Max / Ari pick up youre pens and start writting this bored stay at home dad needs some reading food.
On a side note reading youre stories makes me wonder what happend to me and the rest of jurai so many great carracters.
Maybe an idea for youre next novel Max an sci-fi one

[RPoff] Well after a good edit the story thus far is a little tigher. Tyr, your wish is my command, if 9 months late (well it takes a little time to build up to these things, ya know?). Expect more posts soon! [/RPon]

Same here Tyr. I wish thinking about the storyline this morning and the need to post it up this week. Time to post up my end and end Jessica's side rump. One more post and then the line will mesh up again with Max's.

Post 19

“ …I am become death, the destroyer of worlds…”
J. Robert Oppenheimer (1904 - 1967) on the occasion of his first nuclear weapon detonation, July 16, 1945

Bridge, JNS Nodachi, TD/MT fleet approaching The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.
12th February 3070

Omega minus fifteen minutes thirty-two seconds

Arizona considered the combat plot, and then took a glance out the main windows to view the butt of the MT Insanity, sitting relatively close ahead of the TD flagship, masking its signature from the approaching OA defensive fleet of The Stepps. It would still be a close thing, he mused, but they were still within the sixty-five percent envelope for success of the strategy. If the technology worked as planned, they’d pull it off easily, and if it didn’t... well they might take such a beating that the attack on the planet in question might be pointless. Still, it was wonderful to finally get a field test of some of the newly developed weapons, and if their efficacy could be clearly demonstrated, perhaps more funding could be directed to...

“Tai-shu?” coms officer Nebuku asked, his tone exploratory, interrupting the Warlords musings. “We have an urgent request to speak with you from Colonel deVega on the Insanity. Should I put him through?” Arizona leaned back, a smirk forming around his lips. He’d been expecting this call.

“Hai, Tai-i Nebuku,” Arizona acquiesced, crossing his right leg over his left knee, and steeping his fingers in front of him. “Put him through, and we’ll get this over with.”

Killer Bee deVega’s face appeared, five feet high on the main screen of the bridge. He was a little flushed, and his eyes flashed as he focused on Arizona.

“Tokomi,” KB growled across the link, “just what the hell do you think you’re playing at?” KB glared at the seated Juraian Warlord, as if there was no other information that required imparting. Ari let him wait.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Arizona said finally. “I’m fulfilling the agreed upon support of your forces to break through the OA naval defences.”

“That’s **** and you know it!” KB stated, his tone and volume both rising. “I've just been contacted by the Wing Commander of the MT flight group your support fighters left hung-out-to-dry. You let more than half of the MT fighter cap be destroyed before your fancy birds intervened, and then you used some sort of unknown weapon to wipe out their immediate pursuit.” On the screen, KB took a deep breath in an effort to get himself under control, and his next statement carried an ice-cold tone. “I submit that you are using experimental weapons that could severely hamper the success of this mission.”

“That,” Arizona said after a pause, “is a fair, if one sided, assessment.”

“Fair... if one sided...” KB blustered on the other end of the link, and while the MT Coronel was distracted, Arizona took up the initiative.

“Yes,” Arizona stated firmly. “What did you expect me to do, lacking pilots and having a ship held together with duct tape and bailing wire?” It wasn’t exactly true, but the Nodachi wasn’t exactly in great shape, either. “Jurai’s one advantage that I could extend to the Tribe is the small amount of experimental technology that I had available. Now that technology, in such small quantities, wouldn’t make enough of a difference if used front on, so I had to devise a strategy that would use it to its maximal potential.”

“But sacrificing our flight to protect your precious toys...” KB began, his ire building again.

“Killer Bee deVega,” Ari said slowly, leaning forward and fixing the angry Tribesman with a hawkish glare as he cut the Coronel off, “you may be an expert tactician and strategist when it comes to ground engagements, but you should leave the naval planning to those that have had far, far more practice at it. If we were to rush headlong into the OA defensive line, we may well be victorious, but at the cost of dropships and mechs that you yourself insisted be saved at all costs for the ground war. I am simply working the battlespace to our best advantage to minimise loss of said material, and if all it costs you is a few aerospace fighters, I think the exchange will be well worth it, don’t you?”

