rohdendorf would consider the pension deal. It’s not like we can
source his Whitworth a whole new leg any time soon. At least his replacement and
Siregar seemed to be getting along fine. And, well, Röhl, Röhl was happy as long
as there was lager. The RDF might’ve been strapped for most things, but that
golden nectar was something they had plenty of. Marijona knew her lance was still
shaken, though, herself included. Wismar was as safe as it was boring, so on slow
days she did her best to indulge in some research, rather than entertaining the
somber thoughts that already haunted her nights.
Though Marijona had never graduated, she’d enjoyed four fully funded years
at Freie Hansestadt University. They had done little to prepare her for the military
academy, but right now those years gave her a pretty good idea where to start
looking: The Södermoor marshes were dappled with islets of more solid land. If
the original refugee settlers had built anything noteworthy on these formations, it
must since have been picked clean by hermits and homesteaders. But if there was
something even before that…
Marijona knew the wetlands had been expanding rapidly for as long as there’d
been people here to monitor them. From what she had read, it likely had something
to do with the death throes of Wismar’s ongoing ice age. So, say there was a
pre-Hanseatic outpost here—it might just be fully submerged today. Now that
would be something the Cap-Gens would like to keep tabs on, wouldn’t it…
Marijona checked the dates on the maps. March 2990, barely two years old.
She wished she could have dug into the metadata of the actual files, but even from
the printouts she could surmise the maps must have originated from a recent
Defense Force survey. Excellent. Last week, she’d already managed to get her
hands on some geoinformatic data from a gutless Põltsamaa prospecting tech. But
to her dismay, the company had only ever been interested in the hilly Eastern parts
of Södermoor, a small stretch of somewhat actively inhabited land.
But this HDF cartography, it must be the first time anyone’s mapped the
wetlands here with decent equipment… If there truly was something waiting in the
murky waters, surely such a comprehensive survey would have picked it up. And
this would have yielded a report. But the meager stack of papers on her desk held
only topographic maps…
Back when she’d first been informed of their new deployment, Marijona had
noted how little the Defense Force data banks had on Södermoor, even if Wismar
was generally covered in detail. Now that she knew the high-quality maps in front
of her had been curiously absent from those repositories, it wasn’t much of a reach
to assume other information might’ve been omitted as well—information that even
Major Peñaranda might lack the clearance for.
What are they not telling me? What are they hiding? Some classified cache of
strategic resources? Unlikely. The Pre-Hanseatic ruins of a lost colony? Not
impossible—not likely either. The buried treasure of that pirate captain Siregar kept
going on about, Gianluca the Gilded? Honestly, probably the best contender so far.
Marijona couldn’t help but smile at the outlandish prospect.
Whatever it was, Marijona knew that this was exactly how the higher-ups
would approach such a situation. Put the detailed reports under lock and key, send
in a weary company to act as guard dogs until the Research Corps is done with the
Danzig dig. Yes, this was all conjecture, but in truth Marijona hardly needed
confirmation; merely getting to figure out whether she was a delusional conspiracy
theorist or not was entertainment enough. That being said, she did trust her nose on
this one.
Marijona’s tea had gone cold when she finally re-emerged from the sea of
maps. There was a spot she wanted to see for herself.
Tomorrow, they would head out. All four of them. It would be extra work on a
short notice, but that’s how it was with Marijona’s lance. She knew her
subordinates considered her disinterest in protocol a boon. So, it’s only fair to have
them indulge me every now and then, no?
Marijona knew Röhl wouldn’t complain. If anything, he’d be happy to spend
a day out in the field—his Awesome didn’t exactly see much use here. Spalko and
Siregar might not appreciate the additional patrol hours, though; both were
supposed to have tomorrow off. Fairly sure they won’t complain too much.
Especially, if I let the two of them scout ahead on their own.
Their little excursion might yield nothing but a dozen hours of work for
whichever poor tech was in charge of power washing the ’Mechs this week. Or I
might just be right.
Marijona stood up, let her hair down, and decided that she’d earned a pint of
that golden nectar.
KLETZIN MARSH
SÖDERMOOR
WISMAR
HANSEATIC LEAGUE
23 JANUARY 2992

Soldier Annemie Spalko’s Wolverine trudged through the marsh in what must have
been the heaviest downpour in weeks. They trusted the venerable machine well
enough, but the terrain sure did put some unneeded strain on the leg actuators.
Yulfira seemed to have a much easier time in her lithe Locust. After all, the ’Mech
had legs akin to those of the local birds the commander kept talking about—the
ones Jaak kept wanting to have for dinner.
The commander had ordered Annemie and Yulfira to go on ahead, and so they
had. As much as they’d enjoyed the relative privacy, they were careful not to stray
further than a couple of klicks from their heavier lancemates. If the treacherous
terrain was difficult for a Wolverine, how bad did Jaak have it with his 80-tonner?
“You think the locals ever get tired of the rain, Anns?” Yulfira asked over the
comms as her Locust circled back to join Annemie’s Wolverine.
“Nah, hardy folk, don’t complain much,” Annemie replied. “I mean, have you
seen their grub? Fermented moss and jellied fish. The miners from offworld
though… Oh man, do they bitch and moan enough for all of us.”
Both MechWarriors laughed out loud.
If the boss was listening in on this channel, she voiced neither disagreement
nor disapproval. Annemie still didn’t know what to think of Commander Kļava,
truth be told. It was always going to be rough to fill in for an injured lancemate, but
Jaak had welcomed them with open arms after the first game of darts. And Yulfira
had become their best friend basically overnight. And well, a bit more since then.
Hah!
 But the aloof commander was a bit of an enigma. Everyone seemed to give
her a great deal of respect, though Annemie suspected this was in part thanks to her
general disinterest towards enforcing the protocol Major Peñaranda insisted on.
Now, usually an officer like that would’ve been one keen on mingling with her
subordinates. Yet the commander mostly spent her R&R hunched over a pile of
papers at the corner table in the canteen. The rest of the lance seemed to have
resigned themselves to never fully knowing their CO—this surprise patrol was
simply one more part of that mystery.
Annemie, however, couldn’t help but wonder. They’d been out all day and
would turn back within the hour. But the route made no sense. There were no
major waterways to protect, no thickets hiding hypothetical outlaws, not even a
hinterland homestead to check up on. Maybe this was nothing but an elaborate
birdwatching trip. Heh, a literal snipe hunt for the newcomer… Wow. Just, wow!
“Hey, Yulfira,” Annemie said. “Any idea why the Commander wanted us all
out here today? Pretty sudden. Does this happen a lot?”
“No, not really. Shit, usually my day off is a day off. My legs are gonna be so
dead tomorrow morning. Six days of long patrols in a row. Fuck.” Yulfira clearly
trusted that the commander wasn’t listening—or that she didn’t care.
“It’s not that bad. You know, I’m starting to think all you bug pilots are just
sorta achy. I mean, my last lance had that Grasshopper guy—you know him, right?
Simo, who kept saying his ass hurt.” Raucous laughter erupted from the other end
of the comms. “And hey, this is a Wolverine. As little as I miss piloting a Clint, I
could do with the legroom. So, it’s not like I have it any better than you over here!”
“I don’t know… That cockpit seemed spacious enough last Thursday! You
didn’t seem to—“
“This is Compass Actual. Heads up, I’m seeing… something on the
long-range sensors.” The commander’s voice shut Yulfira up instantly. She must’ve
been mortified, dreading whether the commander had overheard her. Annemie
certainly would’ve been, if concern didn’t take first priority.
 Annemie replied, “Compass Four here, we read you. Should we—Oh, I see
them. Two, three blips, right by Navpoint Urft? Do we wait for you or scout
ahead?” Not waiting for an answer, they picked up some speed, having fallen
behind Yulfira again.
The answer came with some hesitation: “Go. Together. Get me some eyes on
them. Probably poachers, but don’t engage unless they do.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Annemie replied. “Should have a visual in a couple minutes.
Compass Four out.” Their lancemate stayed silent, but her Locust fell to a light trot
alongside the larger ’Mech.
Annemie hadn’t thought it possible, but somehow the rain kept getting worse
and worse. And the wind picking up certainly didn’t help. Annemie kept their eyes
on the tac map display: those blips had flickered in and out for a bit before fully
disappearing.
What worried them most, however, was how quiet Yulfira had gotten all of a
sudden. Maybe it’s not just embarrassment, maybe it’s nerves. The Locust pilot
had a bit of bravado about her when it came to tales of ’Mech combat, but her last
fight had been a rough affair: there’s not much use for bravery when one gets a
shard of glowing hot steel embedded in one’s spine. According to Jaak, the techs
had been forced to change some of the electronics outright, since there’d been so
much blood in the cockpit. The man had a penchant for tall tales, but no one aboard
the Relandersgrund had contested this one.
No one would expect you to have gotten over all of that already. The silence
was growing heavy, but Annemie couldn’t find a way to word their thoughts. I’ve
never seen her like this. The actual risk of running into something that would pose
anything resembling a risk for two BattleMechs seemed vanishingly small. Come
on, Yulfira. You know that too—you’re the sharp one, after all.
Unsure yet determined to help, Annemie opened a new channel between the
two of them: “Hey Yulie… Anything I can do?”
“No. Let’s just get this done.” The answer was muffled and faint. “Navpoint’s
less than a klick that way. But, hey… thanks. Thanks for asking.”
“Are we still on for tonight?” Annemie asked, trying to gauge whether empty
talk was better than silence. “Fried crawfish sticks and billiards with Jaak and
Gort?”
“Hu—Yeah. Uh huh. We’ll get them this time.” Still faint, Yulfira’s voice did
carry a hint of a smile. “We’re gonna get shitfaced too, right?”
“One hundred percent shitfaced. No! One hundred ten!” Yeah, empty talk was
better.
“—you say? Anns—repeat? Can—me—please—” Something was wrong
with Yulfira’s comms, clearly. She was still trying to speak, but all that came out
was static.
Annemie lifted the Wolverine’s heavy arm to signal a pause, just as they were
about to enter a thicket of willows. The Locust pilot understood the gesture and
halted as well. Yulie’s comms could’ve picked a better moment to die… Do we push
on or wait for the rest?
Annemie’s thoughts were interrupted by a new yellow dot in the corner of
their display. It signaled activity on another comms channel, but all they could hear
was static. For all Annemie knew, it could have been the commander trying to
reach them, but there was no way to be sure. This is bad. The comms suite on the
Wolverine was a downgrade from the original, but it was generally reliable and
clearly working as it should. Is it the weather? No. Jamming? Has to be.
Meanwhile, it seemed like Yulfira’s nerves had gotten the better of her—she’d
pushed into the copse of tall willows ahead. Annemie could do nothing but follow,
anxious as they were about the whole situation. Visibility was bad, really bad.
Between the dark stormclouds, heavy downpour, and now the willows too, it was
hard to make out anything but the Locust’s rear. There was enough water in the air
to render thermal sensors mostly useless, too. Yulfira had clearly come to the same
conclusion; they both switched on full lights in wordless agreement.
When the two ’Mechs emerged on the other side of the thicket, the
Wolverine’s searchlight managed to pierce the torrential rain and reveal what they
were after. We should’ve waited for the others…Voice trembling, Annemie opened
their radio, despite knowing that the commander likely couldn’t hear them. “This is
Compass Four. I’ve got three… No, four BattleMechs. Two hovercraft. Maybe 350
meters east of us, in fairly deep water.”
There was something off about these vehicles. Like everything in Södermoor,
they were covered in mud. But heavy rain had washed off enough of it to reveal a
featureless, light-colored paint job.
“No insignia visible, just gray paint… No, I think they’re white. Commander,
what do I do? Commander? Commander, if you are there, please advise!” This
wasn’t going well. Should Annemie reach out? Maybe this was a Hansa squad after
all, a local militia or something. However, the smallest ’Mech they could see was
an Ostscout. No local militia or scrappy pirate band would have equipment like
that. Besides, one of the hovercraft seemed very high tech, bristling with antennae
and sensors, not unlike the array that had been tacked onto the commander’s
Catapult to turn it into a command vehicle.
The other three ’Mechs remained a mystery, despite the Wolverine’s computer
doing its very best to deal with the conditions. In any case, it was evident that
should this come to a fight, there was no option but to fall back and regroup with
the rest of the lance. Even then, they outnumber us…
Yulfira’s Locust was already picking up speed, clearly aiming to circle around
the group that was now astir. Maybe she sought to get a better read of the situation.
Perhaps it was just to make herself a more difficult target—indeed, the Ostscout
was already tracking her movement.
Annemie, however, hesitated and brought the Wolverine to a halt. Cursing
themself for lacking Yulfira’s decisiveness, Annemie fell back on what the protocol
would’ve suggested anyway. They raised an iron-clad arm in a tentative greeting
and belted out: “This is Soldier Annemie Spalko of the Herring Company,
Regional Defense Force Seven! Please identify yourselves!”
 It wasn’t clear if the pilots inside these white machines could hear Annemie
over the comms, but the salute got their attention anyway. The largest ’Mech even
took a couple heavy steps towards the Wolverine, moving into the reedbed
separating them. Alarmed, Annemie realized that the water it had been standing in
must have been deeper than it first seemed. Heedless of whether anyone could
hear, they kept reporting: “We have a heavy ’Mech. The computer keeps tagging it
as a Marauder, but—” No, it was way too big to be a Marauder.
Assault class… What the fuck is going on here!? For a while, no one
moved—two machines of war, just standing there in the rain. The white giant must
have had at least 40-tons on the Wolverine. Behind it, Annemie could see the
smaller ’Mechs start taking up positions in a circle around the hovercraft. It all felt
wrong.
Annemie was about to start backing up when the giant’s PPC hit their
Wolverine in the torso. Fuck, fuck, fu—!
Alarms blared. Metal groaned and electronics whined. Annemie scrambled to
fire a salvo of missiles. A series of good hits pockmarked the attacker’s armor. It
was a bad trade though: the giant’s twin lasers shore the whole launcher clean off
the Wolverine’s shoulder.
Behind the encroaching monster, Yulfira pivoted to dive into the midst of the
enemy, guns ablaze. Annemie themself was squarely on the defensive. Acting
purely out of instinct, they put their whole weight into a sickeningly quick torso
twist. The janky movement narrowly saved the Wolverine from the giant’s next
attack, but Annemie could feel a projectile boom past them. What was that…? A
fucking AC/20?! No, just a single shell! What the hell? Shaken, Annemie answered
with an autocannon burst, but their shots failed to punch through the white armor.
Annemie could see Yulfira zigzagging within the enemy formation, clearly
banking on the ’Mechs being hesitant to risk friendly fire. It was a death wish of a
gambit. And it was working: a plume of fire erupted from the command hovercraft
as the Locust stomped it into smithereens. Hah, that’s my girl!
 “Anns? Anns!” Yulfira’s voice suddenly filled the air. Annemie’s reply was
cut short by a new projectile slamming into their Wolverine. Followed by another.
And another. Annemie saw fire, tasted iron, and heard their lancemates clamor.
“Compass Four, ejecting!”

KLETZIN MARSH
SÖDERMOOR
WISMAR
HANSEATIC LEAGUE
23 JANUARY 2992

Senior Lieutenant Jaak Röhl was none too thrilled about how their afternoon stroll
had turned out. He was not quick to anger, but whoever these bastards were, they’d
pay dearly for taking Anns down. The boss was on the comms, trying to keep
Siregar—and her ’Mech—in one piece. Jaak knew that was something he couldn’t
really help with, but it made him feel rotten anyway. Flicking the switches that put
his three Kreuss PPCs on standby did only so much to dispel that feeling. Pretty
sure these varmints will piss themselves when they see our little patrol happens to
include an Awesome.
Jaak forced a smile and cycled through his sensors. He could already make
out the telltale flashes of autocannon fire in the distance, if little else. The boss had
ordered him to hold fire, so he kept himself occupied looking for any sign of their
ejected comrade.
“Röhl, Siregar, I have a reading on Spalko. Sending you a ping… There.
Seems like they’re hurt bad.” The commander’s voice had some uncharacteristic
strain to it, and she’d dropped the official unit designations.
“Fuck!” Siregar replied, barely reigning in her panic. “Boss, what do we do?
Fuck, fuck, fuck…!”
Jaak thought he could make out her Locust darting back and forth within the
willow grove. Siregar was freaking out, but alive. That was testament enough to
her skill as a MechWarrior.
“Siregar, pick up Spalko, make it work. Röhl, you and I… We make sure they
get out.” Siregar stuttered something in agreement, still weaving between the trees
and weapons fire from beyond them. Jaak could hear the roar of jump jets as the
commander’s Catapult took flight in front of him.
Ah, so she’s doing her own spotting, once again. Jaak couldn’t help but smile.
In its previous life the boss’s Catapult had been a command vehicle for some Inner
Sphere warlord. At the end of that life it had lost both of its LRM batteries, and the
Relandersgrund techs had only managed to scrape together parts to replace one of
them. Yet the commander never complained, for the venerable machine carried
with it a century of wisdom in the form of an outstanding old sensor array.
“Jaak, two lights holding back for now. Good. An Ostcout, yes, and a…
Thorn.” Everyone loved an Ostcout, but what the hell was a Thorn? Well, it was a
light ’Mech, and that was all Jaak needed to know.
“No hovercraft in sight, but—” The Catapult took a glancing autocannon shot
in the leg right at the zenith of its jump. “That there would be a Sentinel, 40-tons.”
Another name Jaak didn’t recognize, but small fry was small fry. He was more
interested in the thing that was going after Siregar in the woods ahead.
Speak of the devil. There it was. A sleek white monster of a ’Mech had
emerged from the wilting orange willows. Jaak announced himself with a volley of
three PPC shots, all solid hits. Welcoming the surge of heat in the cockpit like an
old friend, he turned a shoulder to meet the return fire that would inevitably follow.
The white giant had a couple tons on him, sure. But he had an Awesome.
 “Jaak! Be mindful, I cannot get a read on this one.” Jaak hadn’t realized the
boss had opened fire, but the shower of missiles that fell upon the imposing assault
’Mech told as much. It did little but draw the foe’s focus off Jaak.
The hits Jaak had been bracing for never arrived, for the white giant turned to
track the Catapult. On his display, he could see it lining up a shot towards the
Commander. No. No!
Jaak was shouting in alarm when the Commander spoke, voice cracking,
“Jaak, that is a Night—”
The Commander’s voice cut off as a projectile smashed into her with
staggering velocity. The damage it wrought made Jaak’s blood run cold. Boss’s
Catapult was crumpling in on itself, a smoking ruin where its hips had been.
“Commander, report!” Jaak shouted “Com—Marijona? Marijona!” He picked
up speed and approached in a blaze of PPC fire, cycling all his weapons to demand
the giant’s attention. The rain hitting his Awesome was starting to vaporize, and it
was hard to think straight in the boiling cockpit. Or was it a shock response kicking
in? He’d never seen a weapon like that. Is the boss dead? No, can’t be. No.
Jaak ground his teeth. He had to keep calm where Siregar couldn’t—and
Spalko was bleeding out on a branch of some goddamn tree. There were blue
flashes as lasers carved into his armor. Jaak would keep calm. He would make sure
they got out. He might not win, but he might still succeed.
The Awesome lurched suddenly, as the roaring weapons of the giant punched
holes in its shoulder. Jaak’s computer kept flagging the enemy ’Mech as a
Marauder, but it was obviously wrong. No Marauder had a bite like this. Or such
an ugly mug. Marijona had gotten an ID just as…
Waving his muddled thoughts away, Jaak pushed on at full speed, trusting the
’Mech more than himself. Again, two lasers scored deep gashes across his armored
torso when he turned to fire again, this time with just a single PPC—overheating
now would mean death and failure. Jaak wasted no time checking whether his shot
landed, rather turning his other plated shoulder to absorb the next volley. And so it
did.
After three more similar exchanges the Awesome was thoroughly battered and
surrounded by a thick cloud of steam. Yet, all its weaponry remained intact. In
contrast, the white giant had lost a whole arm. Jaak’s opponent had frightening
firepower, but seemed to lean on it a bit too much. They had not expected Jaak to
charge in like this. Not the first time I’ve brawled with the field inhibitors off. If he
survived, the techs would lose their shit. Again.
That round ’Mech the boss had called a Sentinel was creeping up on Jaak’s
left flank, but that was the least of his concerns; the two assault ’Mechs were so
close now that the enemy would have to risk friendly fire. In his next volley, Jaak
spared a single particle shot for the smaller interloper. Just gotta keep them all on
me.
“Jaak! Jaak, I’ve got Anns!” Siregar’s voice almost drowned in the awful
static of a PPC fight at spitting range, but those were the words Jaak had been
waiting for. He had no idea how a Locust could’ve managed to pick up an
unconscious pilot, but he did not doubt Siregar one bit.
“Good job! Now scram!” Jaak yelled, then took two more shots in the right
arm. He heard an actuator crack and could feel myomer tear. A calm fell over him.
“Siregar, you’re buying tonight, alright?” he said as he discharged the two PPCs he
still had left.
If the Locust pilot ever replied, Jaak didn’t catch it. The close range PPC shots
had finally fried his comms. The computer, too, was going haywire and filling his
vision with holographic nonsense. The Awesome was running so hot that Jaak’s
senses didn’t even register it as heat anymore, just straight up pain. Another
impact—he couldn’t tell what exactly—crushed the particle cannon only a couple
meters right of the cockpit.
A life support alarm blared, and Jaak could feel the musty marsh air on his
skin. His last remaining PPC refused to fire, and the small laser’s damaged gimbal
made it paint lines in the sky. Out of weapons, huh? Gotta borrow some, then.
 Jaak drove a plated fist at the enemy, but the ’Mech stopped the strike with its
remaining arm. Whoever was in there had some experience, after all. But Jaak, he
had thirty years of it. The Awesome’s battlefist closed around the upper arm
presented to it and ripped the whole limb off in one violent motion.
Someone somewhere shot something at Jaak, but any damage done was
beneath his notice. Just a little… more. He rammed the enemy, who managed to
avoid the brunt of the attack by backstepping. Jaak struggled to stay upright, and
the Sentinel took another autocannon shot at him, but missed and sent a spray of
water and mud in the air.
It took Jaak several seconds to regain any semblance of visibility. He did,
however, discover that the marsh had done him a solid. The larger ’Mech had
backed up straight into a tract of deeper water and was sinking at an alarming pace.
Eject, bastard, eject!
Instead the bastard chose to fire a laser straight at Jaak, filling his world with
a shower of sparks. But Jaak didn’t need to see. Still gripping the torn off limb, he
only needed to swing. The giant’s cockpit might have withstood a fist, but it caved
in with a horrible noise when Jaak brought its own arm down onto it.
The shock of the impact brought the unbalanced Awesome down as well. If,
by any chance, the giant’s MechWarrior was alive, they were soon swallowed by
the marsh when Jaak braced his Awesome’s remaining arm against the ruined
machine. That’s when something in his age-old gyro cracked. The Awesome went
down in a plume of steam and smoke, armor screaming against armor as Jaak
crashed atop his fallen foe.

The life support alarm had gone silent. A red light still flashed somewhere.
Something must’ve hit Jaak in the head; he could feel a wet warmth spread down
his neck. “One down,” Jaak said to himself. Or maybe he’d forgotten his comms
were dead. Maybe he didn’t care.
There was water in the cockpit, and he could hear more rushing in.
Something, possibly the comms unit, sparked. Jaak could only see water and
scorched steel—it was hard to make out what was what. Slowly he realized the
pain in his abdomen was a belt buckle straining to keep him on the command
couch. Shit, prone… in water…
If Jaak stayed here, he might drown even before he bled out. Mangled as it
was, the Awesome came back to life for one last push. Jaak leveraged what few
intact actuators he still had and—in a series of slow, ungraceful
movements—managed to get his ’Mech’s head out of the water to see more of his
surroundings.
The motion and noise made Jaak’s head hurt, but the flood of bile and blood
that filled his senses was worse. Trying to keep focused, he took in the battlefield.
He could make out the boss’ Catapult surrounded by a pair of light ’Mechs and a
hovercraft, the white-clad inhabitants of which were clambering all over the wreck.
Jaak couldn’t really see what they were doing, but the small streams of sparks they
kept producing clued him in. Are they trying to cut into the cockpit? He couldn’t
have been out cold for too long, but clearly some time had passed.
Jaak’s heart sank. Siregar! His despair manifested as a cough, which in turn
let him know he’d broken more than a couple ribs. Struggling to think straight, he
nonetheless realized that the Ostscout and its lanky friend had clearly given up
pursuing his lancemates, choosing to watch over the infantry instead.
What about the last one? The Sentinel? Could it run down a Locust? Jaak did
not know. Should he have gone after the faster ’Mechs first? Had he screwed over
Siregar and Anns in a rush to avenge Marijona?
I’m sorry. It had been years since Jaak had cried. Now, it was all he could do.
Then the Sentinel crept into his sights. Likely, it had been circling the
Awesome to look for any signs of life. Even if Jaak would have had anything to
open fire with, he might have been too relieved to have done so.
The round white ’Mech came to a halt, just two dozen meters from the broken
Awesome. Jaak, even in his sorry state, could understand it was lining up a killing
shot. I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to surrender. It would not have
been the first time. But his radio was dead, his exit hatch blocked, and ejecting now
would’ve slammed him headfirst into the shoulder of a sinking white giant.
A tide of relief swept away any fear Jaak might have felt. With the Sentinel
here, Siregar and Anns were safe.
Jaak had lost. But he had not failed. And he smiled even as the autocannon
shells breached his cockpit.
 BE GAY, DO CRIMES
JAMIE KAIJU MARRIAGE
@enbykaiju.bsky.social

WESTERN FORESTS
ACONCAGUA PRIME
ACONCAGUA
INDEPENDENT
19 MAY 3132

“Ingram,” the radio crackled to life over the constant shaking of the ground. “Quit
drifting and get your arse back in formation. You’re making the rest of us look like
rookies out here.” Alex grimaced as they looked down at their bearing against the
rest of their lance. Everything appeared to be within standard parameters.
“No worries, Cap’,” they chirped back into the comms. “Looks like I’m lined
up against your ’Mech same as everyone else. Might want to check your
equipment.”
“Don’t ‘check your equipment’ me, rookie, I’m looking out my viewscreen
and I can see your ’Mech veering off. I don’t want to get my rear toasted just
because you can’t keep your distance from the trees.”
Gritting their teeth, Alex thumped down on their cockpit dashboard with their
free hand, the readings on the heads up display shook disconcertingly for a moment
then corrected itself. They were noticeably heading off course. The tree line
coming closer into view should have indicated that, but they’d been taught to trust
their instruments back before getting the boot from the academy. They pulled
against the controls, tucking the lumbering Crab back into line with the rest of
their lance.
“Looks like my nav system is still on the blink, Cap’. It was pulling me a
couple of degrees off to the east. Thanks for the head’s up. I swear this damn
’Mech marched off the production line around the time Kerensky went AWOL.”
“We’ll get it sorted when we’re back at base. Sloppy maintenance leads to
dead pilots. And as long as you’re in my charge I’m bringing you home alive and
in as few pieces as possible.” Even with their comms off, Alex could imagine their
lancemates laughing to themselves under their tanker helmets. The newbie always
got the worst gear and the strongest tongue lashing; tradition was tradition. They
switched to a private line with Captain Joann.
“You doing okay, Cap’? I’m used to the crew pickin’ on me, newbie
prerogative and all that, but you’re acting a bit of a bitch, with respect.”
It was a moment before Joann came back over the comm link. Her Vindicator
plodding stoically through the valley. “I’m fine, just got a lot going on right now,
don’t need extra headaches on this run,” Alex heard the sigh before the link closed.
Alex thought for a moment and flicked the link back on. “When was the last
time you had your shot? I know I’m always bitchy if I’m late.”
Joann grumbled over the radio, Alex barely made it out.
“Two weeks? Damn, what happened, the medics ran out again?”
“Pretty much, said they were waiting for fresh supplies and they hadn’t
expected so many folks in the outfit would need it.”
Nodding, Alex checked their bearings again and poked around in a storage
compartment. “If you don’t mind rationing, I’ve got half a vial still, should see us
through till we can scrounge some up from the next supply station. Unless we end
up bumping into some pirates who are dealing in black market hormones all the
way out here.”
Joann laughed. “We are the pirates, at least to those assholes. I’ll take you up
on that offer though. Shit around here’s hard enough without needing to scrape
around for my HRT. Had enough of that before I joined up back when it was just
bureaucracy. If you can bring it up at the next rest stop I’d appreciate it. There’s not
a lot of room up here, but I don’t think it would do for the others to see me getting
jabbed in the rear by the rookie.”
“Roger that, Cap’. With luck we’ll stumble into a medical refit station and
pick up enough stuff to transition half of HQ.”