KB’s face lost some of its ruddy glow, and he swallowed.

“Yes, well,” he said, gathering his thoughts as he went, “as part of the terms of our mutually beneficial military arrangements, MT will require supplies of said craft and munitions for our own forces, and...”

“That... will not be possible,” Ari spoke over KB again, and the MT Coronel’s face reddened up again as he went to complain, “...in the short term,” Arizona finished. KB’s mouth shut with a snap. “These craft and munitions are highly experimental - as you correctly surmised - and of great expense. We ourselves only have the working prototypes you see here, and they have taken the better part of a decade to work up. It will likely be a similar period before we can have any great numbers of them in production, and then we still have to analyse the test data to determine if it is ethical to even consider producing anymore.”

“What?” KB finally found his voice again. “You mean to say you have such powerful weapons and you wouldn’t put them into production?”

“Exactly,” Ari said, his tone grave. “They may be too expensive, too powerful, and too dangerous... even for us.”

“I don’t think some small gravity torpedoes is such a bad thing, nor stealth craft with fancy plasma weapons,” KB stated, folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh that was just the entrée,” Arizona said, a wicked grin sneaking, unbidden, onto his features. “You wait til you see the meat and potatoes in the main course.”

KB’s mind could naught but boggle. He was about to ask for details when a proximity alarm went off on the Nodachi bridge, and Arizona requested an update from his XO. Diaka lent down and whispered in Ari's ear for a few moments, then retreated back to the plots. Ari turned to face KB's less-than-patient visage on the main monitor.

"KB," Ari began, his tone clam and all business, "if you refer to our shared plot, a flight group of OA Ensensturm aerospace fighters, that have obviously slipped past the fighter screen, have been resolved directly ahead, in high closing V to our fleet. There is a high probability that their mission is to strike at the Insanity, to cripple or destroy, and at the very least damage your flag enough to prevent it escaping the follow-up capital ships."

The Nodachi bridge, and KB on the tight-beam coms link, went quiet. The silence hung heavy in the air, and Ari waited patiently for KB to comment. Finally he did.

"So? You're the great naval commander, you do something about it!" KB's tone was laced with frustration... and accedence. Arizona's smile was small, yet weighty.

"As you wish," Ari said, and then turned to his XO. "Diaka, begin launching the stealthed jammer drones, the Talent Scouts, prepare to link the advance navigation sensors into the defence grid, and disengage the umbilical." Diaka nodded and got about the preparations while Arizona turned back to the screen to see a confused look on KB's face.

"Talent Scouts?" deVega stated in way of a question.

"Yes," Ari began, "I'm sure with your intelligence assets trained on the Dominions from time to time, you are aware of our Energina designs?" KB nodded. "Well consider these a scaled down and stealthed version. They don't have any anti-warship capability, but they excel at anti-fighter and anti-missile. Between them, and the rest of the fleet's point defence capabilities, I calculate we have a..." Ari glanced down at the armrest readouts "...eighty-six percent chance of wiping out the approaching fighters without them getting word back to their fleet. Even better, if you order your remaining fighters to close to engage at max range." Ari smiled at KB; a hopeful smile.

"Very well, Tai-sa Tokomi," KB said finally. "We'll play it your way, up here. But you better just fall into line dirtside, or I'll kick your sorry arse back into orbit, you hear me? And this better work!" KB added for good measure.

"Received and understood," Ari said, and cut the connection. He was playing a dangerous game - as per usual - and he seriously hoped that he'd not overlooked anything, in this latest gamble.


Outworlds Alliance bomber wing Fisherman, approaching MT fleet target near planet The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.
12th February 3070

Omega minus eleven minutes sixteen seconds

Fisher went over his attack strategy one-more-time as his flight of twelve Ensensturm aerospace fighter-bombers approached the tactical commitment point. Attacking at full thrust from the front combined the closing speeds of his fighters, the MT flagship, and the extra speed provided by the ordinance thrust. It would make them almost ballistic by the time they reached target, which would not be all that long after launch, all things considered. Very hard to track and kill with point defence, and if enough got through to damage the flagship - well there might just be a promotion in order. It was well known how much the Alliance's leadership liked to see the blasted Tribeman's noses bloodied.