Alex shunted their Crab into standby mode between Joann’s Vindicator and one of
the paired Bulldog tanks that comprised the other half of their ragtag lance.
Spending the previous twelve hours slogging the 50-ton monstrosity through heavy
forest had left the cockpit smelling like fermenting deli meat—as all ’Mechs
tended to after a while—so they cracked the hatch as wide as possible and kicked
the ladder between the ’Mech’s legs like a token gesture of modesty.
“I wonder how long it takes to get used to the stink of these things, another
hour and I’d likely bring up my rations.”
Remembering the promise to the Cap’, Alex popped open one of the Crab’s
cramped storage compartments and pulled out one of the dwindling ration packs as
well as a medical kit heavily wrapped in protective packaging, and clambered
awkwardly down the ladder.
The lance’s tankers, a bunch of incorrigible gearhead punk types, had set up a
few low folding tables at the rear of one of the Bulldogs and were already
preparing their mess kits and whatever arcane machinery they used to brew their
industrial strength coffee. A couple of the boys were having a quick make-out
session against the tracks of their vehicle, obviously glad to have a moment just for
themselves. Alex could see the ladder dangling from the Vindicator’s torso but with
no sign of Joann, she was likely still up in the cockpit. Alex rolled their shoulders,
ready for another long climb, and made their way up the comparatively slender
’Mech.
Joann was lounging in her command chair, as best she could in the cramped
space. Alex was always surprised how pilots could spend days, or weeks, stuck
inside ’Mech cockpits. But they had to admit, Joann had made a home of it. Band
posters and photos were taped up to every vertical surface, and the diagonals were
sprayed with heavily-armed cartoon characters.
“Everyone getting settled out there? We’ve an hour before I’m expecting us to
get the call to move out. I’d rather everyone have a chance to vent a little heat and
get some real food inside them before we start setting shit on fire.”
Alex hunched against the wall and started unwrapping the medical kit from its
bubble wrap. “About as settled as expected. If someone doesn’t throw a bucket of
water over Nix and Jake those two are going to end up doing it on top of their tank.
But if it keeps them happy I’m not one to judge.”
Joann laughed, an actual exclamation of mirth that contrasted against her
usual sarcastic tone. “Fair enough. Being stuck in a ’Mech alone for days on end is
bad enough, I can’t imagine how it must be being cramped with your boyfriend and
a couple of others in a sweatbox like a Bulldog and not be able to let that tension
out. I heard one of the Drillson crews is one big polycule, they must be a lot of fun
on shore leave.” She smirked, standing up awkwardly inside the narrow cockpit
and unbuckling her shorts.
“I’ll take your word for it, I’ve never been one for the physical stuff,” said
Alex, pulling a thin vial and a pair of syringes from the case. “Hip or butt, you
make the call. Once we’re finished up I’ll get your ration pack going, I’m bloody
starving.”

The ration pack heater was steaming furiously as Alex sipped at their enamel cup
of scalding liquid the tankers called coffee. They were reluctant to share what they
added to give it all the potency of an autocannon to the frontal lobes, but a cup of
that stuff could keep a pilot going for hours. Anything left from the brewing station
would be divided up into thermos bottles among the crews. It was no wonder the
vehicle crews had a reputation for fast reflexes and faster tongues.
Joann was laying on the grass, a short cigar smoldering in her hand, as the
clouds above picked up the fading rays of the early evening sunlight. Their shared
moment in the Vindicator passed–returning them to a real world waiting for the
next order–had left Alex with a closer connection to their captain.
“Cap’, what the hell are we doing out here? I know we have our orders, but
what do they expect just our lance to do?” Alex asked, tapping their fingers on the
side of the cup.
Taking a moment to blow out a slow stream of smoke, Joann gestured vaguely
at the sky with her cigar. “What we always do out here, rookie. We make trouble.
We take what we can, and we get the hell out before anything bigger than us shows
up to chase us away.”
“Yeah, I get that, but why the hell are we doing it? We could pack our crap
and get out of here, and not have to deal with sweating our junk off going on Robin
Hood runs. I’m all for stealing from the rich, but one of these days we’re gonna get
ourselves taken down for our trouble.”
The ration heater gave a final shrill piping sound to indicate it was done
reheating whatever it was that was supposed to be in the retort pouches. Alex
cracked the bags open and left them to settle. The susurration of the forest around
them provided a serene environment that they wanted to savor for as long as they
could. After a few quiet minutes Joann sat up, took a final drag of her cigar, and
stubbed it out on the toe of her ferro-titanium capped boot.
“It doesn’t matter if we did pack our crap and bug out, rookie, it wouldn’t
change a damn thing.” She dug around in her pockets, located a bottle of hot sauce,
and handed it up to Alex, who emptied a substantial quantity into the meal
pouches. “It’s always the same story out here. Just insecure little rich boys playing
with big toys and folks like us will always get singled out as easy targets,” Joann
sighed and pulled herself up onto an empty chair.
“What else can we do?” Joann continued, “We pick up a brick, a rifle, or a
BattleMech, and show them we don’t go out so easy.”
Alex poured another cup of industrial-strength coffee and handed it across to
their captain. “Then why not hop a JumpShip and go elsewhere? Surely we have
enough scraped together to hop a DropShip heading literally anywhere else.
There’s active League planets only a couple of jumps out of the system. Hell, we
could pick up small gigs and work our way down to Canopus, go legit and do it
right. At least then we wouldn’t be scrounging for ammunition and HRT. When
was the last time your ’Mech had more than one volley of missiles for a mission?
We give most of what we have to the Bulldogs.”
“Because someone has to be here to do the job that’s in front of us,” Joann
said, wincing at the coffee’s extreme bitterness. “You think we get aid
organizations out here? You think anyone in the League gives a damn? Hell no.
This place wasn’t convenient to them any more, not after Marik got outed as
working for the Blakists, so now we do what we have to. One day they might come
back, and if they do I’m going back to repairing DropShips and getting pissed with
my girlfriends every night. Until then, we move forward. You, me, and the boys
over there. We take it a day at a time, if that doesn’t float your boat you’re free to
walk away.”
 The pair sat in relative silence while they put plastic spork to a food-like
substance; whatever it was was at least better than the acrid-tasting protein bars the
crew had been scoffing down since dawn. There was something that could be
described as flavor. The bottle of scorching hot sauce one of the tank crews kept
them supplied with did the rest. Alex couldn’t feel their tongue after a few
mouthfuls, but that was probably for the best.
“I’m not walking away, Cap’,” they said, mopping up the last of the sauce
with a cracker hard enough to be used as ’Mech armor. “I’m going to do the job
that’s in front of me. And maybe bust a few bigots along the way.”
Joann crumpled up her food pouch and tossed it into the waste bag. “Glad to
hear it, rookie. Just don’t get caught up in the moment. Busting bigots is fun, but
we want to break them, we want to make them scared enough that they hop on
their DropShips and get the hell out of Aconcagua once and for all. You think you
can do that?”
Alex stood and looked up at their Crab, the last of the last of the light glinting
on the heavily scratched cyan and fuchsia paintwork.
“Damn right I can, Cap’. Let’s stomp some fash.”

The call to break camp arrived not long after the planet’s gibbous moon began
slowly coasting atop the distant mountains, a harsh crackle from the speakers of the
nearest Bulldog startling the crew from their brief naps on foam bedrolls spread
across the flattened grass. And they rushed to action, stowing their gear and
buckling up into their vehicles with commendable speed.
Alex, too anxious and over-caffeinated to sleep, shouldered their faded gray
flight jacket over their cooling vest and scrambled up the ladder into the rear of the
Crab. From the ground Alex could see that the Vindicator’s hatch was already
closed. The hum of the ’Mech’s reactor steadily rising into consciousness drowned
out the surrounding forest noises.
After a few hours of airing the inside of the Crab was almost pleasant, Alex
thought as they secured the hatch and began buckling into the command couch.
Although that would change pretty quickly, especially if the ’Mech’s myriad of
lasers were called into action. Even with the plethora of heat sinks crammed into
the 50-ton bulk of the hulking machine, the parts used to keep the thing in service
were held together mostly with electrical tape and spite. Best to hope for a quick
fight and crack open the cockpit to cool down on the long walk back.
If they made it back.
“Ingram, checking in,” they announced across the lance comm channel as
they tightened the strap on the neurohelmet. Keying a command string into the
system initiated the warm-up procedure. “Nice of you to show up, rookie. You
ready for play time?” The captain’s jovial sarcasm crackled across the link.
“Ready to do tricks and chuck bricks, Cap’. What’s the plan?”
The heads up display signaled green across the board aside from the usual
shudder in the positioning readout. Alex gave the dashboard a solid thud with the
thick of their palm and the info cleared into focus.
“We’re going shopping, rookie. HQ has organized us a nice little distraction a
dozen klicks North of our target, a collections depot for the surrounding county.
Fireworks are due to go off just before we enter sensor range, but we’ll be running
silent aside from lance comms. Don’t want to give away our location too soon. So
keep those systems on minimal until we’re in position.”
Alex nodded awkwardly–standard Robin Hood run–with luck the majority of
the depot’s garrison would be off investigating the diversion.
“Once we’re close,” Joann continued. “You and I will close in from the West
to counter any garrison that might have stayed behind. The Pups will bust through
the South, roll right up to the warehouse and fill up those big ol’ shopping carts of
theirs. Any questions? No? Good. Get comfy, we roll out in five.”

Crimson flare-light obscured the stars and signaled the commencement of the raid,
filling the sky to the north with a hellish hue. From this distance it was difficult to
hear the sound of whatever diversion the distraction team had set off to draw
attention away from the depot, but judging from the flashes of ground explosions
and laser light cutting through the clouds made it obvious they were making one
hell of a ruckus.
Joann’s Vindicator had a looted ECM suite strapped to the back, barely
powerful enough to mask the signatures of the attack lance in a tight formation,
which would ideally give them the opportunity to inch forward on the target.
“Dogs One and Two: break off and swing around to the Southern wall as
planned, keep to the trees. Don’t make contact until we give the signal. Confirm?”
Joann’s orders came through the link sharp underneath the light static of the ECM.
A pair of double clicks confirmed readiness from the tankers, giving the ’Mechs
their cue to continue through to the Western wall.
With the external microphones turned up Alex could hear the roar of the
compound’s defending force mobilize and rush out the front gate, a heavy tread of
’Mech feet followed close by. At least a lance worth by the sound of it. Their Crab
and Vindicator were situated far back enough into the tree line that any guards on
the walls wouldn’t spot them, but close enough to get a good look between the
massive conifers and have a clear shot when it was time.
Taking a sip of stale water from the line running through their coolant vest,
Alex fidgeted restlessly with the firing pin on the control stick. Giving every button
a deliberate flick with their thumb nail. A nasty habit they vowed to one day break
themselves off as it felt unbecoming a MechWarrior, but they figured every pilot
had their own ways of dealing with the tension. Joann would chew on those
damned cigars, and the gods knew what the tankers got up to to break the anxiety.
Probably adding obscene patches they would sew proudly onto their jumpsuits for
every mission completed.
Minutes later Alex heard the triple click over the commlink, signaling the
Bulldogs were in position. The lack of spotlights sweeping the depot exterior were
a clear sign that whoever was left inside was far more concerned with what was
happening up the road than at their rear.
As the timer in the corner of their display ticked down Alex took one final
check of the systems–for once all looking clear–and tested the tension in the
harness keeping them secure. Taking the mental image of the checklist Joann had
drilled into them the first time they sat in the Crab, only a few months prior, and
ticked off everything in order. The timer switched from counting minutes to
seconds.
“Buckle up, rookie,” came Joann’s voice over the private line, beamed
directly from the trees a hundred meters to the right. “You’ve got this. Just stick to
the plan and I’ll pull you through.” Alex nodded, and sent an acknowledgment
back across the link. Worried if they tried to vocalize their readiness their voice
would break.
Purple fluorescence filled the night sky as the moment struck zero. The
distraction team had encountered the depot’s defending force and were keeping
them busy for as long as it would take. Alex hoped there wouldn’t be too many
casualties on their side. They didn’t personally know anyone on the team handling
the distraction, and had heard they were the best at getting the enemy to shoot at
shadows. But every soldier, tanker, pilot, and support person was a life they wanted
to keep safe. Even if it meant doing something really stupid like strapping high
explosives onto military vehicles when the crew weren’t looking.
The light on the commlink lit up across the lance. Alex waited, gloved hands
held tight over the control stick.
“Bigot Buster lance, let’s light these bastards up,” Joann called proudly, the
massive bulk of her Vindicator’s particle projector cannon raised towards the
predetermined patch of ferrocrete wall that was soon to make for an inviting
doorway. “Take the shot, rookie, let’s see what you can do with that Crab.”
Flicking the firing control to alpha strike, Alex took one last deep lung full of
air before it became too hot to easily breathe, and pulled the trigger. Lances of red,
green, and blue light speared out from their ’Mech and carved deep scars in the
wall, followed up by the electric blue of the Vindicator’s own PPC. The
temperature inside the Crab spiked, but the ’Mech was designed for a life as a laser
light show, and sucked away some of the heat. The wall, however, was not coping
as well. Alex, knowing their ’Mech was the battering ram in this relationship,
yanked the throttle up to full and charged the crumbling masonry with as much
fury as 50-tons of metal crustacean could shell out.
The wall exploded inwards, its weakened state unable to hold out against Star
League era design philosophies, and bits of charred ferrocrete flew across the
compound as Alex tried to bring the Crab back under control. Joann’s Vindicator
charged in seconds later, sweeping the depot with both arms extended in case of
retaliation.
Technicians and support staff ran for cover at the sight of wall-crashing
’Mechs. A couple attempted to take shots with laser rifles, but aside from minor
scorch marks to the already shabby paintwork, their attempts were less of an
annoyance than they were just pitiful.
“Attention, assholes, if I may have a moment of your time,” announced Joann
over the external speaker. Her ’Mech punctuating her wish for attention with her
medium laser melting the skirt off a hover truck. “We, the people your boss has
been attempting to oust from this planet–this home of ours–have come to reclaim
that which is ours. Make no mistake, this ’Mech I am in is perfectly capable of
leveling this little compound of yours. But that is not our intent this night. If you
would be so kind as to make an orderly exit out of the North gate we will see you
as nothing more than ignorant lackeys, and will do you no harm. Although we do
encourage you to consider a change of profession in the very near future. If you
decide to stay, you will experience first hand why we are called the Bigot Busters.
You have thirty seconds to hoof it, starting now.”
The remaining staff took one look at the ’Mechs, at the impotent rifles and
pistols in their hands, and promptly ran for the exit. Several threw up hand gestures
as they went, which were just as meaningless in the situation as the small arms.
Within a minute, the compound was visibly empty aside from the ’Mechs and
supply buildings that filled most of the enclosed space.
Phase one had cleared without a hitch.
“Alright, Puppyboys, you’re off the leash,” Joann shouted over the commlink.
“You know the priorities. Meds first, food second, and munitions third. Take
everything that isn’t nailed down. And if you find any medical supply boxes
marked Estrogen or Testosterone grab as many cases as you can and I’ll buy the
first round of drinks when we get home. Good hunting.”
Imitated howling echoed across the commlink, mingling with the growl of
Bulldog engines. Now it was up to Alex and the captain to give them time to start
digging.
The South wall of the compound came crashing down in a hail of short-range
missiles, clearing the way for the Bulldogs as they charged towards the
warehouses.
“Ingram, head up to the gate and keep an eye out for any stragglers making
their way back, signal if the base crew makes line of sight. We have at most ten
minutes to load up and move out.”
“Roger, Cap’,” Alex barked back, slowly plodding the Crab up the wide road
that led to the entrance. Without the compound’s staff the place was a ghost town.
The crack of autocannon shells on the Crab’s right torso—shearing away
swathes of armor from its side—was the first indicator that the ghosts of this
particular town didn’t want to let go of their precious bounty. The iconic form of an
UrbanMech stepped into view from behind the administration block Alex was
passing; the barrel of its AC/10 smoking from the last volley. In the blaring
spotlight, the telltale black and white paint scheme, complete with emergency
lightbar, identified it as one of the worst kinds of security ’Mech. What it was
doing miles out from the nearest city Alex didn’t know; likely commandeered from
a local police unit for garrison duty. Alex flicked the commlink open and called out
to their lance. “Contact, contact! We’ve got a Cop-Can heating up the joint. Eyes
open for additional bogeys.”
Pulling the fire controls back into alpha strike, they hit the ’Mech with
everything available, immediately filling their cockpit with oppressive heat. The
large lasers missed, not having the time to swing the arms all the way into position,
but the medium and small lasers scored armor off the notoriously thick hide of the
UrbanMech.
“Roger that, Ingram,” Joann replied. “Swinging around the other side of the
admin block to kettle them in. Dogs One and Two, report in.”
A flustered tanker responded. “All clear here, Cap’. Had to punch out a
quartermaster, but got the important stuff loading up before we see what other
treats we can dig up. Gotta hand it to these bastards, they keep their warehouses
well organized. Saved us a ton of time.”
“Confirmed, we’ll keep any stragglers off your back. Ping us the moment
your bags are full.”
Another volley of AC/10 fire—followed up with a small laser that felt more
of an insult than a weapon—cracked at the armor on Alex’s ’Mech. The wireframe
on their damage readout shifted from yellow to red across the right of their torso.
Point blank range and those autocannons packed a hell of a punch.
Alex attempted to backpedal enough to get the claws of their Crab into firing
line, or at least to spread the next round across a bigger area of armor so they didn’t
go home minus an arm. The reputation of UrbanMechs being tough nuts to crack
was well founded–they thought–as their beams melted yet more of the thick hide to
slag. But there seemed to be yet more under anything that sloughed off. The rising
heat was nearing overwhelming, hinting that at least one of the fourth-hand
heatsinks had been smashed in during the last volley, making breathing harder.
Alex limited their firing pattern to cycling between the medium and small lasers to
let the ’Mech cool somewhat. Not for the first time Alex wished they were piloting
a King Crab instead. Being at the helm of any assault ’Mech was the dream of
many a rookie pilot looking to make a name for themselves, and Alex couldn’t
imagine anything better for cracking open this Cop-Can like a couple of AC/20s. A
MechWarrior could dream.
Easing back around to the wide open gate of the compound, Alex felt less
boxed in by the belligerent UrbanMech. However, the conflict in front of them had
left them open in the rear. Concussive rounds of yet more autocannon fire, backed
up by the scorching of lasers, removed what little armor had protected the
vulnerable rear of the Crab and shook them in their command couch when internal
systems took a pounding.
“Additional contact,” they exclaimed, scanning the 360 degree viewscreen for
whatever it was taking shots at their ’Mech’s posterior. A battered Wolverine that
had either been on patrol or doubled back from the forward force, had taken the
easy hits through the wide open gate into Alex’s backside. “Looks like a Wolverine
9-something. Could really do with that assist right now, Cap’.”
In response, the back of the UrbanMech exploded with lightning and missile
blasts as Joann’s Vindicator unloaded everything it had into the rear of the ’Mech.
Following up with a left handed punch that sent the trash can shaped UrbanMech
face-first into the cold hard ferrocrete.
“That felt really, really good,” came Joann’s smug voice over the commlink.
“I always wanted to do that to one of those. Now back that arse up, rookie. Let’s
see if we can pull the Wolverine into a kill box so we can deal with it and get the
hell out of here.”
 Alex didn’t need any further prompting, so they twisted and reversed the Crab
back down the main thoroughfare, weathering the occasional autocannon round in
the torso and firing back whenever the heat in their cockpit started to drop enough.
The Wolverine may have been fast, but a Vindicator was faster and by the time the
charging mech made it through the gate it was in rough enough shape that Joann
was able to slam her Vindicator’s PPC barrel into humanoid Wolverine’s hip
actuators and pull the trigger. The weapon’s field inhibitor— designed to protect
the weapon’s sensitive electronics from dangerous feedback—long since disabled
to prevent weapon degradation over the years made such a shot one hell of a risk to
take. The energetic blast cracked something important, and the Wolverine stopped
firing and wobbled for a moment before toppling sideways into the pavement,
nearly severed in two at the waist.
“Dogs One and Two, how are we looking over there? We’ve just taken out the
last of the guard ’Mechs, but we’re bound to have more company soon. Get your
rears in gear and get back in your tanks ASAP so we can roll the hell out of here
before their friends show up,” Joann called over the comms.
The sound of grinding tank treads on ferrocrete echoed in response as the two
Bulldog tanks, a mass of crates strapped to the hulls with bungee cords, sped out
from behind the warehouse complex. A jovial voice replied, “Way ahead of you,
captain. Haul is secure and we’re ready to get out of the dog park.”
Alex heard Joann laugh over the commlink and throttled up to follow the
tanks out of the compound. “Good work, squad. Let’s send up a firework of our
own and let the distraction team know they can make their way home.”
“Roger that, Cap’,” barked the tanker on comms.
Alex could see a small figure lean out the rear hatch of the closest tank and
fire a flare into the sky. It burned green and so bright at this distance that Alex had
to dim the opacity on their display. Before reaching the breached wall, Alex
twisted the torso of the Crab, and sent one final blast of large laser fire beam
through the windows of the brutalist administration building. The sudden
conflagration within a sign that quite a lot of paperwork had gone up in flames.
“Feel better after that little outburst?” Joann’s voice chimed in over the
private line.
Taking a deep breath Alex rolled their shoulders and cracked the tension out
of their hands. “Yeah, I do. I figure when the main force gets back to the base they
are going to have to focus on putting that fire out before they try coming after us.
Plus, it was fun. Sometimes you just have to set something on fire to feel like
yourself.”
Following on the tail of the overburdened tanks, their ’Mechs started the long
march back to the resistance headquarters.

RESISTANCE HEADQUARTERS
ACONCAGUA PRIME
ACONCAGUA
INDEPENDENT
7 JUNE 3132

Pulling a razor back along their scalp, Alex cleaned up the overgrown mass that
had once been their neat side shaved hair. What with one mission leading into the
next, there wasn’t a lot of time in the day for self care, and just like their Crab,
everyone needed a maintenance day now and then.
A chime from their noteputer indicated it was a shot day, Alex smiled, it had
become something of a tradition between them and the captain. A moment set
aside so they could both drop their pants–figuratively and literally–and be open to
another person for the time it took to fill a couple of hypodermics and top each
other up. Alex had to admit it was a damn easier experience at ground level than
squeezed into the cockpit of either of their ’Mechs.
Rinsing the razor in the stolen enemy helmet they used as a basin, Alex
picked up their medical kit from their satchel and made their way across the tent
city that made up the resistance headquarters. It had grown significantly over the
last several weeks. Folks had heard the message, saw the writing on the wall, and
joined the fight. The Bigot Busters were getting requests for expansion into a full
company from the heads of the resistance movement, keen to strike back harder
than ever. Joann was still on the fence about it, she liked their rag-tag lance but saw
the benefit of having more tanks and ’Mechs to hit back where it hurt. The fight
was far from over.
Over in the vehicle station, one of the Bulldog tanker boys looked up from
snogging his boyfriend against the munitions crates, and waved before being pulled
back into the embrace. Alex didn’t envy them for their passion, it gave them
something to fight for. For Alex, all they needed to know was that every time they
strapped into that Crab, they were one more brick ready to be thrown in the face of
hate. And that gave them a reason to get up in the morning.
Passing Joann’s sleeping Vindicator, Alex glanced up and grinned at the
freshly resprayed motto across the ’Mechs chest in fluorescent pink paint. A phrase
that was as much a statement of solidarity as it was a challenge to the planetary
authority;
‘Be Gay, Do Crimes!’
Catnopus page art
 BETTER TOGETHER
BRYAN YOUNG
@swankmotron

PAKISTAN
TERRA
REPUBLIC OF THE SPHERE
14 FEBRUARY 3151

“Can we just drop it now?” Darin said, trying to keep his sights on the group of
Clan Wolf Forces—mostly 75-ton Mad Cats—racing over the mountains on the
horizon.
Alaric Ward’s forces had pushed through, rushing toward the gap they
guarded like ants to a sandwich.
Darin’s Ares was part of the Republic Armed Forces task force that had been
deployed to keep the Wolves at bay. Darin thought that was a little more important
than whether or not Sunitha had gotten Melina a Valentine’s Day gift.
He’d rather shoot at the enemy than hear them argue about it. Hell, he’d
almost rather be shot at by the enemy than hear them bicker.
That’s why he’d gotten them both their Valentine’s Day gifts a week prior. He
made doubly sure to have the pendants on him when they deployed, just in case
they had to spend more than a couple of days trapped inside the superheavy ’Mech.
Which they had, thanks to the maneuvering of Clan Wolf. He’d given them
the pendants—sterling silver hearts broken into three strips, with his own piece
representing the center—that morning in the little common area in the center of the
Ares.
Unfortunately, it was his thoughtfulness that started the fight.
“I just don’t see why we need to worry about this now,” Sunitha said.
Sunitha was the pilot, so it was her job to keep the ’Mech moving forward and
in the right spot to plug the gap that could allow the Wolf forces to break through
like water from a dam to Europe and beyond.
“Because it’s Valentine’s Day,” Melina said from her technician’s seat. She
was strapped into it for now, as they had no damage that required her expertise, but
the Ares was particular and peculiar, and they could need a focus or recalibration
on any system at any minute. That’s just what you got when you had a ’Mech that
weighed in at 135-tons and boasted three legs to keep all that extra armor and
weaponry upright.
Melina’s tone was sharp and Darin recognized it as dejection.
“I’ve got one coming in range,” Darin said, “Sending telemetry in case we can
head in that direction to shore up the distance.”
“Roger that,” Sunitha said, and the great endo-composite and myomer
monster lurched in the right direction almost immediately.
“Why are you never on my side, Darin?” Melina asked.
“Huh?” Darin was genuinely unsure of what the hell she was getting at.
“You just changed the subject on me, and this is what I want to talk about.”
“Sweetie, I love you,” Darin said, “but we’re in the middle of a battle.
“Of course that’s what you’d say,” Melina said.
Darin took a deep breath. She’d had a rough upbringing and it was always
better to handle her delicately. But they were still in the middle of a fight. He
aimed the reticle over the oncoming Mad Cat and fired both of the extended range
particle projector cannons, crackling lightning across the desert range between
their position and the mountainous foothills. When the lock tone sounded and the
reticle burned gold, he let loose the long range missiles that twisted ribbons of
smoke across the battlefield. The PPC shots missed, arcing into the scrub brush
beyond the enemy ’Mech, but the missiles exploded in turn across the front of the
Wolf’s cockpit.
“Nice shot,” Sunitha said.
“You’re changing the subject, too?”
“Mel,” Sunitha said, wrangling the brute of a ’Mech back, trying to make
their moves unpredictable to the oncoming ’Mechs. It was her specialty. Darin had
never known a better Ares pilot than Sunitha. “Sweetie, I am not changing the
subject. I know you don’t have much to do yet, but Dee and I are in an actual
battle. You see that, yes? You do know the Wolves invaded Terra, yes?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. It’s infantilizing. Of course I know. I’m just
shocked you’re treating me like I’m just a hurt kid instead of your partner.”
Two more Mad Cats rose over the ridge, giving Darin more targets to track.
He just had to keep his wits about him to hit them in the right order. “What’s the
plan, Sunny?”
“I’m going to let them come to us. If I venture too far, they can surround us or
slip behind. Telemetry from our other ’Mechs suggest there are more coming
further north. I’ll let them get in closer and you can sock them with everything
we’ve got.”
“Got it.”
“Now you’re both just ignoring me.”
Darin sighed once more. He really loved the both of them. He loved being
with both of them. He loved that they both loved being with each other.
And Melina was a soft and beautiful person when her hackles weren’t raised.
And, to be honest, her hackles weren’t raised all that often. Only when she
had her feelings hurt. And that wasn’t that often. She wasn’t a terribly jealous
person. She wasn’t thin-skinned. There just had to be something deeper going on
with her to the point that a perceived slight on a bullshit holiday was enough to
make her go mad out of her skull.
In fact, it really wasn’t like her at all.
There had to be something more to it. Darin just hated the fact that the
pressure building in his chest—that feeling that he was doing something wrong and
needed to fix the problem between the two of them as a mediator—was competing
with the sinking pit in his stomach that reminded him that they were fighting not
just for their lives, but for the freedom of Terra herself.
He really wished he had the time and concentration to break down what
exactly was going on with Mel, but he had three Mad Cats and counting coming at
him and he needed to keep his aim and focus sharp.
Firing again at the lead Mad Cat, decked out in the forest camo and orange
colors of Clan Wolf, the electric bolts of PPC light sizzled against the Timber Wolf,
melting away sheets of armor across its legs and one arm.
Another salvo of missiles darkened the display screen with smoke, locking in
on their target and rippling explosions across the front, the missiles knocked off
armor. By that point, the Timber Wolf neared, doing its best to take a shot. Darin
tried to imagine what it would be like for a Mad Cat pilot, even a Clan Wolf
Warrior, to come upon a ’Mech almost twice their size and weight. A Mad Cat was
already pushing 75-tons and was one of the bigger ’Mechs on an average field.
Darin imagined it would be like a Locust or an Uller coming out of a meadow and
finding a Kodiak waiting for them. It would have been enough for Darin to crap his
pants if it were him. He just hoped the Wolf Warriors were as incontinent in the
face of such staggering odds as any other sane person in the Inner Sphere.
That was really half the advantage of the Ares: the psychological one.
No one wanted to mess with something that heavily armed and armored. Why
would you? Sure, those three Mad Cats had the weight advantage when you added
things up in that regard, but they didn’t have the size or the firepower to take an
Ares down. If Darin could get his licks in, he’d be able to take the Mad Cats down
one at a time before they even got into effective range to do them much damage.
And Darin had a lot more riding on the battle than they did, so he felt a
righteous fury burning in his gut alongside the icy dread, doing its best to melt it
however it could.
Darin was fighting for his home.
And, on an even closer level, everything and everyone he cared most about
was in the ’Mech as well. He didn’t want to go down, because that meant his loved
ones went down with him.
“They’re getting closer,” Sunitha warned from the pilot’s chair.
Darin saw them, growing in his own viewscreen. He kept taking shots at them
on the outside while Melina kept taking shots at her partners on the inside.
“It didn’t even need to be something big,” she said. “Just a gesture. A token.”
Melina had gotten Darin and Sunitha both matching bands for their wrist
chronometers, emblazoned with the RAF logo, as well as the initials of their little
triad intertwined. D, M, and S, like some old runic mark. They were beautiful,
thoughtful, and practical. She got one for herself as well. Darin thought that was a
nice touch and it meant something personal for all three of them, connecting them
together.
Darin glanced at the chrono band on his wrist as he pulled the trigger on the
PPCs, melting holes into the cockpit of the lead Mad Cat. That brought satisfaction
of a job well done; all of his shots had finally ground his enemy down. Which,
when he thought about it, was the same tactic Melina was using, sanding down
their armor before going in for the kill. With that breathing room, he thought he
might spend some of his power cycles installing a proverbial heatsink to douse the
domestic issue warming up hotter than the fusion engine in their shared Ares. “Mel,
you know Sunny’s not even from the western hemisphere, right?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
It was Sunitha’s turn to sigh as she shifted the direction of the Ares, doing her
best to keep the titan moving, keep the gap closed, and give Darin the clear shots
and steady movement he needed to keep the heat up on the circling Wolves. “I’m
not from a place where Christianity is much of a thing, and you know they don’t
have any St. Valentine there. I’d never even heard of it until you told me about it.”
That shut Melina up, at least for a moment. Darin was grateful for the
reprieve, because the next two Mad Cats were there and in firing range. He
unleashed an Alpha Strike on one, blasting with everything he had, but the Mad
Cats unloaded on the Ares as well. Heat rose in the superheavy ’Mech as they took
on more damage and he kept firing energy weapons.
Darin hated to think that the missiles peppering the surface of their shared
’Mech might knock some sense into Melina, but that was the path his brain weasels
led him down.
“We have damage across the crew compartment,” Sunitha said, the frustration
in her voice gave way to a dire edge.
“I’ve got a malfunction in fire control,” Darin said, seeing that his targeting
reticle wouldn’t lock. That would make taking the ’Mechs down significantly more
difficult. He could sight it all by hand, but it made the shots a lot harder without the
computer doing its work.
Swearing under her breath, just enough so that Darin couldn’t quite make it
out through the internal comm system, Melina unbuckled from her chair and went
to work, doing what she could to get them back into fighting shape. Darin could
imagine her at the edges of his mind’s peripheral vision, going to work on some
panel or another, but her doing her job didn’t diminish the frustration she radiated.
“It could have just been a small thing. It wasn’t like I hadn’t told you it was
important.”
Darin fired at the more aggressive of the two Mad Cats, the one that kept
scoring hits against them. It always made sense to target the most effective of the
enemies on the field. That way, they’d be less effective. A simple rule of thumb,
but it had worked for Darin to this point.
 As he fired, he figured there was no getting out of the war raging inside the
’Mech. He had to fire shots there, too. “Mel. Love. Seriously, it’s not that big of a
deal. I’m sorry it was important to you, but you’re hanging on to the wrong thing.
Sunitha loves you, don’t you, babe?”
“Of course I do,” Sunny said, just as the Ares lurched again, and a salvo of
missiles narrowly missed them, probably owing to her fancy maneuvers.
“See? There’s nothing to worry about. It just didn’t cross her mind.”
“She had reminders.”
“Mel,” Darin said.
Definitively.
As though she should have known better.
As though she shouldn’t have put so much stock in such a ridiculous holiday
in the first place.
But it didn’t end it.
“I’m just saying.”
Darin knew that she liked to have the last word, almost no matter what.
She would add some snarky comment, even under her breath, to ensure she
was the last one to speak in any argument. It was just her way, and she couldn’t
help it, even if it wasn’t very helpful in a situation like the middle of a pivotal
battle.
“Where are we on the target lock?” Darin asked, hoping a subject change that
engaged her expertise would finally do the trick.
“We’re getting there. It scorched a circuit, but I’ve got a spare here. Hell, even
something like that could have been what she gave me.”
“Are you all right?” Sunny asked.
“What do you mean, asking me if I’m all right? Do I sound all right?” Mel
said.
“No, you don’t, but I mean like… Is there something else going on?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
 Darin took another shot at the ’Mechs, while Sunitha kept on talking through
things.
“This just isn’t like you. I’ve never known you to get hung up on something
so small. Especially when we’re on the frontline like this.”
“No,” Mel said sheepishly.
To Darin’s ears that meant Sunitha had hit upon something. Whatever was
eating at Mel, it had a lot less to do with whether or not Sunny had gotten her a
Valentine’s Day present and had a lot more to do with something else. Something
she was keeping hidden. Bottled up. That was never a good thing.
Not in a relationship.
Not anywhere.
Things were always best out in the open. Especially the cockpit of the Mad
Cat Darin kept aiming for. He wanted the contents of that ’Mech out in the open
badly, and he kept doing his best to crack it like a nut before the Ares took more
damage.
“We’re taking more hits on the legs,” Sunitha called out, directing Darin’s
attention—and presumably Melina’s—onto the status displays that were ubiquitous
around the crew compartment. The alpha leg, the one a most often out front,
flashed a bright yellow on its wireframe. The Wolves must have hit it a lot more
and a lot harder than Darin realized. Which made sense. It was easy enough for
him to lose track of the incoming shots and damaged systems that didn’t directly
affect him. He was more accustomed to dealing damage than tracking it.
“What would you have liked me to get you?” Sunitha asked finally.
“It’s not the thing that matters,” Mel said. There was a strain in her voice and
an electrical nap that gave Darin the distinct impression she was pulling wires from
a panel. “The whole point was just that you cared enough to think of me.”
The Ares swayed back in the other direction, the hulking ’Mech getting closer
to the leading Mad Cat. Sunitha had lined up a perfect shot for Darin.
Though the targeting computer was still not responding, he sighted the shot
and fired. The small and medium lasers, firing into the same region as the PPCs,
created a rainbow of light across his viewscreen, and the lights worked in tandem
to punch holes in the Mad Cats legs. Then, the missiles smashed into the side of
the Wolf ’Mech, rupturing the armor and tearing out great chunks of it. One missile
though impacted the Mad Cats knee actuator and the entire structure exploded in a
brilliant light show.
Darin smiled as he watched the Wolf Warrior eject from his cockpit as the
Mad Cat lost its footing and collapsed to one side.
“Nice shot, Dee,” Sunitha said.
“Sure,” Mel said, as though complimenting Darin somehow denied her
feelings and issue. At least that’s how Darin interpreted it, but he was the first to
admit that he could never guess what was really happening in the minds of either
of his mates.
He considered and decided that wasn’t exactly true. Not always. There were
times in the Ares—or in bed—where they all communicated in the same unspoken
language, instant and pure. And without verbalizing it, they all knew just where to
be at the right time. They were connected in a way that felt… almost unnatural if it
hadn’t felt so right. The problem now was that they were all out of sync and it had
everything to do with Melina’s issue.
“I think of you,” Sunny said finally now that the targets had thinned and the
maneuvering was less demanding. The third Mad Cat that had breached the hillside
was still alone. There were reinforcements coming, but that lone pilot was clearly
wondering if they could do it. Could they take the Ares on their own?
Darin knew a Wolf Warrior was at the very least doing the calculus, no matter
how much they wouldn’t like the sum.
“I’m thinking of you now,” Sunny continued. “How could I not? I’m so in
love with you and I’m so sorry I didn’t realize how important this was to you. It
just never really sunk in that it was such a vital thing. I don’t always show you how
much I care about you—and Darin—in the ways I want, but I love you so much.”
 “Sunny!” Darin shouted, cutting in. He didn’t want to interrupt, but it looked
as though she hadn’t noticed the Mad Cat who decided on making the fool’s run at
the Ares. And she was still leading with their damaged leg.
“I see it, Darin,” Sunny said, instantly tilting the great machine in the other
direction, protecting their damaged leg from the Mad Cat’s firing arc. With their
trajectory altered, she continued. The soft tenderness in her voice reminded Darin
of why he fell for her as hard as he’d fallen for Mel in the first place. She was such
a soft and caring person, wonderful and tender, and the feel of her skin against his
was like cool silk. That was the phrase Mel had used to describe it, too. Cool silk.
“Mel, you don’t ever have to worry if I love you or not. I know that won’t stop you
from worrying, but I need you to hear it. I love you. Of course I love you. I
wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t love you. And if this St. Valentine needs some gift
or a sacrifice to make you happy, then I will do it. As soon as we get back to base.
Or into a city. I’ll be sure that I get you something…”
As Sunitha spoke, Darin watched the Mad Cat let fly with lasers and missiles,
the light cutting brilliant through the smoke low on the field.
Darin cursed himself as he hit the firing studs and missed another shot of
lasers across the front of the Mad Cat.
Mel couldn’t work fast enough to get the targeting computer back on. And he
hated the fact that by missing a shot, he let the Mad Cat get in even closer, risking
the lives of everyone he held dear.
Sunitha’s soothing voice offered some comfort. “…But, Melina, I need you to
know that nothing I can get you would actually show you how much you mean to
me. The last two years have been the best years of my life, getting to share it with
the two of you while we defend our home and fend off these Wolves. I know today
has been rough, indeed, the last month since the invasion has been awful, but you
give me your heart every single day, and I don’t intend to waste or spoil that.”
Warmth filled the crew compartment. Not the type of warmth that meant
dehydration and imminent shutdown, but the warm heat of love on a calm winter’s
day.
It melted the rest of the ice in Darin’s chest lingering from the tension of the
battle.
“Try that,” Mel said.
Daria’s brow furrowed. Try what?
But then the targeting reticle on his viewscreen, hovering over the Mad Cat,
burned hot gold and the tone sounded. Pulling the triggers, Darin unleashed every
missile pod at his disposal and they rocketed right into the side of the ’Mech,
flowering into red and orange flames like fireworks on Republic Day. Then, he
shot the lasers again, and they carved at the missile pods the Mad Cat wore like
oversized shoulder pauldrons and melted one of them down completely, leaving it
with only half its weapons.
Instead of fighting to the death, the Mad Cat turned, showing Darin its rear
quadrant.
“It’s running away!” Sunitha said.
“Thank god,” Darin said.
“Or Saint Valentine,” Sunitha said.
“You see,” Melina said and he could almost hear the smile in her voice
through the radio. “This is why we’re better together.”
“I knew you’d feel it,” Sunny said.
“I do. I’m sorry,” Mel said. “I love you.”
“Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, Melina,” Sunitha said.
Though the words rolled unnaturally off her tongue. Darin knew she meant it.
And Melina did, too.
 WE HARDLY KNEW YE
KYLE ‘BLIMP’ KRUSO
linktr.ee/blimpeh

WATLING MOUNTAIN RANGE

SHERWOOD
FEDERATED SUNS
3 OCTOBER 3151

Ka-BOOM.
A shudder ran through the cockpit as she slowly returned to her senses.
Arabella opened her eyes and groaned at the bright light coming through her
viewscreen, leaving her to squint. Bright indicator lights were the first thing to
pierce the blinding daylight, indicators flashing to the same pulsing, angry tempo
of the alarms as they steadily matched the throbbing in her head.
As her eyes began to adjust to the light, they found the weapons screen on her
right, listing a damaged medium laser and a multi-missile launcher whose ammo
bins ran dry. Her gaze drifted across her dashboard, coming to her flickering radar,
which showed multiple red units and a single green one surrounding her position in
the center. Next to it, her local comms flared and pulsed, and soon the sound of its
chatter came back to her too, though she couldn’t quite make out the panicked
voices from the static interference coming from her speakers. A scream echoed out
for a moment before cutting off suddenly, and that green blip faded from the radar.
Nonetheless, the chatter continued, and then…
Ka-BOOM.
Her cockpit shuddered again. As she tried to focus herself, Arabella went over
everything she remembered. Pirate raids from the Tortuga Dominion had been an
issue for a long time here in the Periphery March, but they had become bolder,
more opportunistic, more frequent.
In the wake of the war with the Dracs, the Federated Suns had leeched
soldiers and supplies from various backwaters to replenish the front lines along the
Combine’s spearhead toward New Avalon. Every transfer, every diversion of
desperately needed supplies, Arabella watched as Sherwood’s defense got thinner
and thinner. Every attack brought more pirates, and with them took more lives.
Each raid had been repelled but—
Ka-BOOM.
Arabella was startled again by that sound. It wasn’t like the blast of a
damaged fuel tank or a swarm of missiles. It felt controlled, its direction slightly
different every time. Its burst left no echo as it traveled through the treeline beyond
her canopy. It sounded like a gun. Like an autocannon. A big one.
Tortuga pirates had raided again, but they were better prepared. The comms
outpost she guarded was perched on a mountainside, where its elevation and
distance from populated areas allowed it to share messages with nearby JumpShips
with minimal interference. It only garrisoned one lance of ’Mechs, and was
hundreds of klicks from any support. With forces spread thin, and shuffled around
with each attack, the MechWarrior had only just acquainted herself with her newest
lancemates after transferring to this lonely outpost. Sergeant Marcy Jacobs,
Kenneth Williams, and Terry Blackwell had been stationed here longer, and in their
last raid they had lost Dominic Riley.
And they were destined to follow him when those pirates returned. Arabella’s
sensors had gone haywire as a quartet of ’Mechs in dusky gray colors emerged
from the treeline; a Cataphract, a Blackjack, a Hunchback, and a Stinger. Kenneth
was caught in the surprise as his Enforcer melted underneath him in a coordinated
laser barrage. Marcy took out their Cataphract and whatever electronic
countermeasures it was carrying, but couldn’t stop her Bushwacker’s ammo bins
from cascading in fire. Arabella picked up new blips and rose on her Valkyrie’s
jump jets to catch a visual, only to feel the laser array of that Hunchback rake
across her chassis. Alarms blared as she tumbled to the ground, then…
Ka-BOOM.
Disoriented and sick, Arabella reached for the control yokes in front of her.
They seemed far, and the weight of gravity fought her as she realized her Valkyrie
had fallen onto its back. Grasping the controls, she gave them light twitches, and
her ’Mech shifted groggily underneath her. The ’Mech had landed hard on the edge
of a VTOL landing pad, head tilted against the wall of a supply depot, and feet
toward the surrounding meadow and downward slope of the mountainside.
Arabella double-checked her frazzled radar; nothing but red blips, yet the
battle seemed to rage on. Grabbing her controls again, she slowly pulled her ’Mech
up into a sitting position, despite the screaming from her diagnostic panel. She
tapped at the controls of her comms unit, unsure how much of the static was from
jamming and how much was from being jostled by the hard landing, but as she
adjusted the frequency the shouting suddenly became clear—just as that Stinger
entered her right peripheral.
“—was tellin’ the lads we shoulda cut you all loose!” The Stinger sprinted
into the field in a zig-zag motion, twisting back just enough to fire its single laser.
It didn’t get far before a swarm of missiles splashed across it. The explosions tore
through its armor, shredding the precious myomer in its legs as it quickly lost
momentum and slowed to little more than a brisk limp. “After all that business
with Johnny I knew we couldn’t trust—”
“Shut your damn mouth!”
 Arabella hardly had a moment to process why that voice echoed before she
found herself briefly shaded from the sun and drowned out by a roar. The Stinger
pitched upward and fired its laser into the air before the massive weight of an
assault ’Mech crushed the helpless scout under its boot.
The Valkyrie pilot toggled on her targeting computer, but she recognized a
Victor when she saw one. Her targeting HUD lit up with a silhouette of the 80-ton
monster, reporting it as the 9Ka variant with a medium laser in its left arm and a
Pontiac 100 heavy autocannon in its right, and plenty of ammunition to spare. This
model was light on weapons for a BattleMech of its size, but it made up for it by
being an excellent brawler and having an efficient set of jump jets that let it close
distance very quickly. Arabella’s heart stopped as the dark-blue-and-gray ’Mech
turned its autocannon toward her.
“Ronin, Fox, we’ve got a live one. Hold them off while I secure them,”
echoed the Victor’s pilot over the public comm as she marched it toward the much
smaller Valkyrie. “Sit tight, FedRat.”
Arabella panicked and thumbed the triggers of her jump jets. Her dashboard
wailed as only half of them ignited, and she rose at a far slower rate than she
expected. Shit, she thought. She’d forgotten the damage her jump jets had taken
and was about to pay for it again. The Victor accelerated to a sprint and feathered
its own jump jets toward her. She wasn’t going to get out of its reach. Arabella
extended her ’Mech’s right arm and fired its damaged medium laser, but it splashed
a useless cone of radiation across the Victor’s chest. Its pilot chuckled at the
display.
She was going to die here. All to defend her home, under the so-called
protection of New Avalon and her nobility, her Davion Prince, all so self-important
that they’d strip this system bare again just to save their own hides. She saw the
barrel of that cannon as it pulled back and lined up for a killing blow.
The impact hit her ’Mech’s abdomen, her safety harness digging deep into her
chest as she was rocked hard in her command couch. The Valkyrie shook violently
around her as she felt it slam into the depot building, leaving her slumped forward.
The wind knocked out of her and the taste of iron fresh on her lips, Arabella looked
up to see the Victor’s canopy matching her stare. It hadn’t fired its autocannon.
Instead the Valkyrie found its waist in the grasp of the assault’s left hand, and its
back pressed into the depot wall. Its legs dangled below her, their working jets
firing off, desperate to fly but unable to compensate for the tonnage holding her
down. She was pinned, but she wasn’t dead.
“You are terrible at following instructions. I said sit tight. Love the flashlight,
by the way.”
Arabella glanced at her damaged laser and its dented casing. Was this pirate
making smalltalk? She sounded gruff, loud, yet unmistakably feminine. Halfway
between angry and enthusiastic, Arabella guessed that crushing that Stinger was
the start of something boiling over and she was enjoying every second of it. That
echoed effect, she realized, was because the pilot was speaking both through her
comms and her external speakers. It was a little intimidating.
“And don’t eject. It’s a long walk to the next comms station where you can
call for help that ain’t coming, and we’d rather not have to find you when we just
might save you.” Arabella froze, not even realizing she had started reaching for her
ejection handle. The pirate was right, but what was that about saving her?
She raised her ’Mech’s arms upward and hesitantly flipped on her own
microphone. “Alright! Alright. I yield.”
The Victor pilot snorted. “‘I yield’, she says.” Arabella’s cheeks went hot with
embarrassment at the playfulness of the ribbing. The pirate ’Mech swayed forward
a bit to match the MechWarrior’s laughter, pressing the Valkyrie a little deeper into
the wall, before lowering the lighter one back to its feet.
“If you’re done flirting with the FedRat, we could use some help,” called out
the deeper, monotone voice of another pirate. “Fox and I are pulling back to you.”
The Victor twisted to Arabella's left, and she followed its gaze to the main
communications center. Rounding the corner were a Shadow Hawk and Quickdraw
clad in the same blue-and-gray livery as the Victor, followed closely by the
Blackjack and Hunchback tailing them. The two medium ’Mechs were worse for
wear given their OpFor unexpectedly doubled, but they pushed forward like rabid
dogs.
“You two focus Longshot, I’ve got Disco.” The Victor lurched forward and
charged the Hunchback, its pilot cackling and swearing madly over her speakers.
The assault ’Mech closed in on its target and its cannon flashed and boomed. The
Hunchback, anticipating the shot, veered slightly off course while twisting to
reduce its profile. The shell, however, struck the ground at its feet, sending chunks
of dirt and ferrocrete spraying into the air and clattering against the BattleMech’s
armor. The Hunchback recoiled before rotating back towards its opponent, only to
find the Victor much too close.
Though its pilot bellowed like a beast through the comms, the ’Mech moved
gracefully upon the Hunchback akin to a dance. Sure, the Victor owed its mobility
more to jump capability than its footwork, but nonetheless, the Hunchback quickly
found itself in a waltz that it very much did not consent to. Arabella watched in
awe and terror as the two BattleMechs engaged in a terribly one-sided melee. The
Victor grazed its medium laser across its partner’s cockpit, only for its hand to
grasp her real target: the shoulder-mounted laser array. The Hunchback stared up at
its former ally, pumping volatile energy into the ’Mech’s palm for only a moment
before the patchwork armor and support structure gave way to the actuators in the
assault’s fingers. Followed up by a gut punch and cacophonous boom from the
Victor’s autocannon, the Hunchback crumpled and sagged in her grasp. “Damn
brown-noser,” the MechWarrior swore into her comms, before tossing the shattered
’Mech to the ground. The Victor raised its boot and crushed the cockpit.
“You got it out of your system, hun?” another voice, presumably the third
pirate, asked over comms. Arabella glanced back to where the Blackjack had been
only to find it toppled over, right leg severed from its chassis by the combined fire
of the Shadow Hawk and Quickdraw. She’d been so transfixed by the Victor that
she hadn’t even noticed them overwhelm it.
“You know she doesn’t, Fox. Not until Firebeard hangs.”
“I’m fine,” the pilot spat. “Why don’t one of you round up the staff here while
the other checks the perimeter?” The Victor straightened up before turning back
towards the Valkyrie. Arabella almost instinctively backed up as the BattleMech
approached her, pitching her ’Mech upwards to see its cockpit as it stopped in front
of her. “Oh stop, I’m not gonna hurt you unless you make me. How ‘bout you
show me whatever passes for a ’Mech garage in this place? We should talk.”