And bloodied they would be, with these new "Son of Barracuda" fighter-launched torpedoes. Almost as much punch as the naval fired sires, the "Sons" as they had been dubbed didn't have the range the bigger torps did, but that hardly mattered on a more manoeuvrable and faster launch platform.

Yes, it was a good attack plan, the best Fisher could come up with after losing contact with Forbes. It would have been nice to have some interceptor cover, but Fisher guessed that his fellow fighter jocks were busy finishing up the MT flyers, and would eventually show up. Perhaps too late to steal any of the glory!

An alarm beeped on Fisher's console, and he silenced it. It would beep again within the next minute, and then continue to do so. That would be their last opportunity; the point of no return. He was taking his men in close to the quickly approaching target, knowing that the less flight time the enemy had to lock up the torpedoes, the less chance they had of shooting them down. However at such a closing speed, his own flight group would barely avoid the outer edges of the MT point defence network. But it was worth the risk to splash the flag.

"Ah, Sir?" Joe McCarthy - Fisher's second - began, his tone sounding unsure across the short range coms. Joe's Ensensturm mounted space based bap and an advanced imaging suite. "If we don't launch soon, we'll be right down their gullets." There were mumbled agreements over the coms from other pilots. "Hell we'll be in image-enhancement visual range in less than one minute..."

"I'm quite aware of that, Joe," Fisher said, using the subordinate's first name to try to calm him. "And we will be launching presently." Fisher flicked some switches in his cockpit. "Fisherman wing, prime your torpedo release mechanisms and prepare to launch in T-minus twenty, nineteen..." The other members of the flight group made their preparations, and they flew on as the countdown ran in the background.

"Three, two, one... launch!" Fisher finished, and as one, twenty-three armour-piercing, high explosive, anti-warship torpedoes sped off towards their target; the MTS Insanity. It was all but one that the flight had to launch. Fisher hung on to one of his, as a contingency.

The wave of torpedoes accelerated away from their launch platforms, becoming extra stars in the forward sky after a few seconds.

"Okay gents, adjust your course to three-four-seven mark two, to avoid a nasty dance with the MT fleet..."

"SIR!" McCarthy interrupted, practically shouting over the coms. "There's a group of fighters resolving on our six, heading straight for us at what I calculate would be max thrust for the gravimetric tonnage readings. And they're not ours." Joe finished, his voice tense.

"It'll be okay, Joe," Fisher replied, his own tone suggesting frustration. We'll stay our new course, avoid the MT fleet, and keep ahead of these enemy fighters, as we have a higher acceleration threshold now we've lost our disposable tonnage. Fisherman flight, full military thrust." His subordinates followed the order, and they began to drop down out of the plane of combat.

"Enhanced visuals now available of the MT fleet," McCarthy said, his tone going from tense to curious. "You're going to want to see this, Sir."

"Shoot it across," Fisher said, and a moment later, his main cockpit screen lit up with stills taken at extreme visual range. The tactical computer analysed the image, picking out and highlighting the outlines of dropships, four smaller warships, the MT flagship, and... something else. It was big, tucked in down and behind the MT flag, and the ship ident software went into overdrive, flicking through hundreds if three-d ship models in seconds until it came up with a matching outline. It said, Tortouga Dominions Warship - Flag Class.

"Oh.... FRAK!" Fisher exclaimed, glancing around as if he could see a way out of this mess he'd just found himself in. "There's a second Flag tucked in behind the first! We've got to warn the Galetaea or the defensive fleet will be slaughtered." Fishers mind swam. "Joe, send off a burst encoded transmission to the command ship. Tell them about the second Flag, tell them..."

"I can't," Joe said, his tone apologetic this time, "long range coms are being jammed. Multiple localised sources, it just sprang up then. I..."