The Valkyrie relaxed beneath her as Arabella powered it down. The MechWarrior
removed her neurohelmet, leaned forward and gave the console a gentle pat. “Held
out again, girl. Thank you.” A few final chimes from the onboard computer
responded before going dormant. Popping the external hatch, Arabella stepped out
onto the ’Mech hangar’s gantry, shrugging off her coolant vest and unbuckling the
safety strap on her pistol’s holster. Her abundant caution was shared by the Davion
’Mech techs charged with maintaining the outpost’s BattleMechs. Down at ground
level they surrounded the Victor that now sat in the bay that used to house Terry’s
Catapult, pistols and rifles at the ready. Even from her vantage point, though, she
could see their hearts weren’t in it. The outpost was lost, and even if they shot the
pilot, the other two could easily raze the whole thing. Still, they weren’t sure what
to expect, and Arabella wasn’t either. Best to play it safe.
The Victor’s speakers crackled to life. “Look, I know we’re not here on great
terms, but can you please tell your boys to back down? You could be dealing with a
lot more hostile ’Mechs right now, but you’re not, so I’d like to not get shot.”
Arabella descended down the scaffolding steps and approached the pirate
’Mech, holding out an arm to the ’Mech techs. “Let's hear her out. I want to know
what’s going on.” The techs looked to one another before lowering their rifles and
stepping back.
After a few moments, the hatch on the Victor depressurized, and a tall, broad
figure stepped out onto the walkway. Arabella watched as the pilot walked down
the steps, the metal grating of the catwalk straining under each footfall of her
combat boots.
The pirate still wore her coolant jacket, a handheld radio attached to its left
shoulder and a dozen patches and buttons decorating the rest, many sporting blue,
pink, and white stripes. Underneath it was a simple black crop top, exposing her
muscular arms and toned, sweat-coated abs, the tight fabric leaving little of her
wide chest to the imagination. Loose denim pants clung to her waist by a studded
leather belt, the thumb of her right hand hooked underneath it as her fingers lazily
tapped the grip of a holstered pistol. Her hair was cropped short and bleached to a
silvery white that stood bright against the fade to its darker roots.
She walked with her shoulders held back and her pecs thrust forward, with all
the sway of someone who knew she owned the place. Her jaw was sharp, and her
lips curled into a smug grin underneath a skin-toned gloss. Jade-colored eyes
pierced into Arabella’s, stunning and predatory. She was gorgeous.
“You done staring, hun?”
“I-I wasn’t—” Arabella stammered as she averted her gaze from the pirate,
turning a bright scarlet as she turned away. She had been staring, and hadn’t even
noticed the pirate come to a stop in front of her.
“What’s your name, FedRat?”
She took a moment to regain her composure. “Corporal Arabella Perth,
Periphery March Militia.”
“Cute, but far too long. Dangerous too, if the wrong people find out. I think
we’ll call you Torch, given that funny little high-beam bolted to your ’Mech.”
“I— what? Who even are you?”
 “You can call me Freya. That was Ronin in the Shadow Hawk, and Fox in the
Quickdraw. And this,” the pirate dropped her smirk and spread her arms, gesturing
to everything around her, “is just one branch of an invasion. Firebeard wants this
place for himself, and he’s going to take it. Judging by the state of this place, good
ol’ Julian Davion has ensured he’ll succeed.”
Arabella’s shoulders sank. Pirates were invading her home. The last few raids
weren’t just to steal and terrorize. Tortuga had been probing their defenses.
“And we don’t want any part of it.” Freya folded her arms in front of her.
“Firebeard killed one of ours. We got pressed into this before we could really do
anything about it, so now we need to escape an invasion force. By the look of it, so
will you and everyone else here. If we work together we’ll have a better shot.”
Arabella stared up at the pirate. “Why should I help you? Why not stay here
and fight your boys off like we always have?”
“Because there’s more coming.” Freya looked down at her, her expression
turning to one of pity. “Firebeard’s invasion fleet is easily twice that of the local
garrison, and we were one of a handful of forward lances ensuring a smooth
landing. You’ll be overwhelmed, and any MechWarriors not dead in their ’Mechs
will be hanged instead, and the rest of you will end up in chains. Sherwood is lost.”
Freya paused for a moment, giving Arabella a chance to let it sink in. “Look,
it’s not worth dying out here for a lost cause. Better you get out while you can, lick
your wounds, and come back better prepared. Four ’Mechs are better than three, or
in your case, one. When all this is done, we can drop you off in Filtvelt space. I’m
sure they won’t take kindly to such a close intrusion.”
The smaller pilot thought it over. Sherwood had, in the past, been part of the
Filtvelt Coalition, which was formed the last time the Davions got so wrapped up
in a war that they couldn’t protect the March from bandits. Arabella didn’t want to
abandon her home, but it was a fool’s errand to stay. Maybe if she was offloaded in
Filtvelt, they could be convinced to come to the planet’s aid yet again.
Arabella sighed, and held out her hand. “Fine. I don’t like it, but… I think you
might be right. But don’t try anything funny.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Freya’s smile returned as she grasped Arabella’s hand
tight with a firm shake. “Welcome to the crew, Torch.”

WATLING MOUNTAIN RANGE

SHERWOOD
FEDERATED SUNS
12 OCTOBER 3151

Arabella stared into the mirror in her barracks room as she reached to undo the bun
in her dark hair. She wore a tank top with her usual work pants and, with no one to
admonish her for being out of uniform, her jacket was tied around her waist. Dark
circles had grown around her eyes, though she was unsure if the stress that caused
them was from all these months of defending Sherwood with dwindling supplies,
or from Tortuga finally making landfall with intent to stay.
Freya’s crew had done what they could to help make the preparations for their
departure a little easier. The day after her lance took the outpost, multiple
DropShips entered Sherwood’s atmosphere. Among them was a Leopard
containing a hold full of sympathetic pirates and the corpses of a dozen who were
less so. As rowdy as many of them were, they had no interest in causing problems
and the Davion staff, aware of their precarious position and survival, were
cautiously welcoming. A handful of the mutineers took over the communications
center—something Freya explained was part of the invasion plan—to make it seem
to the rest of Tortuga’s forces like everything was going just fine up on this lonely
mountainside.
Their ’Mech techs brought with them plenty of supplies for maintenance and
repair, an absolute relief to the techs stationed here, and the two crews found
themselves drinking together in their off-hours by the end of the day. The next
morning, every functioning BattleMech was in the Leopard’s hold, whose repair
facilities far outshined the glorified scaffolding they had to work with in the ’Mech
hangar.
It wasn’t as simple as just packing up and leaving, though. Sherwood did have
basic orbital defenses with a handful of cannon placements that, now manned by
Tortuga pirates, would blast any DropShip trying to leave. That’s where Arabella
and the other MechWarriors would come in. The plan would be to charge in,
eliminate the generators powering them, and conduct a hot evac out on the Leopard
before backup power could bring the cannons back online. It seemed simple
enough, but following through with it still felt so daunting.
She’d dreamed of someday leaving the tall pine trees behind and getting the
chance to travel the Inner Sphere beyond the March, but not like this. What was
she going to do if Filtvelt wouldn’t help? She couldn’t gather an army to make a
return trip without them, she didn’t have the connections or the wealth to sway
anyone to save her home. She wasn’t strong enough to wander out on her own, and
she couldn't live with herself if she abandoned Sherwood altogether. It felt like her
life was falling apart around her and there was so little she could do to stop it.
A knock came from the barracks door, and Arabella turned to see Freya
leaning against the frame. “Hey there, Torch.”
Arabella flinched a little; she still wasn’t all that used to that nickname. “What
is it?”
“The ’Mech techs are saying repairs are just about done, and we’ll be good for
the Op in the morning. Figured we’d light some campfires and have one more
night of drinking before we all probably die tomorrow. Why don’t you join us?”
Arabella looked back at her dreary reflection. “I don’t know if I’m up for
it…”
Freya held up a hand to cut her off. “I get that everything is terrible right now,
I really do, but the way I see it, you can come to our little party, enjoy life here one
more time, maybe get to know the people you’re fighting with a little, and just
relax… or, you can stay in your room and be a moody loner.”
Damn that cheeky smile of hers. “Alright, yeah. I’ll be there.”

The party had lit up the air around the outpost with an energy she hadn’t seen in
quite some time. The clear skies above opened a pristine view of the stars, a gentle
contrast to the glow of the bonfires that lined the areas around the opened hatches
of the Leopard. Tables and benches had been carted out from the small mess hall
and elsewhere in the compound, all filled with an intermingling of pirates and
Davion staff. Food and drink were scattered about, and while most of the alcohol
was absolute swill, it did its job in helping everyone loosen up.
On one table, two ’Mech techs were engaged in an arm wrestling match, and
at another, bets were being placed over a round of cards. Sporadic singing broke
out as a handful of pirates shared a millenia-old shanty, spreading about the crowd
in a well-practiced chorus. It was as if the tension of the past week and the anxiety
over tomorrow’s escape had melted away.
“I told you, this isn’t my first five.”
Ronin sat on a bench, nursing his drink carefully. The jockey of a man tilted
to the side as Fox leaned against him, nearly spilling their own mug as they
prodded at him. “Sure, but it’s your first five with us! Real Ace material! You
ought to celebrate!”
“Oh yeah? And this isn’t it?”
 “Hun, you’re still on your first drink, you should loosen up more. Go wild,
find someone to lay across the deck of the DropShip, right Freya?” The drunk
MechWarrior swung their arm across the fire toward the taller pilot.
“Fox, he’s ace, it’s not happening.”
“Besides, with how much racket you make shagging the techs for the first
pick of munitions, it’s hard enough for everyone else to sleep.” Ronin sipped again
at his drink, and Arabella thought she caught a slight smile behind his mug. That
smile dropped though, as he glanced over to Fox and saw the wide grin on their
face. “Don’t.”
“You’re an ace Ace! That’s so good! I’m gonna tell the techs to paint that on
your ’Mech first thing.”
The two quickly devolved into bickering as Ronin demanded they back down
and Fox teased him further. Freya doubled over, laughing at the scene they made,
bumping her elbow into Arabella. “Ah shit, sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said, awkwardly bumping her shoulder against the larger
woman. Arabella took a swig from her drink, hoping to swallow down some of her
nerves with it. “Are they always like this?”
“Yeah, more or less, ever since we picked him up several months back. He
was a Drac garrison man, too disillusioned with tradition to gut himself when
Johnny captured him on a raid and offered him work. Fox was the first to really
crack his shell. They’re closer than they look.”
“That was your friend, right? Johnny?”
Fox and Ronin quieted down as she said his name. They looked between each
other and Freya as they uncomfortably shifted in their seats. Arabella worried for a
moment she soured the mood, before Freya sighed with a half-hearted grin and
reached into her jacket. “Johnny was… more than a friend. He was our lance lead,
and frankly, he was in charge of the whole outfit. But he was more than that. He
was a mentor, a confidante. Practically a father.”
She pulled out a black wallet and flipped it open. Inside was a photo of an
oddly plain looking older man for a pirate. Average height, fair skin, short cut hair,
someone who could absolutely be lost in a crowd. His arm was around Freya’s
shoulders, and both sported a few bottles of expensive-looking wine, standing in
front of a massive Centurion BattleMech. Tucked in a pocket was a worn old patch
of a smoky gray jungle cat. Arabella recognized it from her history lessons at the
Academy: Smoke Jaguar.
“We figured for a while he was a Clanner,” Ronin spoke, “Given the way he
talked, anyway. Though, we figured he was a bit removed from it. Finding that
patch in his quarters explains it; his family, or bloodline or whatever, had to have
come from whatever handful of refugees survived their annihilation.”
“He’s never been like any Clanner I met,” Fox chimed in. “When he found me
after I was dispossessed, he wasn’t exactly calling me a bondswoman or what have
you. He gave me that Quickdraw and helped me get revenge on the bastard who set
up the last merc group I worked for. He was never fond of nobles or
corporate-types, so robbing him was par for the course.”
Freya held the wallet in her lap, staring at it. “He was a terrible pirate like
that. He didn’t like hurting the poor, saw no point in causing suffering for people
who didn’t have much of anything to take, preferred tackling those with power and
wealth. Being part of Tortuga seemed like it was mostly a means to an end. The
pirate lords never seemed all that happy about it, but he made sure they got their
cut. Must have thought himself a real Robin Hood-type in an awkward situation.
Real ironic given we’re pretty sure he’s from here.”
Arabella blinked, for the first time in a few minutes. “He’s from Sherwood?”
“Probably. When Firebeard announced the invasion, he threw up such a stink
about it, demanded he reconsider. Firebeard wouldn’t budge, of course, so Johnny
challenged him. Declared a Trial of Grievance. Next day they’d duke it out in their
’Mechs, and…”
When Freya trailed off, Ronin set his drink down on the ground in front of
him. “Firebeard rigged the fight. We’re not sure what happened, but we think his
autocannon ammunition was sabotaged. Johnny’s Centurion hadn’t taken much
damage before it suddenly exploded underneath him.”
“I… I’m so sorry.” Arabella looked between Ronin and Fox, before staring
down at her own drink. Next to her she could see Freya’s trembling hands, holding
that photo in a tight grip. She pulled her own hand from her mug, hesitating for a
moment, before accepting the risk and placing it on her thigh. Freya jumped a bit at
the sudden touch, but relaxed as Arabella gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Firebeard’s a piece of shit and an absolute fraud,” Fox spat across the fire.
“Didya know Firebeard ain’t even his real name? The way I heard it, he found out
about some old Terran pirate who used to set his own beard aflame to intimidate
privateers, so the guy had scrap and flamer tanks rigged to the chin of his Man O'
War,” they gestured to their own jawline, stroking an imaginary, bushy beard.
“Looks like fuckin Santa Claus. Tortuga’s full of bloody LARPers, but it’s still
ruled by whoever’s got the biggest gun.”
Freya snorted a little at her lancemate, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Ain’t
that the truth? We know it, Johnny knew it, and still they played us for
fools,”—She tucked the wallet back in her jacket and stood, holding her drink up
high—“But not any more. Fuck Firebeard, Fuck Tortuga! We’re gonna carry on
without ‘em, in Johnny’s name!”
A ’Mech tech a table over raised her fist. “For Johnny!”
The pirates playing cards stood from their seats, glasses high. “For Johnny!”
Soon the whole crowd erupted in cheer for their old leader. Even the outpost
staff were quick to raise a glass in honor of a man they didn’t know. Fox threw
their arm up, spilling half their drink in the motion. Even Ronin held his glass aloft,
shrugging before finishing it in one swig. Arabella watched as all these people
celebrated the man they knew, respected, and cared for so deeply as they sang
songs in his name, shouting merrily as they shared their grief and companionship.
Standing above it all, Freya reached for a fresh bottle, chugged it, and smashed it in
the fire. Arabella felt herself smile, and raised her drink too.
Ronin held Fox’s arm over his shoulder, supporting the inebriated pilot as they
stumbled over to Freya and Arabella. Fox whined gibberish into the man’s ear in
protest as he stopped and angled them towards the Leopard. “Fox is mad I pulled
them away from their date. I’m going to get them to bed.”
Freya waved them off. “We’ll meet you there soon, thank you, Ronin.
G’night, Fox.” Fox grumbled into Ronin’s shoulder and waved their hand more or
less in Freya’s direction.
The night had begun to die down long ago, and at this point only a handful of
stragglers were left. Those still lingering huddled around the glowing embers of the
fires, enjoying the quiet company. Arabella relaxed and took in the calming chirps
and calls of the late night wilderness as it slowly overtook the scene. She’d spent
much of the last week stressed out of her mind, but tonight felt like she could
properly unwind again. She’d miss these quiet Sherwood nights.
“You comfortable?”
Arabella tried to look up at Freya, but when she felt the chill of a metal button
on her cheek, she pulled back. Arabella hadn’t gotten quite as hammered as Fox,
but it was enough that she didn’t notice she’d been leaning against her companion.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
Freya chuckled and cut her off. “It’s alright, I don’t mind.” She turned toward
the smaller woman and held out her arm, inviting her closer. Arabella hesitated, but
leaned back in. Freya wrapped her huge arm around her and gently pulled her in
close. Arabella was surprised by how much, in that brief moment, she had missed
her warmth. The MechWarrior dipped her head, hoping that the low light would
hide that her face had turned a bright crimson.
“So, what’s your story, anyway? How’d you end up here?”
 She peeked her head up at the question, and shrugged. “What’s to tell, really?
My family has lived here for generations. I inherited my grandmother’s Valkyrie
when she retired. Joined the Academy, was good enough to pass but not great
enough to end up in some front line regiment for the Davions, and ended up right
back here as a garrison unit, which suits me fine. Spent the last year worried about
being transferred off-world for the war with the Combine, but you got here first.”
“Huh. And I suppose now you’re going off world for, uhh,” Freya stuttered,
looking away and scratching the back of her head with her free arm as she realized
what she was saying mid-sentence.
“For different reasons. Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, I…” Freya closed her eyes and sighed. “Look, I
wanted to ask you something. I know I said earlier that once we all got out of here,
we’d drop you off in Filtvelt, or anywhere else if you’d like, but I was
wondering… would you like to stay with us? We were doing some thinking, and I
think once we break out of here we could, I dunno, start a mercenary group. A
proper one, no more piracy. We figured if we did this, maybe we could contract
with Filtvelt, or the Davions, or whoever else, and we could help take this place
back from Firebeard. I sure wouldn’t mind getting a shot at that Man O' War
myself. I know it’s what Johnny would want. But it’ll be harder with only three of
us, we’d stand a much better chance with a full lance.” Freya gave her a nervous
look she hadn’t quite expected from the normally confident woman. “What do you
say?”
Arabella looked out towards the treeline, where the moonlight gave way to the
darkness of the forests. She planned to return one way or another, but she hadn’t
quite pieced out how yet. Her best idea was to run to Filtvelt authorities, beg them
to assist her home, and hope they would allow her to join the charge back. But
while she hated to admit it, she knew that plan was hollow. There were too many
variables, too many opportunities for it to fall through. This, however, felt more
concrete, less mired in hopes and dreams. It felt like an honest shot. And if it all
fell apart, if she couldn’t save Sherwood, at least she wouldn’t be alone. “I think
I’d like that, yeah. If you’ve got the room for me.”
“Great! That’s great, we’ll workshop a name and we’ll get it all figured out.”
Freya squeezed her shoulders happily, but the crack in her voice betrayed her
continued anxiety. She inhaled deeply, holding her breath like she was bracing for
something. “And when this is all over, maybe we could… get something to eat
somewhere, wherever we make landfall? Just the two of us?”
Arabella had been so preoccupied trying to hide her own scarlet face that it
wasn’t until she looked up at Freya that she noticed she was also blushing like
crazy. That stalwart, confident facade had crumbled away, leaving her stammering
and unsure of herself. And as she stared into her eyes, she saw a vulnerable side of
her that Arabella figured not a lot of people got to see. It was beautiful.
Slowly she reached up, grabbed the collar of her jacket, pulling the larger
woman down to her. Before she could even really think about what she was doing,
Arabella leaned in and kissed her. It was soft and brief, lingering only a moment
before she pulled away. Freya sat in silent surprise at her advance as Arabella gave
a small smile. “I’d love that.”
Freya stared back at her for a moment before releasing her held breath and
laughing. “It’s a date.”
MARION OUTSKIRTS
SHERWOOD
FEDERATED SUNS
13 OCTOBER 3151

“The Black Cat Mutineers? Do you want us to sound untrustworthy?”

“You have any better ideas, Ronin? I think it’s got a nice ring to it,” said Fox,
crackling over the Valkyrie’s radio. “It matches the Jags we’ve got!”
Arabella looked out her viewscreen at the other ’Mechs in the Leopard’s hold,
hoisted inches above the deck as they were slowly rotated into position. Across
from her were Fox’s Quickdraw and Ronin’s Shadow Hawk, their paint and armor
restored. In the bay next to her, Freya’s Victor had seen similar repair, with the
addition of the mangled canopy of the Stinger she crushed now bolted onto its left
foot like a trophy. Each of their ’Mechs now had the head of a black Jaguar painted
onto their shoulders as a creative reinterpretation of the old Clan’s insignia. The
crest had been decided days before Torch had even thought of joining them. That
hadn’t stopped the ’Mech techs from painting her Valkyrie, which now sported
black and blue claw marks raked across the old Davion livery from shoulder to hip.
The light ’Mech had been fully repaired, and on its right arm sat a new long-range
variant of the old laser it replaced. Humorously, the techs had painted a flashlight
over its casing.
“I like it,” Freya’s voice cut in over comms. “What do you think, Torch?”
She sat back in her command couch and double-checked her systems. The
Valkyrie chimed back with an “All Systems Nominal” from its Betty as her
diagnostics lit up green. “Sounds alright, we can workshop it once we’re gone.
Remember, I need you to distract their guards while I swing wide and cut the
power. They won’t expect you to have a fourth.”
Freya echoed back, having powered on her external comms. “We’ve got your
back.”
The Valkyrie swayed as the overhead clamps holding her aloft stopped turning
and brought her back down to the deck. Torch watched the timer on her HUD tick
down as the Leopard’s bay doors slid open. Outside, the massive trees of
Sherwood’s forests passed slowly as the DropShip cruised by just fast enough to
not stall. The insertion would be rough, and she quietly thanked the techs for
triple-checking everyone’s jump jets. “And Freya? Take me somewhere nice when
we get to Filtvelt.”
“Will do, Torch.”
“For Johnny,” Ronin said.
“For Johnny!” followed the others.
The countdown ticked to zero. Her ’Mech stepped forward and out the door.
The Valkyrie dropped into the open air.
 SHELTERING WING
ROBIN BRISEÑO
@einherjarvalk

FIREBASE DELTA-NORTH
BENFLED
CLAN JADE FALCON OCCUPATION ZONE
3 APR 3071
1034 HOURS

“You understand I am seeing you while I am awaiting an intelligence briefing,

quiaff?”
Star Captain Eva Chistu flipped through the papers she had been handed
slowly, methodically, but with thinly-veiled frustration. Her annoyance could
clearly be read by anyone who so much as glanced at her weathered face, but it
especially concerned the two technicians who stood before her. She had granted
Tomas and Patrik a rare occurrence to speak with her face-to-face—with good
reason—but they couldn’t have picked a worse time for it.
Technician Tomas visibly stiffened at her words. “Star Captain, I understand
that what I am asking for—what we are asking for—is unusual by Clan standards
and unimportant considering the current situation, but it would mean the world to
myself and my partners.”
Eva’s cold blue eyes flicked upwards at him from behind the reassignment
request that he had handed over. The crow’s feet around them scrunched as she
lowered the papers and smiled. Age had tempered her personality and relaxed her
standards. The request had not been written in the correct format, much less on the
correct form, but she understood. Eva had grown close to her bondsman since the
Coventry incursion, and in turn, close to his partners as well. She knew that he
knew there was little he couldn’t ask of her, and little she wouldn’t provide in
exchange for his continued loyalty and maintenance expertise.
Eva, a once-fearsome killer, had become a doting caretaker, initially out of
pragmatism, but soon out of genuine fondness.
“A reassignment request for Patrik and Sera, to be brought onto my technician
team with you, stationed in the same quarters. You must trust them well.”
“Aff, Star Captain. They are excellent technicians. And then some.” Patrik
tried and failed to suppress an amused grin.
“Consider it done, Tomas. I do not understand the appeal of the group
coupling that you do with your entourage, but considering the circumstances of my
assignment to this world, I will, as always, give what I can to ensure that my
subordinates are content with theirs.”
“I appreciate it, Star Captain. When you took me from the Lyran Alliance, I
worried that I would never find a place I belonged again. I am thankful that you
have seen fit to provide me one. If there is anything I can do to repay your
graciousness, please do not hesi—”
Tomas was interrupted by the door to Eva’s office slamming open. A pair of
Falcon MechWarriors stormed inside, sweat heavy on their brows. A gaggle of
technicians stuffed themselves into the room behind them, ignoring all sense of
decorum. The casual atmosphere of the discussion was vaporized immediately as
one of the MechWarriors shoved a terrified-looking astech forward. The young
woman stumbled slightly, then knelt and placed a scorched shock case she was
carrying onto the ground.
Eva raised an accusatory brow, unmoved. “Star Commander Reynold, what
have I said about how we treat our technicians and laborers in this garrison?”
Reynold made a hasty, apologetic half-bow, his bald head shining in the
artificial light. He was one of the youngest MechWarriors in Eva’s garrison cluster;
had the decision been up to her, she would have returned him to active service
despite his failures. His inability to remember standing orders, however, explained
why he had been shuffled off early.
“My apologies, Star Captain. The team we dispatched to the DropShip crash
site recovered something you need to see.” He nodded towards the technician, who
gingerly cracked open the case.
A small cylindrical device, covered in hazard and radiation warnings, was
cradled inside.
Tomas spoke in a fearful whisper. “Star Captain, that…is a nuclear device.”
Eva’s eyes widened briefly before her brow furrowed in anger. “A nuclear
weapon? If that device was not safed before you brought it into this base…”
Reynold nodded curtly. “Aff, Star Captain. We have done our diligence. I am
not so reckless as to put my trothkin at risk.”
“Were they able to determine who brought it here?”
“Blakists.” The word dripped with contempt as it left Reynold’s mouth.
“Of course. What unit?” Eva stood and planted both of her hands firmly on
the surface of her desk. Her expression was taut, her emerald eyes now glaring
daggers at the Blakist sword emblazoned on the device’s casing.
“We are unsure, though we found it buried beneath a body of a Manei Domini
warrior, likely the vanguard for a Shadow Division. This is a low-yield device,
meant for a decapitation strike. A second Overlord was detected burning for the
planet a few days behind the first, but with only one spaceworthy Sabutai
remaining, we will not be able to contest their landing.”
Eva’s face scrunched in frustration. She had issued a challenge to the first
Overlord as soon as long-range sensors had detected it, but received no response.
Now she knew why. The Blakists had no reason to bid forces; they had intended to
kill every Falcon warrior at once. Her instinctive decision to deploy the garrison’s
meager aerospace assets for an intercept had saved their lives.
For now.
“Initiate an evacuation for the lower castes. Reynold, gather the rest of your
Star and prepare for combat. We cannot allow the Blakists to establish an
uncontested foothold so close to Sudeten. They will not repeat their failure, but we
will not make it easy.”
“Aff, Star Captain.” Reynold turned and bolted down the hall towards the
garrison’s hangar, his companions following close behind to prepare their ’Mechs
for deployment. An uneasy silence settled into the room as Tomas and Patrik
exchanged concerned glances, unsure what to do next.
“As for you two,” said Eva, her gaze returning to the device, “I do, in fact,
have a request.”

Eva ran her hand beneath the streamlined canopy of her Black Lanner, the
garrison’s only OmniMech, as she reached the end of the gantry walkway. Below
her, an army of astechs and laborers scrambled to make preparations for what
would likely be the garrison’s final sortie. Eva’s ’Mech towered over them, an
emerald guardian waiting to be awakened. She settled into her command couch,
tucking a wayward tuft of copper hair away after securing her neurohelmet in
place.
“Star Captain, about my request…”
Eva turned to face Tomas, who was already waiting at the edge of the
catwalk. “The paperwork will not be necessary, Tomas. You will not be going to
Sudeten.”
“I do not understand. Only you and Star Commander Reynold’s Star were
exempt from the evacuation order. Are we to stay here? Has the tactical situation
changed?”
“Neg, Tomas. I know what I must do as a warrior; my course is set. Yours is
not.” Eva lowered her neurohelmet’s boom microphone as she continued her
startup sequence.
“What do you mea—“
Eva keyed her external speakers, her voice echoing throughout the hangar as
if from the heavens. “Warriors of Clan Jade Falcon! Heed my words!” Every
person, warrior, technician, and laborer alike, froze.
“We are Jade Falcon, great among the Clans. Since we came to the Inner
Sphere, we have sought nothing less than the prize of holy Terra, from which the
Star League will be reborn like the phoenix of legend. The Spheroids have proven
that they must be saved from themselves, that they must be managed by a state
ruled by the children of the Great Father. But no state founded upon the ideals of
zealotry, hatred, and cruelty can last. The Blakists who have come to our world do
not understand this; they will burn the Inner Sphere to the ground in their religious
fervor. We will greet the Blakists on the battlefield, and we will crush them
between our talons in the march to our rightful place as the ilClan! We will
demonstrate that we, not them, are the only worthy heirs to the Star League. And
we will do so by demonstrating what they will not.”
Eva motioned for Tomas to come closer. As he did, she grasped his right wrist
and held it high.
“To rule is to nurture, to support, to protect. And sometimes, we must trust
those in our charge to make the right decisions of their own accord, lest we become
tyrants ourselves.”
Eva drew her survival knife from its sheath on her belt, raised it, and slashed
Tomas’ bondcord before pulling him partially into her cockpit to embrace him.
“You and the other civilians of this garrison will board the Sheltering Wing and
head for Blair Atholl. There, you will be free to lead the life you wish to—serving
the Jade Falcons as Tomas, or returning to life in the Lyran Alliance as Tomas
Gallant. I only ask that whatever you do, you make your partners and I proud.”
She released him, then turned to face the now-growing crowd gathering below
her Black Lanner. “As for the rest of you, do not forget what we will do this day.
Know that we have done our duty with pride. Be safe, and be strong. The times
ahead will need no shortage of heroes.”
A chorus of “Seyla!” rose from the assembled laborers and technicians as Eva
lowered her canopy and prepared for war.