"Look, the enemy fleet..." somone else threw in over the chatter. Fisher looked. Over the now real time streamed visuals on the monitor, he saw the two flags break formation, adjusting for better firing solutions on the missiles now tearing down their throats. Then the space ahead of the fleet lit up like a Christmas tree, with tracer rounds of multiple weapon systems all pouring fire into the vector of the approaching missiles. Fisher knew with the extra firepower of another flag the missiles had less than a twenty percent chance of reaching their targets, and...

"Oh frak," Fisher said again, as he noticed three far smaller ships, out ahead of the flags, for the first time. They must have been stealthed, because they were near invisible until they opened up. A hail of weapons fire from them formed a sort of curtain in front of the MT command ship, and as the OA torpedoes reached the artificial barrier, nearly eighty percent of them blossomed into flowers of light, evaporating into space as their reactive mass was hurriedly spent. As the remaining torps travelled on, they were picked out of space, one by one, by amazingly accurate point defence fire.

Fisher slumped in his pilot's chair as the last torpedo disappeared off the short range track, a mere hundred metres from the prow of the MT flag. His chance to do good, and be noticed by his higher ups gone... and yet...

"All pilots in Fisherman flight, scatter. Preferably away from the trailing enemy fighters AND the enemy fleet. They are jamming our long range coms somehow, and one of us has to get outside the jamming range to tell the Galetaea about the second flag. Joe, I'll wing you as you're our best chance of punching through their jamming. COMMAND HAVE GOT TO BE WARNED!"

Fisherman flight scattered as the MT aerospace fighters opened up on them from extreme range.


Minnesota Tribe fighter wing Plunderer, returning to combat zone near MT Fleet, The Stepps System, Outworlds Alliance.
12th February 3070

Omega minus nine minutes, ten seconds

Cheers had overrun the coms as the long range visual enhancement cameras of the savaged fighter wing Plunderer had shown the pilots the destruction of the OA missiles. And then they were in weapons range.

"Just look at 'em scatter," Stimpson said, from the cockpit of the lead Turk Omni. Fire from the flight group reached out, and two of the scattering OA planes exploded in plumes of nuclear fire.

'It seems what we lack in serviceable fighters we make up for in enthusiasm,' Mac thought wryly, lining up on the trailing wingman of two OA birds that were fleeing together. PPC fire lanced out, catching the Ensensturm a glancing blow. It slowed slightly, trailing gas and debris from a hole in the starboard wing.

"MT Nest to Plunderer flight, MT Nest to Plunderer flight, come in," a tinny voice came over the flight coms.

"Go for Plunderer flight," Mac replied, his voice strained as he tried to keep to his target.

"MT Nest to Plunderer flight, your orders are to cripple or destroy all birds in OA fighter group. Repeat cripple or destroy all enemy birds ASAP."

"What's the hurry, command?" Stimpson asked, his tone jocular as he lined up on his next target. "They've spent their heavy munitions to no effect, and there is little harm they can do to the fleet..."

"Plunderer flight," the voice over the coms was flinty-edged, "be aware that if any of the enemy units escape long-range coms jamming and report back to their command, the Defensive OA Fleet attack could very well be a scrub. We can't afford this to happen. Command is relying on you to do your job as quickly and effectively as possible. MT Nest out." Mac stared in the direction of the Flagship for a long second.

"Typical," he said into the coms as he lined up his wildly jinking target as his PPCs recycled. "It all hangs in the balance and we have to bring down eight..." another OA fighter blossomed with nuclear annihilation off to Mac's right, "...no seven, fresh birds with our depleted ballistics and damaged ships. I'll be pushing for extra pay for all of us if we pull this off, see if I don't!"

Another cheer went up across the flight coms as the weary pilots of Plunderer flight got about their grim business.


Bridge, MTS Insanity, MT/TD fleet approaching The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.
12th February 3070

Omega minus eight minutes thirty-two seconds

The tension had been almost palpable on the Insanity's bridge as the fleet fought off the attack by the OA bomber group. Nailor had returned to the bridge when the proximity warning had gone off throughout the MT flagship, and he now stood beside KB deVega, watching - seemingly nonplussed - the battle playing out between the allied and enemy fighter wings. However, KB saw Nailor's white knuckles as he gripped the railing in front of them both. KB had known his commander long enough to see these little slips in his composure. deVega chuckled once to himself under his breath; he had no time for such unnecessary social mores as composure.

"She-it," KB said, suddenly breaking the tense silence, "I nearly ducked as that last torpedo came in on us. It was targeted right on our bridge."

"Yes," Nailor agreed, "it was particularly well aimed, just like the point-defence fire from the Nodachi that splashed it before impact." KB nodded. "Still, it was a bit too close. I heard debris from it bouncing off the hull!" KB chuckled aloud this time, although he hadn't felt jovial when it had happened.

"Look," KB said, point to the battle space representation on the main screen, "OA are down to five functional craft now, and we've only lost one more of ours." Nailor nodded. the MT flight group had had the advantage of attack angle, they were taking full advantage of it.

"Oh no!" Nailor added, in mock disappointment, "two more of the enemy have drifted back towards the fleet. One of those Talent Scouts of Ari's have splashed them in short order. We really should get some of those."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," KB replied, "I understand you have to be at least half-cyborg to pilot them. Takes a terrible toll on the pilot and the electronics." Nailor nodded, sombre this time. "Only the Kagato-Armitage samurai family of House Jurai are crazy enough to even attempt it." Nailor rubbed his chin in contemplation, still looking grim, his gaze fixed on the final stages of the battle.

"Erp, and then there were two," KB said a moment later, as another symbol denoting an OA Ensensturm flickered and died away.

"But it looks like those last two that have stuck together are getting close to the edge of the jamming bubble set up by the Juraian drones," Nailor noted astutely, lines of worry creeping onto his face.

"C'mon, Mac, don't fail us now," KB mumbled. Nailor silently prayed to whatever deities still listened to the rambling prayers of men that Mac could get the job done.


Remnants of Outworlds Alliance bomber wing Fisherman, fleeing MT fleet near planet The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.
12th February 3070

Omega minus seven minutes fifty-one seconds

Fisher threw his plane all over space in a desperate attempt to avoid the increasing volume of incoming fire, to protect McCarthy in the fighter just ahead of him, and to get away from the Gods-damned jamming in time to get word to his fleet. Even damaged, as the MT birds so obviously were, the enemy pilots were like death on two legs, come to claim him. It could only be a matter of time.

"Joe, any luck?" Fisher queried through gritted teeth. 'Tell me you've got signal, please!' Fisher thought desperately to himself.

"No, still blocked," the despondent voice of McCarthy replied, "we just can't quite seem to... wait..." Fisher perked up and Joe's change in tone. "jamming is diminishing. We must be outpacing the enemy emitters. If only we could disrupt the chase for a few seconds..."

And then the answer hit Fisher like the large laser fire that raked his port wingtip. Without stopping to consider, he set the proximity fuse on his last "Son of Barracuda" torpedo, disabled the drive system, and punched the release switch.

The freefall torpedo tumbled, end-over-end, back towards the perusing forces, and detonated with a blinding flash at the absolute minimum safe distance behind the OA craft. The shockwave caught up with Fisher, and tossed his bird around like a leaf on the wind, nearly shaking him into the path of three PPC blasts that he'd just jinked to avoid. As the flash dissipated behind them, Fisher realised that the chasing fire was greatly diminished. Even if it hadn't killed all their pursuers, it would have blinded them for a time. Free of some of its previous weight, Fisher's Ensensturm put on a burst of speed, starting to catch up to McCarthy's plane.

"How about now?" Fisher asked, still clinging to a glimmer of hope. "Can you get tracer signal now?"

"YES! Oh yes!" McCarthy cried, almost rapturous in his relief. "I've got sporadic contact. Patching you through to the Galetaea." Fisher cleared his throat.