ANEA FOREST
BENFLED
CLAN JADE FALCON OCCUPATION ZONE
3 APR 3071
1440 HOURS

The Falcon ’Mechs trundled along the banks of the Vineflin River, with Eva’s
Black Lanner on point. Reynold’s star, a haphazard mix of five Clan second-line
designs and refitted Star League-era relics, followed her.
Reynold opened a private channel as his Griffin IIC trotted forth, attempting
to match its pace with Eva’s ’Mech. “Star Captain, what you said in the
hangar—those ideas are not those of a Jade Falcon. Were the circumstances
different, I would have challenged you to a Trial of Grievance over your chalcas
view towards the lower castes. However, given the inevitability of what we are
marching into, I am curious; your reputation prior to Tukayyid tells me that you
were not always so light-handed. What changed?”
Eva slowed her machine, then twisted its torso so that she could clearly see
Reynold through his canopy glass. She had learned from Tomas that her words had
more strength when spoken face-to-face. “Have you ever heard of the concept of
noblesse oblige, Reynold?”
“Neg, Star Captain. Enlighten me.”
“It is a concept I learned about from the Lyrans, the idea that those with
power should show generosity towards those below them.”
Eva heard Reynold scoff in his cockpit. “What good does it do to treat
non-warriors like warriors? They do not stand beside us in battle, nor do they risk
their lives for the good of the Clan.”
“Aff, that is true. But our lives are in their hands. When I first came to the
Inner Sphere, I thought much the same way, not only of the lesser castes, but of my
subordinates as well. My reward was failure after failure, defeat after defeat. It is
why I never rose above Star Captain, why I was challenged for my command after
Tukayyid, and why I have languished here since we were beaten back from
Coventry.”
“You blame your own failures on your technicians and subordinates?”
Reynold asked quizzically. “No wonder you were pushed into a second-line
garrison.”
“Neg,” said Eva. “Pushing those under my command harder and harder with
no reward, with no attempt at understanding their struggles, needs, or desires,
resulted in a lack of confidence that translated into substandard effort from my
technicians and starmates. When I was assigned to the garrison here, Tomas
begged me for better treatment. I granted it to him, since I had nothing to gain from
denying it, and in turn, he rewarded me as a commander, as a MechWarrior, and as
a woman. If we are to rule over the Inner Sphere, we cannot ignore the needs of
those we will hold dominion over, even if we do not understand their lives. Their
welfare directly affects our own—if we do not support them, nurture them, and
protect them, then we will lose their support, and our victory will never last.”
Reynold sighed, and Eva saw his ‘Mech give a near-imperceptible shrug.
“Perhaps that is true. I disagree, but my opinion on the matter will not matter soon
enough. Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Star Captain.” Reynold’s Griffin
IIC slowed, rejoining his star in formation.
Eva again took point, her Black Lanner’s avian design scanning left and right
like a terror bird on the hunt. The Blakists were close, but thanks to her ECM suite,
it was unlikely they would detect which direction Eva’s force was approaching
from on their sensors.
Suddenly, a ping on her sensors grabbed Eva’s attention. It was quickly
followed by another. And another. Eva switched to magscan and detected the
massive, unmistakable signature of the Blakists’ landed Overlord, nestled in a
broad clearing amongst a series of rocky outcroppings. A full Level II formed a
defensive picket around its drop zone. She marked the location of the DropShip on
her tactical map, then opened her command circuit.
“MechWarriors, the Blakist LZ has been marked as Nav Alpha. It is likely
they are prepared for a fight, even if they believe their vanguard has already dealt
with us. Remember that no batchall has been issued, and thus zellbrigen has been
suspended. Do not engage in single combat—focus fire and tear them down. Once
the Blakist sentry ’Mechs have been destroyed, target the Overlord.”
Assuming we live that long, Eva thought as her command console lit up with
confirmation lights from Reynold and his star. “Tien, you are with me. Falcons,
attack!” Eva pushed her throttle to its limit and sprinted towards the clearing.
Tien’s Jenner IIC took her side as the Clan ’Mechs broke cover and initiated their
assault.
Eva fired a full alpha strike as soon as she cleared the tree line, sending a blast
from her PPC and twin pulse lasers square into the back of an unaware Red Shift.
The stream of ionized particles smashed through the paper-thin rear armor of the
scout ’Mech, sending the twisted remains to the ground, lifeless.
To her right, Tien bathed the battlefield in smoke contrails as he fired a salvo
of SRMs in the direction of a Lightray. The missiles showered the Lightray in
flame, leaving scorched pockmarks across its torso as it raised its right arm to snap
off a vengeful PPC shot. The Blakist’s return fire caught Tien’s ’Mech in the leg as
he ran, causing the Jenner IIC to nose over and carve a gouge into the soft earth.
He ground to a halt against a rocky protrusion, pinning his escape hatch in place.
“Stravag!” Eva hissed. She knew little about the Blakists, but knew enough to
know that fighting them would be harder than fighting most Spheroids. To have a
fighting chance, they needed to do better than trade kills. She turned and fired
another salvo of coherent light at the Lightray as soon as her lasers cycled.
Sapphire beams stitched a line of molten armor across the upper torso and head of
the Blakist ’Mech, staggering it mid-stride.
As it slowed, her laser fire was joined by the distinctive bark of an LB-X
autocannon from behind. A shower of sparks erupted from the Lightray’s armor as
it was pelted by the ’Mech-scale shotgun. Alyssa’s Shadow Hawk strode forward
proudly, her ’Mech’s additional weapons a welcome addition to the fight despite its
meager firepower. “Star Captain, Reynold and Izzy are having trouble and need
assistance. Go to them; I will handle this freebirth.”
Eva moved to disengage without a word, firing her weapons at the Lightray
again as she moved across the clearing, carefully picking her way through the
numerous prefabricated field facilities the Blakists had already erected around their
landing site. As she did, she passed Allan’s Horned Owl, face-first in the dirt. A
ragged exit wound smoldered in the back of its bulbous head.
Four versus five. This is bad, and getting worse.
Guiding her Black Lanner around a massive boulder, Eva spotted Reynold’s
Griffin IIC, now missing its left arm, desperately firing at a Blakist Wraith. The
Wraith fired as it jumped, expertly weaving through Reynold’s fire as he struggled
to draw a bead on it. Izzy’s Locust IIC already lay in pieces nearby, its left leg
shattered and bent backwards at an unnatural angle.
Three versus five.
Furious, Eva drew her firing reticule in front of the Wraith, then slowed to a
stop to steady her aim. As the bug-like machine eased itself back towards the
ground and prepared to jump again, Eva fired. The staccato beat of her lasers
walked across the rear of the Blakist ’Mech, boiling away armor and structure
before being joined by a brilliant stream of crackling ions. The PPC bolt crashed
through what little armor remained, and the Wraith fell as its pilot rocketed into the
sky.
“Thank you for the assist, Star Captain. My damage is superficial, but it was
only a matter of time before I lost that fight,” said Reynold. “Izzy was not so
lucky.”
“We have already lost two good warriors, Reynold. I am not keen to lose
more.”
“Indeed. But we have a new problem: the Overlord is powering back up. It is
only a matter of time before it brings its weapons back online. We are running out
of time, and out of options.”
As if to underscore the difficulty of the situation, Alyssa suddenly screamed
in agony through the Falcon comms. Her status light went dark, and Eva’s sensors
showed the bruised-but-unbeaten Lightray moving towards them, now with two
additional Blakist ’Mechs in tow.
“It is just us now,” said Eva. “We must seize the initiative and give them the
fight that they are looking for if the Sheltering Wing is to escape. Stick close, and
remember, no single combat. I will draw their fire.” Reynold barked an
acknowledgment as Eva navigated back towards the site of Alyssa’s fallen Shadow
Hawk.
The two Clan ’Mechs split up as they approached the Blakist sensor contacts.
Breaking cover from opposite sides of an outcropping, Eva was immediately
greeted with a barrage of gunfire. Lasers stabbed into the dirt around her as she
activated her Black Lanner’s myomer accelerator circuitry and pushed its speed to
maximum. She bobbed and weaved around the Lightray, drawing its fire while
pouring pulse laser shots into a captured Hellbringer that she knew would be too
fragile to survive protracted combat. In the distance, an ancient Osprey fired its
Gauss rifle at her from maximum range. The ferro-nickel slug left a ripple of
superheated air behind it before burying itself into her ’Mech’s leg, shearing off
nearly all of the armor as it tore through its shin plate.
Eva could hear the growl of Reynold’s fire control over her headset as he
unleashed his Griffin IIC’s LRM racks and large laser at the Lightray, desperately
probing for holes in its damaged armor. The emerald lance of light cut into the
Blakist machine’s side, causing the air around it to shimmer with heat as its fusion
reactor shielding began to fail. The Lightray pilot turned to face its assailant, only
for a flight of missiles to crash down upon it. The ’Mech’s reactor whined as it
began to breach its containment field, then stuttered and fell silent as the Lightray
collapsed.
“Not bad,” Eva said with a smirk. “Do you see what happens when you listen
to orders?”
Reynold’s laughter was cut short as the Blakist Hellbringer unleashed its full
weapons load into the Griffin IIC. One PPC bolt caught Reynold’s ’Mech in the
head, obliterating the cockpit and him along with it.
Eva’s heart rate surged. There wasn’t any time to mourn Reynold, nor any of
his Starmates. She gritted her teeth and fired every weapon mounted to her Black
Lanner into the wounded Hellbringer and watched it stagger drunkenly, then fall
on its side, hydraulic fluid and coolant oozing out of its torso. The ’Mech
attempted to stand again, only to be unceremoniously kicked square in the chest
and sent face-first into the mud by the Black Lanner’s birdlike leg. Eva planted her
’Mech’s foot on the Hellbringer’s back, its avian profile giving it the appearance of
a steel raptor perched on a fresh kill.
The remaining Blakist Osprey, seemingly aware that the odds were now
firmly against it, turned and ran.
Eva opened her comms circuit to an open channel. “Is this all that the Word of
Blake can muster? Are the successors of those who bested the Clans on Tukayyid
so weak that they themselves cannot stand before an old woman and a single Clan
OmniMech?” she sneered.
A man’s voice boomed from within the Overlord. “Neg, Clanner. My men
simply saved you for me, so that I may savor this final victory myself.”
A sextet of Blakist ’Mechs marched down the ramps of the landed DropShip,
fanning out in a half-circle. Eva’s warbook identified the spindly, alien-looking
machines as Celestial series OmniMechs—a Malak, a Preta, two Grigoris, a Deva,
and a Seraph. Each mounted a variety of exotic weapons and wielded a wicked
retractable blade in the left arm.
The Seraph demonstrated the melee weapon’s lethality as it walked past
Tien’s fallen Jenner IIC, running the blade clean through the cockpit, where he was
still trapped. When the blade was removed, Eva could see that it was coated in the
dead warrior’s blood.
“Identify yourself, Blakist,” Eva hissed. “I wish to know the name of the surat
whose death will avenge my warriors.”
The Seraph, which Eva’s warbook had identified as the Dominus variant,
appeared to admire the gore adorning its blade before retracting it. “I am
Demi-Precentor Soth, of the 50th Shadow Division. I do not need your
introduction, Eva Chistu, only your life.” Soth’s Seraph turned to face Eva,
allowing her to see the kill markings on its right torso—four falcon skulls, each
with a Blakist sword driven through it from above. A space for a fifth skull had
been left beside them.
Eva’s blood briefly ran cold before her temper flared. She had fought Soth
before, on Tukayyid, where his Com Guard units had killed every member of Eva’s
Star except for her. She had fought Soth to a standstill in single combat before
being ordered to retreat, forcing her to leave her honor on the battlefield. In the
aftermath, an upstart Hazen from her unit challenged her for command and won,
dooming her to a life spent wasting away in a garrison unit.
Soth’s appearance on Benfled felt like fate, but it didn’t matter. She would kill
him, if not for herself, then for the people she had been charged with protecting.
“It appears we have mutually exclusive goals. I will have your head,
freebirth.”
“You’re welcome to try. Adepts, today I will collect the prize denied to me for
the last two decades, and then we will purge this world of Clanner filth. Do not
interfere!” Soth launched his Seraph airborne on a plume of superheated plasma,
moving far faster and further than Eva expected from a ‘Mech of his size.
Eva bounded forward off of the destroyed Hellbringer and charged into the
fray, weapons blazing at the larger ’Mech. Droplets of molten steel spattered away
from the Seraph, carving a vengeful scar across its gray and red armor. Soth
returned fire while in mid-air, sending a PPC bolt into the side of Eva’s ’Mech
before following it with pulse lasers of his own.
She staggered under the withering assault, slowing just enough to throw off
Soth’s aim. Eva watched as a white-hot bolt impacted the ground directly in front
of her, igniting the grass around it. Even from within the confines of her cockpit,
she could feel the air growing dry as the heat rose around her, both from the
residual thermal energy of Soth’s plasma rifle and her own increasingly taxed heat
sinks. Wiping a torrent of sweat from her brow, she brought her Black Lanner
around the now-growing grass fire and jammed the firing stud for her PPC again,
hoping for a lucky hit that would end the duel.
Luck, however, was not on Eva’s side.
Her PPC bolt went wide, sailing past the gaping maw in the Seraph’s face that
was its head-mounted plasma rifle. She continued her forward assault, desperate to
cut around the slower machine, then rip through meager rear armor. Soth’s ’Mech
spewed a toroid of plasma towards her ’Mech like a dragon of legend, then joined
it with his own PPC and laser fire. Every round loosed by the Blakist ’Mech found
its mark, and Eva again staggered as she closed distance with the Seraph. Her
’Mech’s right arm fell away under the assault, taking her most potent weapon with
it.
Eva glanced down at her flashing wireframe damage readout and cursed under
her breath, only to suddenly have the wind knocked out of her. She felt a sensation
of unnatural warmth emanating from her gut, but instinctively pointed an arm
towards the Seraph and triggered for her pulse lasers, ignoring the disruption to her
cooling vest.
The lasers flashed into the air, as her vest again pumped fresh coolant around
her. Eva felt herself being lifted into the air as her mind raced to process what was
happening.
The Seraph had run her through.
Soth’s ’Mech jerked its arm away, and Eva’s Black Lanner fell limply on its
back.
Eva touched her stomach and felt the strange, warm sensation of her own
intestines, now distended outside of her body. She looked down and could see
daylight through the bottom of her cockpit where Soth’s blade had punctured it, the
hole now dripping with bright crimson blood. There would be no way out of this,
just as she had predicted.
Reaching inside her cooling vest, Eva could hear Soth’s smug laughter over
his external speakers as he drew closer. “Just like last time,” he said, his Seraph
now looming over her. All I had to do was wait until you overcommitted, wait for
you to make a mistake, and then I’d have you. This time, there won’t be any Jade
Phoenix to save you. You’ve lost again, trashborn.”
Through fading vision, Eva saw Soth gloating through his canopy, a
psychotic, gleeful grin plastered on his face. Behind him, the telltale contrails of an
aerodyne DropShip continued to rise into the sky, escaping towards a new home
that Eva would never see. If nothing else, she would die having secured a future for
the people she cared for and for the people they cared for as well.
She did not understand them. They had never understood her either, but they
had given her one last gift in exchange for her devotion and support.
“Neg, Soth. I believe I have finally won,” Eva said, flashing him a smug grin
through bloodstained glass. She drew her hand from her vest, holding the detonator
for the nuclear device beneath her seat towards the sky, where it would be the last
thing either she or Soth ever saw.
Eva firmly clacked the trigger and embraced victory.
Get Rekt page art
 THINK ABOUT THE FUTURE
RUSSELL ZIMMERMAN