"Fisherman flight to Galetaea, come in," Fisher rattled off, then hurried on before receiving a reply. "The MT flagship is not alone, I repeat, the MT flagship is not alone. There is a second flag with the fleet. Both flags are undamaged! Recommend you retreat to the protection of the defence grid immediately!" Fisher breathed out in relief.

Then he drew his last ever breath...

"Did it get through, Joe? Tell me it got..." Fisher never finished his sentence. Five particle beams turned his figher into swiss, and it exploded around him milliseconds later.

In the barest of moments, before Joe McCarthy had time to mourn the death his close friend, he too was converted into so much space dust.

to be continued...

Post 20

“ …The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his…”
George S. Patton (1885 – 1945)

Bridge, Outworlds Alliance Corvette Galetaea, approaching the MT fleet, The Stepps System.
12th February 3070

Omega minus six minutes, four seconds

Commodore Dimetri Garret of the OA System Defence Force, The Stepps Contingent, sitting belted into his command chair on the bridge of the Corvette OAS Galetaea, was worried. The fact that the ships under his command had been moving out-system, away from the assistance of the planetary defence network, had not been his choice; he'd been ordered out to intercept the enemy fleet by a higher - and possibly ill informed - authority. Garret's mood had been buoyed by early reports of the MT interceptor force being routed by his own fighter groups, and had almost changed his mind about the enforced strategy when reports had said things were going well.

But that was then, and as Garret sat contemplating OA's possible misfortune, things were considerably different. Something... had happened while the fighter battle was playing out; the tide seemed to have turned against his forces, and then they'd lost contact with the fighter group all together. As usual with space combat, sensors and coms were jammed and counter jammed, and the tracking of targets, especially small targets, became less than accurate. But to lose a whole flight group altogether, with no idea of what may have happened to them... well it was unusual, and it filled Dimetri with even more unease.

And then the unease had bubbled over into worry.

The last report he'd had from bomber wing Fisherman had informed him that they were on course and on target, about to deliver their full payload to the MT flag. Garret had been pleased about that, but their last report and last sensor echo was a good ten minutes ago. Had they been successful... was the MT flag splashed? Damaged? Were his bomber crews fighting for their lives with surprise forces that MT had, for some reason, kept in reserve from the initial fighter engagement?

Garret sighed. He should have sent the reserve fighters with the Ensensturms, with strict orders to fly cap for them. But he had kept them with the fleet. He considered them a necessary part of the fleet's point defence, and if MT did have some sort of secret weapon with them that gave them the balls to approach his seemingly superior force now...

"Commodore," a communications tech said, "contact from Fisherman wing."

"Put it on speaker," Garret demanded, straining against his harness in a futile attempt to get to his feet - not a good idea on a zero-g bridge.

At first all Garret could make out was the crackle and hiss of jamming, but then, as he strained his ears for all they were worth, he caught snippets of speech.

"Fisher... ...ight to Galetaea, co... ...in. The MT flagship is... ...I repeat, the MT flagshi... ...alone. There is a second... ...are... ...damaged. Recommend..." The transmission trailed off into a sea of static.

"Aw crap," Garret said, his frustration bubbling over. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" There were shrugs from several of the crew members.

"Sir, if I may," Captain Wilson Pickett, Galetaea XO, offered in his usual superior tone. Handpicked by the Alliance Council, and, Garrett suspected, their informant no less, the Commodore had to be ever on his guard around Pickett. Garret could do naught but nod; the captain would continue regardless, feeling secure with his political connections. "It seems to me from that message, as incomplete as it may be, that the MT flagship is either disabled or destroyed, and the second largest ship, the MTS Cordova if I'm not mistaken, is damaged. I conclude that Fisher is suggesting we move at best speed to pick off the remaining ships before they scatter and return to the Nadir. This will be a great victory for the Alliance!" Garret sighed. The man surely had a paid up subscription to his own bullsh*t.

"I would be inclined to disagree, Captain," Garret spat the rank a Pickett, as he knew the man neither had the wit nor combat experience to have eared the honorific. Without further consideration of his minder, Garret turned to his coms station. "Lieutenant Swindon, run that message through every filter you've got, and get me something, anything to make that message clearer."