LOBURG
BUENA PROVINCE
LYRAN ALLIANCE
8 FEBRUARY 3084

“What about Warlock?” Dominic persisted, voice ringing out across his
company-wide comms band.
“No,” Leutnant Wilkes shot back. The senior officer was actually younger
than Dominic, but somehow managed to always sound world-weary and ancient in
comparison.
“Come on, boss. Sorceror? ‘Sorceror Lead’ sounds pretty cool, sir, you have
to admit!”
“I really don’t,” the leutnant sighed. “And it’s a mouthful. Imagine trying to
shout ‘Sorceror Four’ in the middle of a fight?”
“Witch?” Dom asked. “Witch is short.”
“You know my name. I’m not dealing with that.”
“Wizard?” Dominic’s Thunderbolt kept stomping.
 “Same,” his leutnant’s Orion did the same. “Got enough ‘w-i’ words in my
life.”
“C’mon, Leutnant William ‘Wizard Lead’ Wilkes? Sounds snappy, right?
No?”
“No.”
“Boss, we’ve got to plan ahead. Command said they want unit designations
turned in today. We’ve got to think about the future!”
Dom was determined to land on a new unit call sign before this patrol was
over. Leutnant Wilkes seemed determined only to finish the patrol, and secondarily
to finish it without shooting Dom out of his T-Bolt if he kept it up. The men and
women of the Eleventh Lyran Regulars stomped on.
Lucy Higgin’s Phoenix Hawk had a point, Dominic and Wilkes were spread
out side by side, while Janet Schneider and her Thanatos were in the rear, putting
them in a routine diamond formation. They were a Steiner patrol lance, running
heavier than was probably wise, a bit topheavy and with mismatched strategic
speeds. Higgins and Schneider were faster than Dom and Wilkes, making pairings
awkward, and everyone had jump jets but the lance commander, which made
everything awkward. These things took time, though, and amidst the Eleventh’s
ongoing rebuilding, their lance was… fine.
They were a unit ripe with inherited ’Mechs, inherited wealth, and inherited
potential. Khaki on drab green, they were a knot of steel stomping through light
woods, running a routine sweep. And they were settling for ‘Patrol Lance’ today,
because the unit still hadn’t settled on a new callsign after the Regulars’ recent
periods of regrowth and restructuring.
“Think about the future, sir! So, uh, hey, how about Druid? Huh? Druid
Leader? That’s a good one, isn’t it, si—“
“How’s your brother doing?” Wilkes shut Dom down with a social alpha
strike, and a direct hit below the belt, at that.
Ouch. Dominic didn’t rise to the bait and snap back. He, sullen, gave the
leutnant the silence he clearly wanted, and took the opportunity to brood. He’d
been brooding a lot lately. More than he liked, and mostly because of his brother.
Dominic’s big brother, Irwin, was currently riding out a few days in the brig. Irwin
was in there because he’d spent a few nights riding Colonel Fuentes’ adjutant.
That’s him. If he’s not fighting, he’s fucking. Mechbunny, junior officer,
holotrid action star, Duke’s son, whoever, doing whatever. Anything for attention.
Anything for the scandal.
Dominic had never had that problem. The lust for attention, yes, but also the
lust for… anything else. He didn’t understand the appeal. Sex was clearly a
necessary occurrence for the continuation of the species—hah, unless the Clanners
have it all figured out, after all!—but it wasn’t something Dom thought about
often, had enjoyed the times he’d tried it, or looked forward to. And it surely
wasn’t something that led him astray or straight into temptation.
No, Irwin got all the ‘temptation’ from us. Dom sighed inside his helmet.
‘There are two types of people who get born into family names like ours,’ Mother
used to tell us. ‘Be the type the history books are kind to.’
Dom was trying to be Dominic Steiner-Zibler, a loyal hound. His elder
brother clearly wasn’t. He was content as Irwin Steiner-Zibler, a hound dog.
They were both bachelors despite being in their thirties (albeit very different
types of ‘bachelor’).
The two of them were now serving in the Eleventh Lyran Regulars, a parent
company to the Eleventh Lyran Regulars Combat Auxiliary that their mother had
once commanded. The proud, fiery, Kommandant Tiffany Steiner-Zibler, who had
ridden out the Federated Commonwealth Civil War, had chosen loyalty to her unit
and duty to the Lyrans she’d protected, over the Zibler—Federated Suns—half of
her family. The roles of the martial family Zibler had knighthoods and baronies
aplenty, but they were all in Davion space, granted by Davion nobles. The boys’
mother had chosen a different type of duty, and a different type of honor. In Steiner
space, they were respected, but… not as wealthy as they might be. Not as
embedded in the noble entanglements. Not as rich with titles and obligations, nor
as connected, as was needed to climb the ranks.
Neither MechWarrior had a proper command yet, nor would they until
something changed. In due time, they knew that the Steiner-Zibler legacy would
continue. It would recover from the missteps of the FedCom Civil War, and make
its way into the future.
But one of her sons seemed entirely disinterested in carrying on that legacy.
Spreading their genes, perhaps, but not their honor.
The pair of brothers had landed in the Eleventh not merely due to their family
name, but as a sort of camouflage. Leutnant Kylie Karmak, whose grandfather had
been the pirate Abel ‘Baron’ Karmak, bloody right hand to Redjack Ryan, was
accidentally running interference for them. She was a recent, and terrifically
controversial, transfer. Colonel Fuentes had a headache thanks to Irwin
Steiner-Zibler, yes… but he had protestors outside their base due to Kylie Karmak.
He had signs, and marching in the streets, thanks to Karmak. He had half the
tabloids in Steiner space taking pictures day in and day out, thanks to Karmak. The
granddaughter of a notoriously bloodthirsty pirate was stomping around Loburg in
her granddaddy’s old Banshee; the romantic escapades and insubordinate brawls of
Irwin Steiner-Zibler were being ignored, for the most part.
At least until anyone besides me hears about him and Karmak being together.
She was forbidden fruit, so he set his sights right away. He’s slumming it in her
bunk as often as not, and I’m terrified word will get out. The scandal would kill
Mother. Fuentes would kill Irwin and Karmak, both. And me, probably, just for
fun.
He allowed himself the slightest of smiles, desperate to restore his mood.
“What about Necromancer, boss?” Dom broke the unit’s uncomfortable radio
silence, a good brood having gotten the dourness out of his system. “Necromancer
Lance? Eh?
“Every suggestion you’re making is worse than the last one,” Leutnant Wilkes
responded as grouchily as Dominic had figured he would. “How about you keep
your eyes on your sensors, Steiner-Zibler?”
“Sure thing, Leutnant Wilkes, sir! The planet’s right where it’s supposed to
be, sir, mostly below us, sir!”
“Can it, Steiner-Zibler.”
“Steiner-Zibler,” Dominic corrected his pronunciation, minutely but smugly.
“That’s what I said, Steiner-Zibler,” Wilkes growled.
“Steiner-Zibler,” Dom shook his head, repeating the terribly minor correction.
“Steiner-Zibler.”
“Steiner-Zibler, say it like that, say it with me, Steiner-Zibler…and, hey, hold
on. Frankly, you know what? Leutnant? This is why unit designations are
important, and why cool unit designations are the best kind to have, so you can use
a unit callsign for me instead of mispronounci—“
“Fine. Can it, Patrol Four.”
Dom heard a crackle of static and muffled laughter from Two and Three,
Higgins and Schneider. He smiled and shook his head. Let Irwin ride people for
real. I’ll settle for riding on their nerves a little bit. If his scandals are gonna keep
me from rising the ranks, I might as well enjoy myself antagonizing my lance
commander a little bit.
Patrol Lance continued their stomp through the woods. Shaman got shut
down, as did Enchanter, Conjurer, Magician, and—it had been a
longshot—Thaumaturge.
“Why are we doing some goofy fantasy thing again?” Patrol Three cut in from
her Thanatos. “For the lance name, I mean?”
“Because we’re in a Company with ‘Royal’ and ‘Reeve,’” Leutnant Wilkes
answered with a long-suffering sigh. “And instead of restoring sanity, some of us
seem determined to lean into the theme.”
Royal Lance was headed up by Irwin. He’d chosen it to needle at Karmak,
initially, in that ‘tug on her hair’ phase of flirtation he still started with. Kylie
Karmak, for her part, had named her Lance ‘Reeve’, short for sheriff. She had
announced it at an all-hands meeting the last time Irwin had been fresh from the
brig, nursing a black eye from a Loburg sheriff’s deputy.
They’re acting like schoolyard children, Dominic shook his head at the
memory, And I’m the one without a lance command!
He was, after all, the younger brother, even if only by a few years. It would
take time in service, and some remarkably sharp action on Dom’s part—or
remarkably poor on Irwin’s—for the younger sibling to climb over the family’s
heir. Neither one of them had found the opportunity. Even the Jihad had passed
them by without opportunities to advance.
Dom was just about to suggest ‘Merlin’ when the leutnant cut him off with
uncanny timing.
“Just got word from HQ. Patrol’s a wash, we’re being recalled.” Wilkes’
voice was serious instead of exasperated and comically-grumpy. They were on
Loburg, their patrols were formalities. They were deep enough in Lyran space, and
supplemented enough by StarCorps Industries’ security—who had supplied the
Thanatos in their lance, and which made even heavier and more dangerous
machines—that the only reason to go on patrol was to log cockpit hours and give
’Mech techs routine maintenance and upkeep work.
That didn’t explain Wilkes’ tone.
“Four, this is Lead,” the Leutnant continued on a tight-beam private channel.
“Command’s got a message for you. Roper didn’t say much, just that it was from
your mother. Family business, and your brother’s still in the brig, so you get the
call.”
Roper, who ran comms for Colonel Fuentes, was a notorious gossip.
“Something about an engagement,” Wilkes continued.
“Engagement, like a fight?” Higgins cut in excitedly.
“More serious than that. Engagement like a marriage,” Wilks said. “And a
reassignment.”
 “A marriage?! You mean she’s… what? She’s marrying him off?!” Dom’s
eyes were wide, and he felt his heart pick up. He startled so physically that his
Thunderbolt missed half a step, nearly stumbled and fell, due to their tight neural
link. Mother had been trying to get Irwin married for ages, and had hoped Lyran
service would straighten him out and let him build a more appropriate reputation.
The firstborn son of a noble house needed to be tied to another family, and their
mother had been trying for ages.
Dom boggled. Now, while Irwin was serving as little more than a provincial
militia, she’d managed to pull it off?
“What? Why! When?! Where? How? Who?”
The Orion kept marching.
“That’s a lot of questions when I just told you Roper didn’t say much.”
“It’s not, sir, I mean, it can’t be Karmak, right? There’s no way she’s gotten
him engaged to Karmak!” His Thunderbolt twisted at the hips to stare at Wilkes’
’Mech, an exaggerated motion purely for effect. “She’s not really heir to, I mean,
her grandfather, he’s not really enough of a baron, right? Right?!”
“Yeah, leutnant, tell him!” Schneider cut in with a giggle.
“Surely the kommandant conferred with you before deciding what to do with
the heir to the Steiner-Zibler name,” Higgins snickered.
“Shut up! I just…” Dom shook his head in disbelief, mind racing as he tried
to put it together. “I just really need someone to make this make sense. Engaging
them would be a savvy move for the Karmaks, if they could somehow talk Mother
into it. We lend weight to their name, reputation, legitimacy. And they do have a
Lyran title—they have a title, right, you guys? He’s actually a baron,
technically?—while most of our family honors were given from Davions, so… I…
I guess…”
The Steiner-Ziblers did need an anchor in Lyran space. Their generations of
loyalty had long since been rewarded by the Davions, but they had yet to ground
themselves with a formal title, or investiture of land, from their new Steiner
patrons. Distant kin or not, they weren’t stewards of any Lyran planet, continent, or
even city. Dominic knew that his mother wanted them to hold a title again, and
land…
But… surely not by way of Baron Karnak?!
The rest of Patrol Lance let Dom wear himself out, gears turning furiously
and mouth keeping pace, as he went down most of the Eleventh’s roster to try and
figure out whose family Mother could have conferred with to take Irwin into the
fold. She hadn’t had any luck with his brother’s academy class, so it made sense
that she’d move on to like-ranked families in the unit, right?
That would explain the reassignment. Whatever MechWarrior she hitched him
to, Irwin and his new bride would be best served leaving the regiment. Married
couples weren’t forbidden from serving together—political alliances among
military leaders were expected, not just accepted, among Lyran nobility—but it
would require some major restructuring of the unit to ensure parity, and that wasn’t
something Colonel Fuentes could be bothered with. It would be better for Mother,
alongside Irwin’s soon-to-be-in-laws, to hammer out the details on their own, and
present them to higher command to find a place for. No doubt their
newly-combined family clout would go a long way towards promotions, as well.
That jackass, he finally managed to sleep his way up the ranks, Dom shook
his head ruefully, Which I guess is a good thing for me. Lance command, here I
come, since I can go up a notch or two, too? Ugh. I just hope he can rein it in after
he’s wed, at least for a little while. Who knows how long he’ll stay faithful?! Can
he make it through even just the ceremony without humping a bridesmaid or
groping the officiant?!
A new realization hit.
Oh, man, I’ll have to be the best man, for sure! But… How do I toast him
with a clean conscience? How do I raise a glass and condemn some poor girl to a
lifetime of knowing her husband will never be loyal?
Dominic’s mind roiled like the fusion reactor at the heart of his ’Mech.
 Just as bad, I know the sort of ribald jokes a best man’s expected to tell. Oh,
no, and a bachelor party?! How debased and debauched a frolic is Irwin expecting?
And why do I have to be the one to arrange it?! He wrinkled his nose in
displeasure, as Patrol Lance finished stomping their way back to base.
“Rook. Rook Lance,” Leutnant Wilkes said suddenly, as each of them piloted
their looming war machine into their bays. “We’ve got to think about the future.”
“I dig it,” Rook Two said.
“Works for me,” Rook Three added.
“Rook,” Dom tried to focus on lance names, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Goes
with the, uh, the theme, I guess. Feels kind of fancy. Sure.”
It wasn’t the future of the lance he was thinking about right then, though.
As their ’Mechs powered down and the armored titanium-steel skeleton of the
Thunderbolt around him popped, creaked, and settled into place, Dom’s stomach
churned and felt just as loud. All he could think of were tasteless off-color jokes,
laughing winks to the crowd about Irwin’s shameful romantic history, the
grotesquery of a bachelor party he had to plan… and… all of it while he still didn’t
know who Irwin was getting married off to.
Does he even know?! Hell, is he even out of the brig?
Dom got that answer as he climbed out of the cockpit.
Well, he’s out of the brig.
His brother—in all his perpetually tousled, rumpled, just-got-out-of-bed,
glory—trotted over to the foot of the BattleMech and waited for him. Irwin looked
like he’d just been scraped off the floor of a brothel, not pried from the cell of a
brig.
“Did you hear?” Irwin, veritably hopping from foot to foot with excitement,
got the better of Dom, who was still busy with the ladder climb down.
“I heard,” Dominic dropped the last few rungs and shook his head. “I mean, I
heard a—”
“I can’t believe she did it!” Irwin was wide-eyed, smiling, as handsome as
always. Dominic saw that Schneider and Higgins hadn’t wandered far, and both
were casting more-than-casual looks towards the brothers. Irwin had that effect.
“I can’t believe it either,” Dom laughed, his charismatic brother’s mood being
as infectious as always. “How’d you get out of the brig, anyways? Sleep with an
MP?”
“Hah! No!” Irwin paused for a moment. “I mean, not lately.”
“Are you kiddi—” Dom shook his head.
“I did! But it was a while ago,” the elder brother shrugged. “What matters is
the big news started to make the rounds, you know Roper, so they let me out to
come see you!”
“Well, congratulat—“ Dom got cut off again.
“Yes, they let me out to come congratulate you, not just to see you, I guess,
technically.” Irwin agreed with a roll of his eyes.
“What? No. You came to see me, so I could congratulate you.” Dominic
shook his head, like he was talking to a child.
“No. I came to congratulate you.” Irwin corrected him.
The pair stood there for a long moment, eying each other warily. Dom was
certain that he was supposed to be congratulating Irwin, but clearly Irwin had
different ideas.
“On what?” Dom finally asked.
“Well, not on finishing a bloody patrol, what do you think?!” Irwin gave him
an excited look. “I talked to Roper, too, he looped me in.”
“Probably slept with him, too, huh?” Dom rolled his eyes.
“Yeah,” Irwin shrugged and grinned. “That’s why he told me, and how he got
me out of the brig. But come on, baby brother! Congratulations! Be happy!”
“What exactly am I supposed to be getting congratulated on? Being the only
person in the whole damned regiment you haven’t slept with?!”
His older brother looked at him with mild confusion on his face, and a
faltering smile.
 “On… on getting engaged,” Irwin said, matter-of-factly. “And reassigned.”
Higgins and Schneider didn’t move. Dominic didn’t breathe. He waited for
the punchline, for the laughter, for the world to turn a little bit more and for the
words to make sense.
“…what?” Dom managed. He was supposed to be the smart one.
“It’s time, little brother!” Irwin clapped him on the shoulders. “She finally
married you off!”
“Married… me off?” Dom’s head spun. If his big brother hadn’t kept his grip
on him, he might have fallen.
“Yeah! You never put any effort into it, Lord knows, but don’t worry, Dom!
Mom put a lot of effort into it, and finally found you someone! Huh? How about
that!”
Dom shrugged Irwin off, half-angry, and let himself stumble backwards to
half-sit and half-lean against the blocky foot of his Thunderbolt.
“This isn’t funny,” he said flatly.
“Yeah, well, it’s not a joke,” Irwin’s brow furrowed, a smile wavering. “You
think I’d… you think I’d joke about this?”
“I think you’d joke about anything, just like I think you’d fight anything, just
like I think you’d fuck anything,” Dominic scowled and shook his head. “You’re
not making any sense, and it isn’t funny, so just let me go talk to Roper and see
what the message actually was. It got me pulled back from a patrol, so it’s
something serious. Something more serious than you.”
“Hey, hold on—”
“Or, wait, was there even a message? Or did you just mess around with Roper
so he’d recall us early for a joke, huh?” Dom took a step forward, starting to push
past his brother. Irwin didn’t let him.
They faced off. Off to one side, Schneider and Higgins exchanged worried
looks. A brotherly brawl was one thing, and in a barroom tussle you backed up
your lancemates, no questions asked. But a pair of genuine nobles getting into a
fistfight was… a problem they didn’t know how to solve. Neither of the junior
MechWarriors was going to jump in swinging at a superior officer to back up a
lance mate. The pair began to tiptoe away, and Dom didn’t blame them.
Dom started forward again.
“Hey! Listen to me!” Irwin shoved him back against the Thunderbolt’s broad
foot. “I’m trying to congratulate you, asshole!”
Dom waited.
“No joke! I… jeeze, man, really? You meant it? You think I’d joke with you
about you being engaged? Really?” Irwin sounded faintly hurt.
Guess he forgot.
“Why wouldn’t you? How many times did you tease me growing up? About
everything you did, and everyone you did it with, and how I didn’t?”
“Well, hey, hold on, we were just kids, I was—”
“And how you pushed, and pushed, and how everyone laughed? Oh, or how
you paid an escort to visit me at the academy, huh? Or before that, there was that,
damn, that stupid closet game? Huh? On Winter Holiday, visiting the… the…
whoever it was, that time on Coventry?”
“Hey, come on, okay, first off, that escort thing was hilarious, okay? And that
closet thing, really, man? I was a dumb teenager and you were like twelve, but that
closet thing was doing you a favor, she really liked you, you just had to make a
move, and—”
“I didn’t want to ‘make a move,’ Irwin. But you made me do it anyway. And
you laughed about it, later, when I was stuck in that stupid closet and I tried to talk
to her instead of… of…” He shook his head, old hurt coming back, old shame, old
scorn. He remained painfully aware that Higgins and Schneider were still nearby,
still listening. More girls. Why not?
“You made me explain the sudden appearance of a prostitute in the barracks in
the middle of the academy, you made me cram myself in a friggin’ closet with…
god, I don’t even remember her name… and humiliate us both! You made me do
those things, and now you expect me to believe that Mother’s making me do
something, too? That Mother’s making me get married? Put a baby in someone,
make her a grandmother? Huh? To who? Huh? Come on, skip to the funny part,
Irwin. You're going to say it’s your damned pirate princess girlfriend? No, let me
guess, it’s Yvonne Steiner-Davion, I’m our ticket ‘home’ to FedSuns space once
and for all? Oh, wait, or maybe we’re making peace with the Jade Falcons, and I’m
engaged to Samantha Clees? Or why not the ghost of Natasha Kerensky, huh, I
remember that damned poster you had of her! Or maybe I’m marrying—”
“You’re marrying the Duchess of Vendrell and owner of Mountain Wolf
BattleMechs,” Irwin said, matter-of-factly, staring Dominic in the eyes. He
sounded serious. Sincere. More serious and sincere than Dominic ever remembered
hearing him before in his entire life.
“What?” Dominic tilted his head, all the bravado and bluster gone.
“Hannah Rippon-Hart,” his brother nodded slowly.
“Are you… really?” Dom’s brow furrowed. That’s a really random punchline
to a really weird joke. Unless… is he serious? Is this really happening?
Irwin put his arm around his brother’s shoulders and talked to him in little
more than a whisper, or, well, as close to a whisper as could be heard with the
constant low-key hustle and bustle of a ’Mech bay around them.
“Look, she’s old. Older than us, like, I dunno, fifty or something, I think? She
needs to marry. She needs an heir, but it’s… look, you know Roper, and Roper
knows gossip and celebrity news and all, yeah? I asked around about the tabloids
and stuff? And Roper says there was this big announcement recently, and some
anti-Clanner types are all up in arms over it. The Wolves-in-Exile are volunteering
to help out with fertility options to show friendship to the Arc-Royal’s longtime
business partners at Mountain Wolf and as a gesture to their Lyran neighbors on
Vendrell and blah blah blah.”
“So, you know…” Irwin nodded his head at Dominic, in a very ‘I sure
know’-way. “No making a move, little brother. No putting a baby in her. None of…
that stuff. The stuff that I like, and you don’t. There’ll be an heir, but you aren’t
making it the old fashioned way. You’ll be married, but not… expected to do
anything like that. No pressure. I mean, I guess, probably a kiss at the wedding or
something, but… think about the future! You’re gonna make a Graf, baby brother,
who’s gonna grow up to be a duke! Or duchess! Or something!”
His big brother beamed. Dominic blinked stupidly, trying to take it all in.
“Our name… is… proud. Our name has weight, and age,” Dominic said,
softly nodding, dawning slowly. “We’re a good match. Our lineage doesn’t shame
them…”
“And she has a proper title, a Steiner title.” Irwin nodded. “And a home!
You’ll be Graf Consort of Vendrell!”
The brothers held one anothers’ gaze. Irwin nodded along as Dom slowly
realized how the pieces fell into place, and how well things were working out for
him. Irwin beamed.
“Mom’ll still never have much luck settling my ass down, baby brother. No
decent woman’ll have me, I’ve doomed us. I’m gonna sleep my way to the center
of the galaxy and back, call myself ‘The Tomcat of Terra,’ or something. But you?
No, Dommie. She found a pretty good fit for you, I think.”
“The bloodline is safe.” Irwin smiled softly and grabbed Dom by the head,
like he had when they were kids. Dominic leaned into it, and the pair stood there,
forehead to forehead for a long moment. “You’re saving us.”
Dom straightened and held his brother at arm’s length, emotion after emotion
churning his guts and no doubt crossing his features. Surprise, excitement, and
more than a little guilt for his assumptions.
“Look, Irwin, I’m sorry, I—”
“Stow it, baby brother. Graf consorts don’t apologize! And I imagine you’ll
get a promotion out of it, and outrank me, too!” Irwin punched his little brother in
the arm and laughed. “Even if it’ll just be in the Vendrell militia!”
“Well, in the meantime,” Dom laughed and gave his brother a shove in the
general direction of the officer’s mess. “Let’s just be a pair of leutnants with some
celebrating to do. Drinks are on me, big brother.”
 FLINCH
GRIFFIN D. H. V. SOUZA
@GSouzaWriting

OLE PITTY’S FOLLY

PITKIN
OUTWORLDS ALLIANCE
18 JANUARY 2582

She’d merely sighed when she saw the DropShip.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was a blazing blue, the altitude leaving it
utterly devoid of the haze caused by moisture. It made everything so clear. The
fields—their fields—the rolling of the land—MacVenna’s herds wandering
dangerously close to the fence—and, far off, the huddle of buildings that the locals
earnestly referred to as the Capital ten klicks away at the bottom of the valley. And,
of course, the DropShip.
She’d been enjoying the view, letting the peace, the “rustic quaintness” it
embodied, suffuse her when the streak appeared in the sky like a fiery skid mark.
Then there was another one.
This is what she got for slacking instead of keeping her eyes on the earth.
Still, seemed like it was going to be her last chance.
 “Calli!” she called, trying to keep her voice steady.
Farther along the row, her wife straightened and looked over. A strand of her
chestnut hair had come loose and she tucked it behind her ear.
“What?” she asked, cocking her head. She was so beautiful, standing there in
her grubby overalls and straw hat, her sun-browned skin streaked with dirt.
Abby faked a smile and beckoned her over. Calli rolled her eyes.
“Come on, my dear. We need to get this lot planted.” Abby beckoned again.
This time Calli sighed and put down her seed bag before making her way along the
rows. “You’re the one that said you’d rather dig with me than for the AFFS, but
every five minutes you’re—Oh!”
Abby cut her off by wrapping her in her arms and crushing her to her chest.
Calli squeezed her in return and for a minute Abby made herself forget the war,
forget Santiago, forget what she had to do. But only for a minute. They had their
duties.
Calli’s eyes were full of concern and her brow was furrowed when Abby
slackened her grip. She tried to hold back the tears but failed. She tried to keep her
smile steady but couldn’t.
“We had a good run, my dear,” she croaked. Calli studied her face for a
moment and then whirled around to look out into the damnably clear sky.
If it had been cloudy, maybe Abby wouldn’t have seen the ships. Maybe they
wouldn’t have heard of the invasion until they went in for dinner in an hour. The
Hags had laid two eggs that night, which was more than the three old birds could
usually manage between them.
But it was a beautiful day. And the sky was a blazing blue, the altitude leaving
it utterly devoid of the haze caused by moisture. And it made everything so clear.
Calli turned back to face her. There were tears in her eyes now too. Abby
wiped one away with her thumb as she cupped Calli’s face and then kissed her. It
wasn’t a complicated kiss. It wasn’t even especially good, what with both of them
crying. But she told herself, swore to herself, that she’d remember the feeling of
Calli’s lips.
“I thought—” Calli started, wiping at her eyes. “I hoped… I hoped we’d have
more time.” Abby nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Calli met her eyes.
“But I wouldn’t trade the time we have had for the whole Sphere.” Abby took her
in her arms again until Calli thumped her chest and pushed her away. “Go. Put
those hours we were apart training to some use. I have to prep the shelter. Go.” The
words felt like being stabbed. To Abby for hearing them, to Calli for speaking
them.
Abby took a step back and then stopped, gazing at her wife. The woman that
had made leaving it all behind and coming to this backwater worthwhile. The
woman who had kept it all together for the two of them.
“I love you,” she said as clearly as she could. Even if they’d had a hundred
more years together, she never would have had enough time to say it as many times
as she wanted to. But she wanted this time, the last time, to sound right.
“I love you, too.” Calli answered, then Abby was gone, sprinting for the truck.

She swore violently as she tore down the road towards Pitty’s, thumping the
steering wheel in frustration as the radio kept playing the call to arms message over
and over.
“—to your posts with your weapons. Noncombatants to your shelters. The
enemy has come. Remember Santiago! Remember Medron!”
They should have stayed in the godforsaken Federation. They should have
just stayed put and taken their blasted lumps.
Abby bared her teeth. No. There was no staying there, not for her. And that
had been enough for Calli.
 No. What they should have done was press on for Alpheratz.
But Hell, half the point of settling on Pitkin was that it had been out of the
way. They were meant to be outside the invasion path. They were meant to be
below notice. The place was a worthless ball of dirt—as she would have been more
than happy to tell whatever bloodthirsty pencil pusher had ordered this attack on
her home.
Not like that would have stopped them. The whole Outworlds Alliance was
worthless, but that hadn’t stopped the Spheroids coming to stomp on them anyway.
She almost chuckled at that.
It’s only been eleven years and she already looked on the Sphere with hate.
Santiago had made the change easier. Medron had made it the only reasonable
stance.
She gripped the wheel tighter.
“Remember Santiago! Remember Medron!” She said through gritted teeth in
time with the radio message as she glanced over at the rifle and single-use SRM
Launcher propped against the passenger seat. She felt better knowing Calli had her
own, plus the AC.

She hit traffic coming up the road from Pitty’s, which slowed her down a little. It
was all working its way up the road, headed for the cavern behind her and Calli’s
farm. Given the wide fields that stretched away to the horizon, it was the only
place to go and the cavern was big enough to fit the whole town's fleet of trucks
with ease. As Abby careened along the embankment next to the convoy to get past
them, a part of her wished the cavern was just for her and Calli. It was their land,
after all. They could have kept it a secret, been safe. Been together. Abby saw the
faces of the Pitkinians as they drove past. No. They couldn’t have kept it for
themselves. That’s not how things were done out here.
When you were all at the ass end of nowhere, you had to look out for each
other ‘cus no one else was close enough. Usually.
Even now Calli would be prepping the cavern, getting the camo netting out of
the way for everyone, checking the supplies were in order. She’d always been
better at organizing. She’d have made officer if they’d stayed. As it was, she was in
command of the shelter garrison, such as it was. Which left Abby to meet her
command in Ole Pitty’s.
She glanced up at where the DropShips had been coming down and nearly
crashed the truck.
“That’s coming right at us!” She hissed as she got the truck under control
again, unable to stop herself glancing back up as the globular DropShip thundered
down through the sky. She was fairly certain the others were Leopards, which was
why they were headed out for the StarPort, for all the tactical good it would do
them. No one was leaving and no one was coming to help. President Avellar had
made that clear in the message he’d sent to the people of Pitkin with the last cargo
hauler for their grain. Those would keep coming, but no soldiers. At least they’d
left them a crate of SRM launchers. Whatever was in the Leopards would have to
trek all the way back down to Ole Pitty’s before they were a threat.
The spheroid though, that looked like it was headed right for the outskirts of
town.
Abby pulled her truck into the shadow of one of the buildings on the other
side of the square, grabbed her weapons and then ran for the meeting house.
“Oi!” someone called to her as she ran, and she looked over to find Greg and
the rough squad of other militia members that constituted her command hiding in
an alley. Greg was beckoning her over.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Greg was technically her second officer in the militia but all that meant was
he’d spent every weekend training instead of every other like the rest of them. He
was still green as grass, and looked it too.
“We’re ah… we’re waiting for orders to ah… advance,” he stammered.
Abby just shook her head and held out her hand for his radio.
“—at least one per collective. The first two are landing at the ’Port now. That
new one looks like it's headed straight for you—” a voice was saying.
“It's a spheroid, Carmichael,” Abby cut in. “Given it's coming for Pitty’s, odds
are we’ve got ’Mechs on the way once that thing lands.”
There was assorted swearing both from those on the radio and those behind
Greg.
“Discipline!” A new voice cut in, so craggy you could almost climb it. “Are
you sure, Private Abigail?”
“Yes, sergeant.” she answered. The sergeant had been in the Free Worlds
League Military as a tanker before retiring twenty years ago. Still, he was the
closest they had to an active soldier. Abby had only been in the AFFS for a year
before they fled, and that had just been training, but the sergeant still insisted on
using her and Calli’s ranks and full names.
“Dammit. Lizards, Volunteer Carmichael?”
“Not sure, sergeant. We aren’t picking up much on the comms and you know
the radar ain’t good enough to give us a class.”
“I doubt they’d want a world this close to the border, sergeant. It's probably
the Sally D’s,” Abby put in. That drew more grumbles.
“Forlough’s Butchers? I’d have almost taken the Dragon…” Delia muttered
from further down the line to no one in particular. Abby couldn’t disagree. Not
after news from Medron. Santiago had been senseless, Medron had been genocide.
“What are your orders, Sarge?” Abby said into the radio, trying to get things
back on track while there was still time. There was silence for a moment.
“We don’t have the firepower to knock it out, which the bastards clearly
know,” the sergeant growled. “All units in Ole Pitty’s Folly, keep to the buildings.
Urban fighting as planned. Technicals, hit ‘til they’re on ‘ya and then scatter. The
rest of you, I’ve been thinking of renaming the town. If we make it through this,
how does Forlough’s Folly sound?” It was a weak joke but it made some of them
smile, though most just shook their heads in the manner of embarrassed children
everywhere listening to their father.
Abby looked at them. Greg, who was tapping his fingers on the barrel of his
rifle, Delia, running her hands through the crew cut she’d gotten when war was
officially declared, Jimothy, looking back towards the mountains as xe twisted xis
wedding ring around xis finger and the rest. She might have been a Spheroid once,
but they’d taken her and Calli in. And sure, they might be a bit rustic, and she
missed not having to wait years for new holovids, but they might as well be family.
“Carmichael,” she said into the radio. “Vera with you?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Vera! Get over here! Abby wants you. No, bring your
gun… haaa… and your launcher.” That succeeded in drawing some chuckles from
the Pitkinians.
“Yeah, Abby? Bit late now, don’t you think?”
“Not at all,” Abby said, rolling her eyes, though she wasn’t sure the sarcasm
would carry across the radio. “Calli gave me the go ahead under the
circumstances.” It was meant to continue the joke but it only reminded everyone of
the armored death that was about to drop on their heads. “Here, Vera, any chance
you can give us the anthem to send us off?”
“Oh, uh, sure. Can I keep the radio, Carmichael?”
“Fortheloveof—Of course. Ain’t gonna do much good otherwise, is it?”
“Oh, right.”
The assembled squad all looked at each other and shook their heads.
“I’m more afraid of the fact she’s got a missile launcher than the enemy…”
Delia muttered. Luckily, Abby had released the transmit button, a skill Carmichael
had never learned despite being their intelligence officer.
“Well—” Vera started, “Here goes!”
 With that she launched into the Pitkin anthem: “Here, Now!”. Calli had been
fascinated to learn that Pitkin himself had written the lyrics. She was even more
astounded to learn that he had written out complete sheet music for orchestral
accompaniment. The planet had never seen a quintet, let alone a full brass section,
but Abby had always appreciated the ambition.
As it was, Vera’s voice warbled over the crackling radio unaccompanied as
Abby motioned with an arm for her troops to follow her towards where the
DropShip was setting down. Vera’s singing ended as they came to the outskirts of
town and took up their positions.
The colossal craft was just scorching the pavement, near the grain silos where
the trucks loaded and unloaded all day long during the harvest. There was silence
on the radio for a minute as they all looked at the bulbous ship. The SLDF Star was
obvious on the gray hull, and below it a burning torch.
“Sally D’s it is then…” Delia muttered.
Then the sergeant's voice echoed across the radio.
“Hold until the mark! Remember Santiago!” he roared. “Remember Medron!
For Pitkin!”
He was answered across Ole Pitty’s by a cheer.

She’d realized that her leg was bleeding when Greg grabbed it to try to boost her
into the technical.
She’d realized Greg was there when he’d wiped the blood from her eyes with
his shirt.
She’d realized her hand wasn’t there when she’d tried to do it herself.
They’d tried to put on a good show. They’d been hunkered down behind the wall
as the DropShip set down at sunset. It was a Manatee, if her AFFS training hadn’t
entirely failed her. They’d held their nerve as it settled. They’d waited until the
crew had come out, unloading the first load of supplies. Then the “snipers” had
taken their shots. They were hardly crack troops, but a lifetime of hunting Pitkin’s
elusive game meant that a good few of them hit their targets, even in the twilight.
Far too few, but it had delayed the invasion by a whole few seconds.
Even as the technicals opened up with their jury rigged SRM launchers for the
second volley, the invaders had taken cover.
Then the DropShip fired its weapons.
The darkening sky was sliced by a fan of stabbing laser fire.
It carved through houses and hidden militiamen, wrecked technicals and
annihilated sniper nests.
Then the BattleMechs disembarked.
“Orion, Catapult, uh, Firestarter…” Abby rattled off as quickly as she could
into the radio as the shapes emerged from the smoke of missile impacts.
“Where—” Then she saw it. It was small—so much smaller than the stomping
Orion—but to the citizens of the Outworlds Alliance, hell, to anyone who had seen
the footage from Santiago, its silhouette held an awful dread. “Locust…” Abby
breathed.
“Keep firing!” The sergeant had roared. Bring them dow—’
Then the BattleMechs fired.
They’d managed to get a few hits in, she was sure. The SRMs had done more than
just scratch some paint. Right? Delia had definitely nailed that stinking Orion with
hers.
Hadn’t stopped her getting crushed though…
They’d run after that. Partially to regroup, partially to get more SRMs,
partially because, unless the pilot was hanging out of his hatch with a target painted
on his face, there wasn’t anything they could do to the damned machine that had
just crushed their friend. So, they’d run into the dark.
What annoyed her most was that she was pretty sure that it had been the
Catapult that had gotten her. What annoyed her about that was that she was pretty
sure it hadn’t even been aiming at them. It’d just been sewing mayhem in the town,
raining death down upon it indiscriminately from where it stood beside the
Manatee. Luckily, it didn’t seem to have been equipped with incendiaries,
otherwise she’d have been barbecue, not just mince meat.
That made her laugh, even as she was hauled further onto the bed of the
technical by Greg and the gunner.
She stopped laughing when they put the tourniquet on. She’d have screamed
if they hadn’t shot her full of painkillers first.
“Get her out of here!” Greg barked. She only now noticed that he was
bleeding from his scalp. She didn’t know where the rest of the squad had gotten to.
“What about you?” Abby slurred through the pain and drugs.
Greg did his best to smile and lifted an SRM launcher. “Still got one more
shot left.”
There was a rhythmic stomping and the driver of the technical clearly thought
it was time to be off. Abby cried out as she felt the truck move and fell against the
tailgate, holding out her hand for Greg to take and climb aboard. Except she didn’t
have a hand and Greg was shaking his head.
The technical tore towards the edge of town. Looking back, Abby was able to
see the Firestarter emerge from the smoke between two buildings. It wasn’t even
looking at them. It wasn’t even looking at the town. It strode forward like a giant,
its green armor black in the darkness. She knew it wasn’t even that big a ’Mech,
but here, in the burning remains of Ole Pitty’s, it looked like something from myth.
No, nothing that lofty. Nothing that idealistic… It looked like a man walking
through the wreckage of a termite mound, utterly unconcerned by the destruction
they were wrecking.
The Firestarter lit up a building with its flamer.
Utterly unconcerned, yes, but still enjoying themselves.
Then Abby saw Greg. She’d been so focused on the multi-ton metal death
machine that she’d forgotten about him. She’d assumed he’d run for cover, but
there he was in the middle of the street, the SRM launcher on his shoulder.
“Why isn’t he firing?” she hissed, her eyes rooted to Greg.
“Mad bastard lied,” the SRM gunner in the technical grunted. “I thought the
tube looked a little light…”
Abby couldn’t believe it, but there Greg was.
She saw the Firestarter slowly turn to face him, one hand out, not to fire a
weapon at him but in an instinctive human gesture to shield its head.
She saw Greg laugh at that and then dump the empty launcher.
He went for his rifle, the Firestarter snapped its arm out straight at him.
It fired first.
Abby fell back into the truck, the image of Greg being bathed in flame seared
into her eyes. She kept telling herself she hadn’t heard the scream.
The Firestarter’s head swiveled to face them, the flames reflected in the dark
cowl of its cockpit. The torch was emblazoned on its breast.
It fired a few perfunctory shots after the technical but they were going too fast
for it to hit and its weapons were short range. With almost a shrug of boredom, the
’Mech turned back into the inferno that Ole Pitty’s had become, leaving Greg’s
ashes to smolder in the street behind it.
It was soon lost in the smoke, until it fired its flamers. Then it's silhouette was
thrown up through the haze.
Then it towered over the town, revealed as the true god of war that it was.

They were silent for a while as the technical raced on, with Abby still looking back
at the burning town.
Then she jolted up and turned towards the cabin. She regretted the sudden
motion but ignored the pain.
“What the hell are you doing going this way? You’ll lead them straight to the
cavern!” And straight to Calli, she didn’t add as she tried to keep the hysteria from
her voice. She doubted she succeeded.
The driver didn’t answer.
“We got word from the shelter before Greg flagged us down,” the gunner said.
She squinted at him.
“Frank?” He was a good kid. Scrawnier than most but he had a good head on
his shoulders. She still wanted to wring his neck for taking them this way.
He nodded, then hesitated, tugging absently at the compression vest he wore
under his shirt. “The word was that they were under attack…”
Abby went very still. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
“We’ll drop you close by and then advan—”
“Give me your rifle.”
It was quiet as they approached the dark house. She’d feared fire. She’d feared
smoke. She’d feared screaming.
But there was nothing. She told herself that was better. She lied to herself that
that was better.
They might almost have been coming back after the harvest dance, getting
dropped off by whatever wet blanket hadn’t gotten hammered. Except that she
didn’t have a hand to pirouette Calli with anymore, and it was blood loss making
her delirious, not the sergeant’s moonshine. She’d heard he was dead now.
They saw the tracks as they pulled up to the house. Big, splayed toed tracks
with two toes on the front and back that led straight for the woods and the cavern
beyond them.
“Did they see the convoy as they came down…?” Frank asked, his brow
furrowed with worry.
Abby didn’t know, but she toppled out of the back of the technical, onto the
ground before standing. Her leg hurt, but the cut wasn’t as deep as she’d feared and
she’d bandaged it on the way up with the first aid kit in the technical.
“I know the land, follow when I direct. There isn’t much cover so stay here
until I signal.” Frank and the driver nodded. Fininho, that was the driver’s name.
She should have known from the suped-up sound of the engine.
Abby made her way around the house and scuttled her way to the shed.
She could hear the Hags clucking and fluttering in the chicken coop close by
but she prayed they wouldn’t spook.
Slowly, she picked her way from cover to cover until she was close to the first
line of trees. The first defenses should be under its eaves but it was all quiet.
Maybe they had spotted her and didn’t want to give away their position?
 “Foley, Folly, Faulty,” she hissed.
There was no response.
“Foley, Folly, Faulty,” she repeated.
Nothing.
She shouldered the rifle, supporting it with the crook of her elbow as she
moved forward.
She could see the sandbags now, but that also meant she could see the laser
burns and bullet holes.
She let out a strangled cry at the sight of the mangled autocannon and rushed
forward, unable to hold back the fear any longer.
And that’s when she found her.
It had been a machine gun that did it.
Two stinking bullets. Two bullets mass produced on some godforsaken
Spheroid world that had never even heard of Pitkin. It had just been another day at
the factory for whoever had made them. Just another trip for the truck driver that
delivered them, just another flight for the DropShip, just another press of the
button for the MechWarrior that had fired them.
Two bullets, and they’d taken her love from her.
She clutched Calli’s body in her arms, ignoring how her blood mixed with her
own, ignoring the other bodies that had been scattered within the ruined
emplacement. They didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
Calli was gone.
Abby didn’t try to stop the tears.
What was the point?
Her love, her world, her everything, was dead in her arms—torn apart by
worthless lead.
Her hand trembled as she stroked Calli’s face. She held back a sob when she
realized she was streaking it with blood.
She’d heard that dead bodies looked peaceful.
 Horse shit.
Calli looked like she’d had two egg-sized holes blown through her torso.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Abby choked through her sobs. But what
was she sorry for? For the invasion? For the war? For the all too human greed that
had caused it?
For not dying in Ole Pitty’s so that she wouldn’t have had to see Calli like
this?
She held Calli’s body close and closed her eyes, trying to remember that last
sight of Calli that she had had that afternoon, that last look she had promised
herself she’d remember. That last kiss, that last embrace. It was all there, but it was
all undercut by the pain of knowing what came in the end. That it had been the last.
That it led to… this.
Trembling, she kissed Calli’s cold forehead for the last time and then laid her
down.
“I’ll… I’ll be back, my love,” she managed and then stood and turned away.
She stopped before she could take a step and closed her eyes again, breathing hard.
She could still see Calli’s torn body, but she drowned the sight as best she
could in all the little moments they had had together. That is how she would
remember her. The nights of talking around the table, the work in the fields, the
walks in the woods, the mornings in their little kitchen, the laughter, the dances…
and further back, the flight, the preparations for it, the secrecy when they had had
to sneak out of their separate barracks to see each other. And that moment, that
perfect moment, when she had seen Calli for the third time.
The first time she’d seen Calli, they were both scrawny teenagers lying about
their ages to be able to drink with people who barely tolerated either of them. The
second time, they’d been stealing sips from a bottle in a park with a group of
friends who weren’t really friends. She’d finally plucked up the courage to talk to
Calli that time. And the third time… The third time it had just been the two of
them.
 Abby smiled through the tears as she remembered the sight of Calli poking
her head into the bar they both knew, with the bartender who wouldn’t ask
questions. She remembered how her stomach had dropped when she saw Calli
framed in the doorway…
“I’m sorry,” she said again, holding the memory in her mind and wiping her
eyes, “That we didn’t get more time, but I will never regret the time we did have.”
She stepped out of the emplacement and to the edge of the woods. She wasn’t
sure how much time had passed but the technical was still by the house. She could
see Frank peeking around the corner of the house too.
She signaled him to start forward.
She didn’t know what lay beyond the wood but they’d need the technical in
any case, even if only to get her out of there faster.
As the truck started forwards she felt a tremor and her eyes went wide.
She lurched out from beneath the trees, waving her arms but it was too late.
Off to her left, out of the shadows of the wood, the Locust emerged too. Its
loping stride made it seem even more like a predator, the laser under its chin
tracking back and forth like a snout snuffling after a scent. Not that it had to search
very hard.
Fininho was swearing in the cabin as he slammed the technical into reverse
with a grind of protesting gears. Frank tried to fire off a salvo of missiles but the
machine gun on the right side of the Locust opened up. Bullets tore through him
and then stitched a line, helped by the reversing of the truck, down the roof of the
cabin until they blew Fininho’s head off. Then they kept going until the engine
ground to a halt and was belching smoke.
Abby had stopped with the first shot, still holding the rifle.
It had all been so quick.
Just a few seconds.
Just a few seconds and two men were dead.
Killed by the same ’Mech that had killed Calli and everyone in the shelters, if
she had any guess at what carnage lay in the cavern.
Just a few seconds.
And this was one of the League’s smallest ’Mechs. Even its designers had
named it for what it was: a bug to be crushed by anything with true firepower. But
they hadn’t had true firepower. They’d had the random odds and ends that had
ended up on Pitkin for one reason or another. People just trying to get away from
the mess humanity had made. Just trying to live for themselves. And this bastard
had cut them down just so they could plant a different flag over the meeting house.
The Locust turned towards her slowly and she could tell the pilot was doing
so deliberately, savoring a rare occasion where they had the power, where they
were invincible. No running from bigger ’Mechs here. No worries of getting
crippled by a shot to the legs and then picked apart. Not even the worry of getting
swarmed like the butcher on Santiago.
Just a wounded woman with one hand and a rifle.
It was only now that she could see the Locust wasn’t unscathed. Its left
machine gun had been torn away and the Torch had been defaced by an autocannon
round. She told herself that had been Calli’s doing. She’d been a good shot. She’d
done some damage. Abby couldn’t match it though, and the Locust knew it.
Still…
Abby bared her teeth, shouldered Frank’s rifle and fired two shots.
They cracked into the Locust’s cowl, crazing the armor around their impacts
into cobwebs.
The Locust took a step back as the pilot flinched instinctively from the hits.
Abby laughed.
“I made you flinch! I made you flinch, you son of a bitch! On Pitkin, Star
League flinched!”
She was still laughing when the medium laser cut her in half.
 CORNER CASES
DANA HARRIS
@solient.bsky.social

LAGRANGE ONE
ALPHARD
FREE WORLDS LEAGUE
17 APRIL 2774

The Hab was a relic. Almost literally. The consortium that funded its continued
operation had applied for historical preservation status. Twice. They had been
declined, both times, as the decaying hulk was still a functioning military staging
point and a thriving commercial shipping terminal. It was a half completed torus
that had been spinning at half a G for four hundred years, yes, but if you want more
money for maintenance you’ll just have to raise the docking fees.
…no, not like that.

Raph was furious. It wasn’t just the three idiots she was about to sign out of the
brig. It was everything about the Hab, about how the crew of the Nonspecific
Impulse were handling their predicament. She had chartered the oddly named
DropShip weeks ago, in the hopes of getting her lance to the engagement ahead of
schedule, but instead, it looked like they were going to be late for the war. All
thanks to docking fees.
The crew had budgeted for the old Hab fee structure and had found out about
the increase early yesterday morning when they’d tried to undock. At first they’d
thought there was a problem with the docking clamps but it turned out to be a
problem with the bean counter in the control room—a vicious-looking corporate
type staring smugly at a camera that she knew the Impulse had access to.
That bitch needed some violence.
The captain of the Impulse used the transit company’s line of credit to send
management a detailed one-star review of the Hab on the next HPG burst. A direct
tight-beam to the local communications relay, bypassing the station transmitters.
The review went out unencrypted, along with an encrypted message to their
financier explaining the situation—the Hab had screwed them; they weren’t liquid
enough to leave.
That was yesterday morning.
They heard back that evening—it would take a few days to transfer currency
to the appropriate account, and the Hab was blacklisted. No DropShip financed by
the Impulse’s backers would ever dock there again. The lance would get there only
on time instead of early.
Raph went to bed. The rest of her lance went to the bar.
HabSec had called the Impulse around two in the morning station time. The
comms officer had skittishly woken her, handed her the handset.
“Yes, this is Raphaella Teller. Yes, I command a recon lance. The Black
Widows. Widows. Wih. Does. Yes, like the spider. No, that’s a different unit. Yes,
those are my idiots. I’ll be down to pick them up.”
After she finished sleeping, of course. After a protein bar dipped in blackberry
jam and a cup of the worst hazelnut coffee in the entire Inner Sphere.
She drafted her own one-star review on her noteputer while she rode the
elevator from the docking ring at the center of the Hab down, down, to higher G, to
the bars and the shops, the accommodations and the cargo bays, and, below that,
the point defense systems… and the brig.
The brig on the old station maps was marked as a broom closet on the current
guides. Literally; it was used to store cleaning supplies now. One day, after
centuries of dealing with drunks and malcontents, HabSec had to shut the place
down for an extremely thorough cleaning and decontamination. They started
tossing their detainees into an unused shuttle bay… and they immediately stopped
having problems with their ‘guests.’
Something about standing on a quick release airlock hatch for a few hours
convinced people to sober up quickly.
And quietly.
Raph had heard about this, had read about it on a Hab information kiosk, and,
as she signed in with the desk sergeant, as she signed for her lance, she finally saw
it on one of the security holoscreens.
They’d added steel bars, they’d split the bay into cells, they’d welded steel
plate over the bay controls. The floor was as sturdy as any other part of the station,
the only difference was the explosive bolts and the “DANGER: VACUUM”
-signage, all but worn away by decades of pacing.
There were two long cells, separated by a T-shaped corridor. The image
quality was terrible, but Raph could still tell who was who—the dark blobs on one
side were her girls. The light blobs on the other… well, she’d find out soon
enough.
The other monitor showed that the drunk tank was a panopticon, of a sort. A
booth at one end of the bay held a bored-looking HabSec guard, occasionally
glancing down at his charges through a sheet of ferroglass fogged with centuries of
grime—the first camera was probably in the bay, above the glass. “Here’s your
authorization; show it to him and he’ll let your people out.”
There was another lance commander in the hallway outside the booth,
sighing, tapping his chin with his own sheaf of release paperwork. A crisp-looking
lieutenant from another unit passing through the Hab. Blue eyes, broad shoulders,
blue fatigues. A cute nose. Fastidiously trimmed sideburns. Date material, if she
swung that way. The patch on his shoulder was a simplified likeness of four angry,
screaming long-haired figures—below that, red text on a black field; ‘Banshees.’
The guy nodded to her, triggered the door release, bowed and gestured: ladies
first.
Raph was surprised, but not too surprised for a nod and a curt “thank you.”
She stepped up, into the booth. A look out, into the holding area, then she
waved the release form at the guard. “Raphaella Teller, Black Widows. I’m here for
the three on the left.”
“Jim Brunner, Banshees. I guess that means the three on the right are mine.”
The lieutenant stepped up beside Raph, waved his form at the guard.
The guard gestured for the forms, looked them over.
As he did, Jim looked out into the bay, glanced at Raph. “How do you want to
handle this?”
“Let’s get their version of what happened. If it stinks we’ll talk to the
bartender and the bouncer, maybe see if HabSec recorded the fight.” Raph squared
her shoulders, kept her composure. Damn. He smelled good.
“You trust your people like that?” Jim seemed genuinely surprised.
“They’re habitually honest, to a fault. They’ll stick to their truth even when
it’s inconvenient. It’s a quality I look for in recruits.” It was, in fact, the one thing
she valued more than ’Mech piloting ability.
“Huh. I think I’ll follow your lead.” The lieutenant grinned bashfully at Raph.
“Everything’s in order. They’re all yours.” The guard handed back the release
forms. The commanders looked them over, traded them, folded their documents
and tucked them into their coats.
 “Hold off on release.” Raph waved a hand at the guard.
The man stopped, his finger on one of the door controls. He looked up at her
expectantly, almost indignantly.
“We’re going to talk to them first. I’ll signal when I’m ready for you to let
them out.” Raph turned, stepping down into the T-shaped hallway connecting the
booth to the station and the shuttle bay.
“Uh… what she said,” she heard Jim tell the guard. A moment later she felt
him close behind her. She stepped forward, creating some space between her and
the lieutenant. Forward again as the buzzer above the shuttle bay hatchway toned,
and the hatch slid open.

The airlock smelled faintly of stale sweat, old beer, and aged vomit. No wonder:
the cell toilets and water fountains were right there, at the entrance. Short L-shaped
metal partitions gave a squatting body privacy from the rest of the room, but not
the camera on the display at the front desk. Or the two cameras she spotted
embedded in the ceiling at the far end of the bay.
Raph idly wondered about the plumbing as she walked to the intersection,
turned towards the corridor between the two long cells. They ran the rest of the
length of the bay, each studded with three benches near the bulkheads. These kinds
of places typically had a drain somewhere in the middle of each cell; she imagined
they just popped the lock whenever the place was empty. Or maybe they got some
poor schmuck who couldn’t afford the new docking fees to muck the bay out every
so often in exchange for a reduction of their debt.
If that was the case, it hadn’t been done in awhile.
Her girls were on the left. The right was no concern of hers for the moment.
She walked down the corridor slowly, looking over each of her pilots in turn. She
heard Jim stop some distance behind her—he seemed willing to let her run the
show for the moment.
Good.
Kelly rested on a bench, hands folded over her belt. She looked up at the
sound of footsteps, stood, saluted her commander. Black eye, split lip, a braced and
bandaged right wrist, complete with bruised knuckles. Not a good start. The kid’s
short red hair was always a mess so it was hard to tell how much of that was from
the fight and how much of it stemmed from her usual casual disdain for personal
grooming.
Piper had tied her fatigue top around her waist and was doing sit ups, her feet
hooked under the second bench. Raph noted bruised knuckles, maybe a broken
finger—the outer two on her left hand were taped together. The athletic brunette
snorted a sharp, startled grunt in response to a stage whispered “Oi!” from Kelly.
She glanced over her shoulder and quickly stood, saluting. One cheek was bruised,
the other was cut, the wound taped closed.
Grace stood, leaning stoically against the wall, between the second and third
benches. Lanky, nearly a head taller than her commander, she was gorgeous, in a
high contrast way—her short hair was blacker than her uniform, her eyes were just
as pale as her skin. Pale, and a bit bloodshot, from booze and a lack of sleep. The
two meter tall woman stood unmarked, unmarred.
Raph shoved an improper fantasy into the back of her mind as she eyed her
sergeant.
“All of you, at ease.” Raph heard Piper and Kelly relax; her eyes remained on
Grace.
A flat affect came easily to her; it was particularly useful for situations like
this. She didn’t know how mad she should be yet, and how her girls reacted told
her a lot about each of them. Kelly and Piper looked like whipped puppies. Grace
looked like she was carved out of stone.
 Her sergeant stared at her for a moment, then shook her head, rubbed her
eyes, stepped forward, and saluted.
“…Well…?” Raph gazed levelly at Grace. She spoke coolly, evenly.
The tall woman relaxed, assumed parade rest. As she spoke, Raph did her best
not to swoon. Grace had a deep, velvety voice—the voice of a lounge singer or a
late night talk radio hostess. Raph loved listening to her talk—when the woman
could be bothered to. Grace was a woman of few words.
“Our bartender had a trans pin on her collar. Kelly and Piper got to chatting
with her about their transitions. It got technical—surgical techniques, neovagina
construction methods, comparison and contrast of dilation and lubrication methods.
The Banshees were listening in; one looked like they wanted to add to the
conversation but they couldn’t find an opening. Talk turned to paths through
HRT—pills, patches, injections, implants—and that’s when the shouting started.”
Raph could feel the tension ratcheting up, could feel eyes behind her. She
watched Grace’s gaze flicker briefly over her shoulder before returning, ice blue
and ice cold.
“There was a brief exchange of opinions. One of the Banshees is convinced
that injections are superior to implants. They, ah… may have insulted our combat
effectiveness. I was in the head. When I came back, the fight was in progress.”
“She.” Angry, stressed, from behind Raph. On the right. An untrained voice;
the commander could understand why her sergeant had defaulted to neutral
pronouns.
“Apologies.” Grace glanced over Raph’s shoulder and nodded. “She may have
insulted our combat effectiveness.”
“Oh, I absolutely did. A lance of MechWarriors struggling with encapsulated
implants is going to drag their whole company down. You won’t have combat
effectiveness.”
A derisive snort.
Raph glanced at Jim. His gaze flitted between both sides of the bay, his
expression carefully neutral.
Kelly stepped forward. “I told her that there’s only a ten percent chance of
encapsulation. If it’s going to happen it happens within a couple of months of your
first implantation! We’d all been on implants for at least six months before we
signed up and that was years ago and she didn’t want to hear it and that’s when I
punched her. Ma’am.”
“Breathe, Kelly.” Raph suppressed a smile. “What lit your fuse?”
“Well, we’d had a few. And she was in my face and her lance was goading her
on. She’s acting like she knows she’s right, and she’s not!” Kelly bit her lip, cutting
off a whine.
“So you thought you’d… what? Beat the science into her?” There was always
a logic to an emotional response. Not from the perspective of reason, maybe, but
something had pushed enough of Kelly’s buttons to get Raph’s most impulsive
pilot to act without thinking.
“She wouldn’t let it go, ma’am. She turned it into a we’re-better-than-you
thing. I just…” Kelly growled in frustration, sighed, and buried her head in her
hands.
“We are, dammit.” That same voice again. “Our hormones are consistently
supplied and don’t need to be surgically replaced.”
“You get a shot in your ass once a week. You’re carrying glass and liquid and
needles on the battlefield! What happens if you crack a vial? What happens if you
have to share needles? Do you know the kind of infections you can get from that?!”
Kelly was up against the bars; glaring, gesturing. “What happens if you have to
eject?! What if you’re separated from your gear? You’ve got days, at best!”
That same derisive snort again.
“This is more or less how it went down in the bar,” Grace sighed.
“The big one tried to peel Kelly off of the little one. That’s when I got
involved.” Piper massaged the palm of her wounded hand, refusing to make eye
contact.
 Raph glanced at Jim. He was looking sternly at someone in the cell behind
her.
“I tripped the bouncer.” She could hear the shrug. She cocked an eyebrow at
Grace. She was unmarked and untroubled. Why was she in here?
“You made me responsible for these idiots.” Grace rolled her head to the
right, indicating Kelly and Piper. “I failed at the bar. The least I could do for you is
make sure they don’t make things worse for themselves.”
“Thanks, mom.” Kelly and Piper to Grace, in unison. Sincere. Loving.
“Lisa’s a bit stubborn,” Jim finally spoke. “Let’s talk logistics for a moment.
Lieutenant Teller, does your transit provider have a personal preference kit limit?”
“Yeah. Twenty kilos.” Raph suspected she knew where this was going.
“Same here. Do they have a separate medical allowance?” Jim’s gaze was
cool, expectant.
“No,” Raph admitted. MechWarriors were a rounding error compared to the
weight of their ’Mechs, but space in shuttles, DropShip accommodations, and
ground vehicles was limited. Equipment for field medics had been standardized for
centuries; while there were a few exceptions, there were no standard issue
accommodations for what military medics thought of as chronic conditions. If you
took hormones or medication, you could still deploy in a combat role if whatever
you needed for the expected duration of the deployment fit in your personal
preference kit.
That had spurred the development of stronger drugs, of longer duration time
release medications, of injectable and implantable versions of drugs that had been
taken in pill form for centuries.
These changes increased the pool of qualified MechWarrior candidates
dramatically, at the expense of some logistical hassle, the occasional extra POW
leverage, and, unfortunately, more than a few arguments.
“Same for us,” Jim admitted. “It seems to be standard in this part of space. We
packed for a year. You?”
 Raph nodded an agreement. It would be ridiculously unprofessional to ask
him where he was headed. She suspected she knew.
Jim cleared his throat. “Lisa. Needles, syringes, vials… I know you keep it all
in shock-proofed cases. How much of your PPK does your HRT eat up?”
Raph finally turned to take a look at Jim’s lance—three people, wearing the
same blue fatigues as their commander. A wiry, black haired young woman was
glaring guiltily at Jim—bruised cheeks and a black eye mottling otherwise flawless
olive skin. That must be Lisa. On her left was a broad-shouldered, muscular
woman, covered with scars and fresh bruises. She was tall. Taller than Grace. With
short hair and, from the look of it, an even shorter temper. She looked to be about
the same mass as Raph’s entire lance of MechWarriors combined. On her right, a
yawning, laconic individual with poor posture, as uninterested as they were
undifferentiated. Still sitting on their bench, half asleep, cap pulled down over their
eyes.
“Five kilos… but that’s mostly packaging!” Lisa muttered defensively.
The large woman beside her scoffed.
“Shut up Margaret, you spent half your allotment on nicotine patches!” Lisa
glared up at her massive lancemate.
“Yes, and this one’s run out.” Margaret pulled up her fatigue shirt, revealing a
beige-colored adhesive patch about three centimeters square. “Do not do anything
to lengthen our stay.” She sounded tense—a coiled spring, aching for release.
Jim glanced at Raph, nodded slightly. Your turn.
“Kelly?” Raph allowed a soothing maternal note to slip into her voice.
“Uh… Two shock boxes, one with a year of estradiol, one with a year of
progesterone… my ‘anticistamines’ weigh like… uh… two kilos, maybe? Total?”
“But you still need a medic to put them in!” Lisa all but spat in Kelly’s
direction.
“Technically,” Piper smirked, “You can do it with a utility knife, tweezers,
and glue to close it up. If you have to. But they last for three to six months. Two
kilos—that’s mostly packaging and shielding—is a year’s supply for the entire
lance. Three or four for her. How does that compare to your precious vials?”
Lisa crossed her arms, glowered at Piper.
“…Shielding…?” Asking the question seemed to hurt; Lisa spoke the word
slowly, reluctantly.
“Lead shielded, vacuum sealed.” Piper smiled. “You’ve never pulled an NBC
detail?” The question could have been asked snidely; Piper had opted for
compassion and curiosity.
“…No…” Lisa looked and sounded like she had a lot to think about.
“It’s just a precaution. I’d call it a corner case, but… we’ve been through a
few hot spots. I personally wouldn’t want to inject irradiated girl juice, but if
you’re willing to risk it…” Piper shrugged.
Raph looked meaningfully at Jim. Let’s wrap this up.
“My cigars take up more space than my HRT kit.” He shrugged, made eye
contact with Lisa, and held it. “Lisa, do you need some more time to cool down or
can you admit that maybe these ladies have some points, and a bit more space for
keepsakes and reading material?”
Lisa glanced up at Margaret. Margaret glared down at the much smaller
woman in a way that implied that the wrong answer here would carry painful
consequences.
The wiry MechWarrior sighed, ran a hand through her hair. “I regret
expressing myself as intensely as I did last night,” she sighed. “I have strong
opinions on encapsulation. It’s… ah… honestly… I use injections because I’ve
rejected implants. Twice. Both methods have their advantages… but not everyone
can use implants.”
“So… you want to like them, but your body doesn’t…?” Kelly’s expression
had shifted from restrained fury to cautious sympathy.
Lisa slumped, nodded weakly.
“Damn. You shoulda opened with that. It woulda been a whole different
conversation.” Kelly looked like she wanted to give Lisa a hug.
“I’m willing to call it a miscommunication if you are.” Jim nodded to Raph.
Raph felt seven expectant pairs of eyes on her. She looked over her lance. One
by one they nodded. Raph looked to Jim, nodded slightly.
“Margaret. Lisa. Shannon. Do you folks think you can share space with your
peers in a civilized manner?”
The half-asleep Banshee snapped awake at the sound of their name.
“SIR YES SIR!” came the reply, in unison.
“I believe that’s it, then.” Jim grinned confidently at Raph.
The commander of the Black Widows looked up at the booth, nodded to the
guard.
With a loud buzz and the resentful clatter of ancient motors, the cell doors slid
open.

SOUTHERN TEMPERATE REGION

HECHNAR
TERRAN HEGEMONY
23 JUNE 2774

The engagement was a snafu of epic proportions. Nothing went right. Landing
coordinates were wrong, rules of engagement kept changing, the weather was
biblical. Someone—nobody knew who—had blown the HPG relay, pissing off
both sides while silencing the entire system. With no means of reporting
operational status back to their respective commands things should have ground to
a halt but no, the bastards in the dark green ’Mechs felt they had an advantage, and
they pressed it.

Raph screamed, pounded her fists against her instruments as her Blackjack ground
to a halt. She was out of ammo. Attenuated by torrential downpour, her lasers
splashed ineffectively off of the BattleMaster. The ratcheting clank of the assault
’Mech’s leg joints blended with the roar of the rain, echoing like laughter across
the battlefield as the sadistic bastard ground their heel into the port side of Kelly’s
Locust.
Raph was too far away. Running at redline. She could move, or shoot. Her
weapons were ineffective, but her mass…
She kicked her Blackjack up to a run, aimed it directly at the BattleMaster.
She thumbed off the lasers, leaned forward, and rotated the guns directly forward
as she stormed towards her opponent, Kelly’s screams filling her ears—cut off,
suddenly, as the BattleMaster crushed her comms.
Coming from behind, using her commander as cover until the very last
moment, soaring overhead, came Grace, carrying the twisted metal remains of a
utility pole in the hands of her Spider. Her own brand of Death From Above,
impaling the enemy cockpit, slamming down on the big ’Mech’s shoulders, driving
the spike of metal downward and twisting it, roaring like a momma bear.
But it wasn’t enough. There was blood on the BattleMaster’s cockpit glass but
it wasn’t enough. Servos roared and screamed as the big ’Mech twisted, thrashed,
and tried to throw off the woman intent on murdering it.
Off balance, distracted.
Raph rammed into it at full speed, knocking it back, knocking it away from
her little girl.

What followed was a blur—something Raph would never be able to remember

clearly, no matter how hard she tried. Grace had jumped off of the BattleMaster as
it fell. A medium and a light ’Mech weren’t much against an assault ’Mech in the
field, but on the ground… they stomped it to pieces. They rendered it combat
ineffective, they rendered it scrap.
The line had moved on. The war raged—out of sight, out of mind. Grace fired
a flare and requested a SAR team. Raph was out of her cockpit, on the ground,
running. Picking through glass, pulling at metal. Crying, sobbing. No, not one of
her girls. Not like this. Not like this.
Through the whine of stuck servos, through the squealing static of jammed
comms—of a broken radio—through the death spasms of a dying reactor, the
shuddering vibration of shredded myomers, the roar of the rain… a cough.
She was still alive!
“Kelly! Hang on! GRACE!” Raph screamed up at her sergeant’s Spider. “Tell
them to bring cutters!” Tearing at the remains of the cockpit—shredding her
gloves, leaving bloody fingerprints on the glass, on the metal. “Kelly, honey, hang
on! Stay with me! We’re gonna get you out!”
A weak, hacking cough from inside the cockpit. A hoarse whisper. “I… I
can’t… oh god it hurts…”
They brought cutters. They peeled open the ruin of the cockpit like a grape.
She was barely alive. Raph helped them haul her out, helped them get what
was left of her onto a stretcher. Piper had arrived, Grace told Raph they’d stay, that
they’d clean up. The BattleMaster was theirs now. They could sell the parts,
rebuild the Locust.
Raph nodded numbly, got on the VTOL, rode to the MASH. She held Kelly’s
remaining hand, and didn’t let go until they were offloading, until the staff told her
she needed to let go, she had to let go.
A horrible, gut-wrenching realization as Kelly was wheeled into surgery—the
young woman had just lost her left arm. The arm that held her estradiol implant.

They had spares, of course they had spares, but they all kept the progesterone in
their right arms and who knew how a medic would feel about stacking. Had it been
done? Raph didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Their PPK was nowhere near the front
line; nowhere near Kelly.
On the ridge, above the MASH tents, was an Archer on sentry detail. Powder
blue in sunlight, a washed-out slate gray in the downpour. Raph pulled out her
PDA, zoomed in on it with the back camera, confirmed the unit emblem of the
Banshees.
Finally, some luck.
She found a radio, managed to get through to Jim. Confirmed Lisa was still in
the war, confirmed her Rifleman was on the same sentry detail. Raph begged Jim
for a favor. When she told him what had happened, he told her that he refused to
take advantage of the situation, but… she’d have to ask Lisa herself. It was her
decision.
Jeff ordered a rotation: Lisa was to fall back to the MASH and Margaret was
to assume her more forward position with her Archer.
Swing by the VTOL pad on your way back, Lisa. Someone needs to talk to
you.
Hours passed.
The insanity of war had become the boredom of war, the waiting of war.
Casualties had been light, in the sense that only a few pilots had been injured
today. Most of the death had been on the other side.
Kelly had been stabilized and patched up. Raph had, grudgingly, allowed for
the heat-of-the-moment wounds on her hands to be cleaned and dressed. A
compression bandage on her left knee—she hadn’t noticed it at the time, but when
she’d leaped out of her cockpit she’d landed badly. The adrenaline was wearing
off; she was finally starting to feel it.
Raph sat next to Kelly’s bed in the recovery ward of the MASH, waiting
patiently for her to wake up. Grace and Piper were handling salvage and
repairs—Grace had already gotten a quote on the remains of the BattleMaster and
an estimate for repairs to the Locust. Raph wanted to bury her head in her
sergeant’s lap and cry; she had no idea what she’d do without her.
The sound of the rain lashing against the tent soothed her. It was loud, it was
relentless, it was ferocious—a monsoon unlike any she’d seen or heard before.
Kelly slept soundly. Tufts of her bright red hair stuck out of gaps in the gauze
wrapped around her head, like tongues of stilled flame. The stump of her left
shoulder was heavily bandaged, the left side of her neck and face were badly
bruised—a mottled purple and yellowish-green—and her left eye was swollen shut.
The blanket covered her torso and right leg and it had been folded away from her
left—in a cast, elevated by a short stack of folded blankets.
“Wow.” Lisa set a small carrying case on the floor with a clunk, took the seat
next to Raph’s. “That’s gotta hurt.”
“Mmm. She’s lucky. The bruises will heal, her ribs will heal. Her leg will
heal. And she’s right handed.” Raph glanced down at the case, gazed gratefully at
Lisa. The fire had gone out of the wiry, dark-haired woman. She glanced at Raph,
nodded, then returned her attention to Kelly. Her countenance was haunted,
withdrawn. Raph knew the look. She’d seen it in every hospital, every MASH,
every recovery room time and again throughout her career—there but for the grace
of God lie I.
They sat silently for a time. Eventually, Lisa shifted awkwardly, turning her
attention to Raph.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m sorry I got in her face. I’m sorry I was such
a bitch to her.”
“Look at it this way,” Raph caught Lisa’s gaze and held it, smiling thinly. “If
you hadn’t… I wouldn’t have known who to come to.”
“Come to… for what?” Both women nearly jumped out of their chairs as
Kelly’s eye fluttered open, as she whispered hoarsely. “Ow. I feel like…” She
looked down, at where her left arm should have been. She closed her eye,
swallowed audibly. “Permission to cry, Lieutenant Teller?”
“Granted,” Raph reached out, under the IV line, and rubbed Kelly’s forearm
reassuringly. “Though you might want to hold off for a moment.”
Kelly opened her eye, glanced at Raph, then looked at Lisa. She groaned—a
long, low moan that trailed off into an exhausted sigh.
“A rarely encountered or discussed corner case of implants: battlefield
dismemberment.” Lisa grinned morbidly. “Your lieutenant tells me your PPK—and
HRT—is in the rear, but it’s going to take some time to get you back there. This—”
She picked up her case, hefted it high enough for Kelly to see, then set it in her lap,
thumbing it open. “—will tide you over. I have an unused needle, just for you.”
The wiry MechWarrior set about preparing an injection. Kelly gazed
plaintively at Raph. Tears welled in her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. “That’s a
problem with injections too, but… less of one, I’ll admit.” Her voice sounded a bit
stronger—still hoarse, still tired, but more focused.
 “Yeah, we’re much less likely to get our butts shot off,” Lisa deadpanned,
drew a measure of liquid out of a vial, flicked a bubble out of the solution.
“Though… honestly, as much as I’m going to enjoy this, I think in your case the
right thigh is more appropriate.” She held the syringe up, made sure Kelly could
see it. “This will last you a week. If we’re still here… tell your lieutenant. She’ll
find mine, he’ll find me, I’ll find you.”
“When we left the brig I wondered if I’d ever see you again,” Kelly’s words
formed slowly, weakly. Her hand fluttered and grabbed the blanket. She drew it up,
baring her thigh. “I thought, you know, maybe on a JumpShip or at a Hab or in the
rear and we’d say hello, maybe have coffee or something.”
“We can still do that,” Lisa smiled warmly, dabbed a spot on Kelly’s thigh
with a small sterilizing swab. “When you’re up and about again.”
A sharp, high-pitched “Mmmf!” from Kelly as Lisa stuck the needle into her
leg. A moment later she pressed down on the plunger, injecting a week of estradiol
into the MechWarrior’s thigh.
“I’ll try to heal quickly, then.” Kelly smiled weakly, hissed uncomfortably as
Lisa withdrew the needle. She placed a bandage over the injection site—small,
round, the kind men used to cover nicks on their faces… only this one was light
blue, with a white-bordered pink heart in the center.
“You do that. When you’re out of here, if the Banshees and the Widows are
still in the same space, I’ll buy you a drink. I promise there won’t be any yelling.”
Lisa grinned and winked, then set about packing up her kit. She stood, exchanged a
salute with Raph, and she was gone, out into the rain, into her Rifleman.
They watched her leave. As the tent flap fell closed, Raph looked down at her
wounded MechWarrior, grinning as she noticed a familiar look in the young
woman’s eye.
“Oh no,” Kelly groaned painfully. “Lieutenant… I think I’m in love.”
Raph smiled and patted her pilot’s arm affectionately.
Bondsman page art
 AFTERWORD
MICHAEL A. STACKPOLE
@MikeStackpole

NORTH AMERICA
TERRA
INDEPENDENT
22 APRIL 2024

In 2023, in a comment on Twitter, I said, “BattleTech was always woke.”

This comment, as can be imagined, did not sit well with a portion of the folks
who read it. As we’ve all experienced, different people have different definitions of
“woke.” On one end of the spectrum the word indicates a fanatical desire to snuff
out anything that is not in lockstep with the hive-mind dictates of “radical leftists”
bent on destroying American and human culture. I find myself at the other end of
the spectrum where woke means a willingness to invite everyone into the
community, a rejection of intolerance, and a respect for people wanting the
representation and visibility they deserve. Espousing this inclusive definition is
viewed as either deception on my part, or evidence that I’ve been deceived by the
hive-mind—suggesting I’m a doddering old fool or, at worst, a “traitor to my
kind.”
 I stand by my statement that BattleTech was always woke. In this 40th year of
BattleTech, putting everything in context is important. The game arrived back in
1984, an auspicious year, smack dab in the middle of the Reagan administration, a
good five years before the fall of the Berlin Wall. That was back when the HIV
epidemic was just ramping up, and you could count the number of women who had
been elected to run their nations throughout modern history on the fingers of one
hand.
Against that backdrop, BattleTech arrived with a future universe that featured
people of color in a whole host of leadership positions. One of the great Houses
had a woman at its head. That doesn’t seem like much now, but back in 1984 that
was cutting edge diversity. All that while the universe itself was backsliding
technologically and functioned largely under feudalism. Definitely not the most
enlightened of political systems, but that choice got made because, in Battledroids,
the individual MechWarrior in his heritage BattleMech was meant to be seen as a
samurai or a knight in shining armor—both byproducts of feudalism.
When I came along in the summer of 1987 the game and universe already had
begun to expand. A Star League Memory Core meant the universe could turn away
from entropy and hunting for lostech caches and actually begin to manufacture and
innovate again. And that innovation wasn’t only in the realm of inventions, but in
changing society. The Warrior Trilogy (1988-1989) takes as a core theme the whole
idea of racial intolerance and points out that it is indefensible. No one told me to
put that into the book, but no one at FASA had an issue with it being in there. I
continued the tradition of having people of color as characters, and the trilogy
resulted in two more women leading nations.
With the Blood of Kerensky (1989-1991) trilogy introducing the Clans and
the concept of being made a bondsman, anti-woke advocates have suggested we’re
endorsing slavery. Not so. The text in the novels makes it clear that no one owns
anyone. Bondspeople are being claimed by a particular caste, and within the Clan
society, this is a great comfort because they’re seen as having value despite having
been defeated. Their slavery focus is a spurious argument which fails when
confronted by the facts available in a casual reading of the material.
What those same critics miss—or refuse to address—is that the Blood of
Kerensky books are a complete repudiation of eugenics. The Clans thought they
were breeding the perfect warriors. And yet, at Tukayyid, the Clans system failed
despite their having superior technology and, in theory, superior warriors. In fact, a
dreaded freebirth ascends to a leadership position within the most powerful of the
Clans. So much for wet dreams of a master race excelling at everything.
And, with the Clan books we have even more women and more people of
color in leadership positions.
Where, then, one is bound to ask, were the LGBTQ characters in the
universe? Great question. In the 90s general awareness of LGBTQ populations
grew, but unevenly and often restricted by cultural and geographic
boundaries—which could also be caught up in other identity movements. Back in
those days people fought to be acknowledged and recognized as existing. The idea
of representation hadn’t hit the mainstream. At that time alluding to the fact that a
character was black, or had a hispanic surname, or might be LGBTQ seemed to be
enough. We were acknowledging the existence of diverse characters in the
world—an acknowledgment that folks were fighting hard for in our world.
The Clans, especially among the warriors, approached sexuality in a much
more accepting and open way. Sexual unions among sibko members were divorced
from reproduction, serving as a means to bond, comfort and share pleasure with
friends. These couplings were never limited to heterosexual congress. In fact, what
warrior culture could do that when the respected example of the Sacred Band of
Thebes made same-sex unions an acceptable example?
As real world time moved on and cultural norms adapted, so we had to adapt
the universe to more completely resemble our world. This meant continuing to
expand diversity while now moving to incorporate inclusivity. As a white cis male
it was easy for me to feel characters represented me. It wasn’t until my brother and
his wife adopted a girl from China, and my sister and her wife adopted a black
child to be their daughter, that the light bulb finally lit up for me about
representation. I regret I was so dense, but the realization came with crystal clarity.
I mean, I wanted my nieces to be able to read characters I’d written with
whom they could identify. I wanted them to see themselves in my characters, to
feel truly welcomed and included. And, obviously, I want others to feel that same
way, too, whatever their self-identification is. The universe is big enough to accept
us all.
What I find really exciting, as with the stories in this volume, is that there are
lots of talented writers who are embracing that ethic, too. Moreover, there are new
and enthusiastic writers who can tell their own stories, stories powered by a
lifetime of experience living their truth. They can share with all of us what it feels
like to be in their skin. Not only does that expand the universe, it adds depth and
life. I’m here for all of it, and will chip in as I can.
There are going to be critics who will claim that by including everybody else
in the universe, they don’t feel represented anymore. That, of course, is nonsense.
There’s plenty of stories already existing which have them covered. For my part,
I’ll always have a cis male character or three running around because I have to
write my authentic truth, too. Just because other folks are being included doesn’t
mean they’re being squeezed out. There’s enough room and enough story for all of
us.
Down through the years, attending conventions, I’ve seen our audience grow
and change. The first convention I went to had 2000 people on site: three of them
were women, and all of them worked in the industry. The industry has grown up a
ton in the last forty years, and a show will now have 60,000 people of every color,
shape, gender identity, religion and age group you care to name. This expansion
and diversification of the industry, of our audience, is who we have become.
BattleTech reflects this. BattleTech has always reflected this and has
consciously tried to move things forward. Maybe stories about space battles and
stompy robots aren't going to change the world, but allowing someone to see
themselves as a character in a heroic situation might be just enough to encourage
them in their bid to change the world.
That is who we are, and we are so much better off for it.
LGB-7Q LONGBOW C-KIT
Mass: 85 tons
Chassis: StarCorp 100 LGB-O (Partial Omni)
Power Plant: Shark Bite 255 XL
Cruising Speed: 32.4 kph
Maximum Speed: 43.2 kph
Jump Jets: None
Jump Capacity: None
Armor: Vixen-22 Hardened Gambeson

Armament:
6 Sea Fox Standard ATM 6 missile racks
2 Sea Fox Standard Ultra Autocannon/2s
2 Sea Fox Standard Extended Range Medium Lasers
Communications System: Comset 1
Targeting & Tracking System: J-Track 52

In 3112 Clan Sea Fox set out with a goal of producing partial omni retrofit kits to
aging Spheroid ’Mechs that still had not seen a complete rebuild. One of these
BattleMechs they looked into was the venerable Longbow. The first of the retrofit
kits was a Clan-kit—or C-kit—for LGB-7Q type Longbow still frequently in use as
a support ’Mech. Although primarily built for 7Q, the kit was easily refurbished for
other models.
The C-kit project was led by saFactor Grume, an aging Sea Fox merchant
whose contributions to Clan Sea Fox was primarily through showcasing of new
prototypes and selling of production rights to various Inner Sphere factions, often
at great profits to Sea Fox.
CAPABILITIES
The C-kit is built as an easy-to-install partial ‘omnification’ of the Longbow, and it
only adds limited omni-capability to arms and side torsos of the Longbow. The
system is less built for ease of swapping weapon systems, and more as a bed for
making installing the core weapons loadout quicker. An experienced ’Mech
technician team can easily perform the whole retrofit of a Longbow in less than two
weeks—a large chunk of that time is spent removing existing armor and adding the
Hardened Armor panels to the old chassis and trying to rewire the new weapon
controls into the cockpit of the BattleMech.
Many of the design principalities of the C-kit modification are focused on
making the Longbow more a long-to-medium range brawler than a
“behind-the-lines support ’Mech”—one could say it is making Longbow more
valid for Clan combat sensibilities. While many of the weapon systems are ideal
for long range combat, and the ATMs with high explosive ammo are very effective
at close range, many Sea Fox designers criticized the usage of Class-Two Ultra
Autocannons due to their limited usage at near bracket engagements.
A rather uncommon piece of tech on the C-kit is a ‘Kit Manual
Loader’-system installed to the ATM ammo bins which allows very fast cycling of
ammo types and reloading of the launchers, but also introduces a problematic
quirk: as the battle computer of the Longbow stays untouched, it is unable to
handle the more advanced ATM system and attempts to handle it as a standard
LRM system instead. Every time the pilot fires the ATMs, they have to manually
select which ammo to use in order to force the battle computer to load the ATM
correctly. If the pilot pulls the firing pin when the battle computer claims the
weapon has been autoloaded—without using the KML override—the weapon does
not fire, and instead goes on a new reloading cycle forcing the pilot to wait the
whole ‘imaginary’ reload cycle before they can actually trigger the KML to load
up the ATMs—on one rare occasion the non-KML reload has caused a jam as the
BattleMech’s computer attempted to load twenty ATM missiles into one ATM 6
launcher. The pilot’s quick reflexes averted the catastrophe as he held down the
firing pin and forced the ATM 6 to fire two tons of high-explosive ammo in a
matter of seconds, burning out the whole launcher, but preventing potential ammo
explosion. According to the sales clause, Clan Sea Fox would not have been held
accountable for any pilot errors or mishandling of Clan equipment.

BATTLE HISTORY
After selling the production rights of the upgrade kit to Majesty Metals, the
Magistracy has produced a hundred upgrade kits for LGT-7Q and retrofitted
several dozens of old Longbows—including some even more ancient variants—to
the new C-kit standards, the majority of the upgrade kits have been kept as
emergency retrofits in case a wider deployment is required. According to Majesty
Metals’ production and distribution data, some of the kits have been sold and
distributed to Capellan Confederation as well.
The C-kit upgraded Longbows have found success in the field on border
skirmishes, but according to latest information, have not taken part in active
conflicts.

NOTABLE ’MECHS AND MECHWARRIORS

Bull Shark: When the Reef Otter, a Sea Fox Union-C-class DropShip, arrived in
Canopus with sample C-kits to sell production rights to, Majesty Metals’
representatives challenged the Sea Fox merchants into a self-titled ‘Trial of
Proving’, giving the Sea Fox merchants two weeks to outfit a battle hardened
Longbow LGB-7Q—fondly called as Bull Shark—and fight against a Majesty
Metals’ battle lance to prove the value of the trade. If successful, Majesty Metals
would purchase the C-kit rights at the initially-proposed asking price, and if Sea
Fox merchants were to fail, they would claim the rights to the kits for free.
SaFactor Grume accepted the challenge, and assigned merchant Matilda—a
Sea Fox test pilot who had failed to test as a warrior, but were handpicked by
saFactor herself as a merchant instead—to pilot the refurbished Longbow. In only
eleven days, the Bull Shark was retrofitted with a partial omni setup and a full
C-kit.
Matilda engaged Majesty Metals’ MechWarriors in a staged jungle arena fight
that was broadcast throughout Canopus IV. Majesty Metals overestimated both
their combat preparedness, and battle prowess of a ‘failed Sea Fox shiv’, receiving
devastating losses to their combat lance against the Bull Shark. Two MechWarriors
died in their cockpits, one received serious burns, and the fourth pilot almost died
upon a late ejection against the side of the Longbow.
Unprepared for the loss, Majesty Metals had produced no holovid materials in
case of Sea Fox victory, and the last thirty minutes of the whole forty five minute
holovid was broadcast with just the Bull Shark slightly off-centered on the screen
and merchant Matilda standing awkwardly on the hardened roof of
Longbow—completely naked—with her charred cooling vest and clothes tossed to
the side.
In the end, Majesty Metals paid full price for the production rights to the
C-kit.
Type: Longbow LGB-7Q C-kit
Base Tech Level: Advanced (Clan)
Tonnage: 85
Role: Brawler
Battle Value: 2,131

Equipment Mass
Internal structure: Standard 8.5
Engine: 255 XL 6.5
Walking MP 3
Running MP 4
Heat Sinks: 12 [24] 2
Gyro: 3
Cockpit: 3
Armor Factor (Hardened): 176 22
Internal Armor
Structure Value
Head 3 9
Center Torso 27 27
Center Torso (rear) 8
R/L Torso 18 20
R/L Torso (rear) 5
R/L Arm 14 18
R/L Leg 18 23

Weapons
and Ammo Location Critical Tonnage
CASE CT 0 0
Ultra AC/2 CT 1 1
Ammo (45)
ER Medium Laser RT 1 1
Ultra AC/2 RT 2 5
CASE RT 0 0
Extended-Range ATM/6 RT 2 2
Ammo (20)
High-Explosive ATM/6 RT 1 1
Ammo (10)
3 ATM 6 RA 9 10.5
ER Medium Laser LT 1 1
Ultra AC/2 LT 2 5
CASE LT 0 0
Extended-Range ATM/6 LT 1 2
Ammo (10)
High-Explosive ATM/6 LT 2 2
Ammo (20)
3 ATM 6 LA 9 10.5
Double Heat Sink LL 2 1
Double Heat Sink RL 2 1

Notes: Features the following Design Quirks: Cowl, Fast Reload (ATM 6),
Ammunition Feed Problem (ATM 6), Searchlight (RT), Ubiquitous (Longbow
parts), No/Minimal Arms.
 HPG OUTGOING

BattleTech Pride Anthology, the primary repository on Itchio for listing and
downloading Pride Anthology releases.
Star League Discord, the main LGBTQ Discord server for the fanzine and its
development. Also an amazing BattleTech community for everyone! Join now! ♥

DISCORD COMMUNITIES

CGL Discord Server, Official Catalyst Game Labs Discord server.

Sarna Discord, Sarna BattleTech Wiki Discord server.
CONTENT CREATORS

The Black Pants Legion, Home of Tex Talks BattleTech. In-depth lore and
gameplay videos.
Guerrilla Miniature Games, Video reviews and gameplay of tabletop games
including BattleTech.
Big Red 40-Tech, BattleTech lore videos and public discussions.
Unicorn Company Podcast, Discussions and analysis of BattleTech history, 'Mechs,
and product reviews.
Sven van der Plank, BattleTech history and lore channel covering a broad range of
topics and eras.
Six Sides Of Gaming, Tabletop gaming channel often featuring BattleTech in all its
forms.
Focht's Network, BattleTech Event Organization and Official Event Team for
Thunderhead Studio.
EldoniousRex, BattleTech Cover artist, and creator of Pride Anthology 2024 cover
art.
Battle Bound, featuring battle reports, painting guides, and discussions on all
things BattleTech

OFFICIAL RESOURCES

Catalyst Games Labs, website and online store (p.s. Outside US customers, request
custom shipping through USPS for normal shipping prices).
Sarna, the One and Only BattleTech Wiki that covers everything.
Camo Specs Online, Official paint schemes website.
BattleTech Master Unit List, Official list of BattleTech game units and force
builders for Alpha Strike & Total Warfare.
BattleTech.com, Quickstart rules, Record Sheets & other official BattleTech
downloadables.
BattleTech Shrapnel Magazine Submissions, Shrapnel is the market for official
short fiction set in the BattleTech universe.
BattleTech Shrapnel Magazine, Shrapnel is the very inspiration of BattleTech Pride
Anthology, so if you like the format, this is a great way to start reading BattleTech
on the canon side.

OTHER RESOURCES

Flechs Sheets, a digital BattleTech Classic Record Sheet website.

So You Want to Start Reading BattleTech? A helpful guide for readers new to
BattleTech created by Bryan Young.
The BattleTech SubReddit, the primary reddit channel for all things BattleTech.
MegaMek HQ / Lab, an unofficial, offline/online version of the Classic BattleTech
board game, and MegaMekLab that can be used to print Record Sheets or create
custom ’Mechs for Classic or Alpha Strike.
RogueTech, an unofficial HBS BattleTech total conversion enhancing & increasing
the challenge of the original game.
The Trevor Project (LGBTQIA+ Youth Support).
Trans Lifeline (Transgender Crisis Support).
 CREDITS

Editing by Milla Koponen @detocroix

Proofreading by Albert Ross @blundertross

HPG Outgoing by Jamie Kaiju Marriage @enbykaiju.bsky.social

Cover art by Eldon Cowgur @eldoniousrex

Catnopus page art by Tera @bleptarts

Bondsman Bullying page art by Jordan Versus @versusjordan

Be Gay, and Get Rekt page arts by Samantha Richardson @Samwitch11

 COPYRIGHT

All BattleTech related material is copyright ©2024 The Topps Company, Inc. All

Rights Reserved. BattleTech & MechWarrior are registered trademarks and/or

trademarks of The Topps Company, Inc., in the United States and/or other

countries.

This project is a fan project and is in no way associated with Catalyst Game Labs

nor The Topps Company.

Thank you for reading ♥