"Yessir," Swindon snapped off as he set to work. The Commodore then turned to his sensor tech.

"Martinez, push the gain as far as you can and get something, anything, on Fisherman flight's IFF. I want to know if they are still in the battlespace, and if they are, where."

"Aye Sir," came back the sensor officer's baritone.

"Cooke," Garret addressed his operations officer next, "tell the fighter cap to fan out, in pairs, and run sweeps around the fleet, looking for trouble. They are to report back anything suspicious, immediately." Garret received the expected reply.

A few tense seconds ticked by, and an angry looking Pickett floated up next to the Commodore's chair. Garret locked eyes with the man that had been pushing his luck for months - ever since he settled in to the assignment. The Commodore hoped Pickett would put one foot over the imaginary line that was labelled, 'too far.' He looked forward to that moment with great anticipation.

"Commodore Garrett, with all due respect, what possible reason do you have to be so fearful of this enemy. We've bested their like before and I..."

"Because I've lived this long by respecting my enemies, and the craft that we all practice," Garrett growled as he cut his supposed subordinate off. "Now get back in your seat, before I..."

"Sirs," Swindon said, an edge to his voice that cut through the anger between the two commissioned officers, who both turned to face him. "I've cleaned up the message, but you're... you're not going to like it."

"Play it, NOW!" Garrett said, the blood beginning to drain from his face.

"Fisherman flight to Galetaea, co... ...in. The MT flagship is not alone, I repeat, the MT flagshi... not alone. There is a second flag with... ...fleet. Both... ...are undamaged. Recommend..." The transmission trailed off into static once again.

There was stunned silence across the bridge for just a moment, then a message broke into the ship coms on the OA emergency band.

"Flight Commander Johnston to Galetaea. Momentary sensor contact on the fleets port-forward quarter. Small echo, possibly fighter class, continuing...." The message ended abruptly, the static burst shut off by the coms system automatic level controls.

"We've lost Johnson's fighter off the track," Martinez stated.

"What about his wingman?" Pickett asked, before the Commodore could speak again.

"He appears to be..." Martinez began, as the wingman's battle marker on the plot winked and disappeared. "...dead," the sensor officer concluded.

A moments silence hung heavily across the bridge, then the Commodore, knowing all the lives in the fleet were depending on him, snapped into action.

"Helm, sixty-degree slide to true starboard, full thrust. Plot a parabolic course to take us back to The Stepps orbit. Pass the navigation orders on to the other ships of the fleet, ASAP! Operations, have all point defence batteries come to high alert, and load all missile tubes." A number of 'Aye's' echoed round the bridge.

"Damn you, Garrett," Pickett growled, grasping his superiors arm to punctuate his statement. "You are defying a direct order from your superiors."

"And you are defying mine," Garrett replied, his tone piercing, his eyes like flint. "Sergeant of the Watch," he called out to the security guards stations near the hatch into the bridge, "this man is to be taken to the brig, the charge 'disobeying a superior officer.' Get him off my bridge."

As the protesting Pickett was hauled away down the zero-g corridor, Garrett studied the plot again, and saw that two more of his fighter cap had vanished... and there was no sign as to what had attacked them... yet. Discretion... better part of valour and all that. Time to get out of here.

Juraian experimental combat core Crushing Victory, attacking Outworlds Alliance Defensive Fleet near planet The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.
12th February 3070

Omega minus five minutes, three seconds

Cyph watched as another of the near-oblivious OA fighters died under his guns. It was fairly easy to stay undetected out here away from the capital ships, but if Crushing Victory moved into the large vessels interlocking web of sensors, then his fighters would 'be made,' and that would change the game considerably.

"Winglead, the OA fleet are preparing to change course," Nekekami's voice swam across Cyph’s consciousness, sounding like it was coming to him underwater. Cyph checked the track data, and sure enough the lead Corvette was swinging away and bring its main engines up to full throttle. Moments later, the rest of the fleet started to move to match her.

"They must have deciphered more of that degraded message that came in from their bombers," Tiny added, his mental tone darker, but with an edge of admiration. "I didn't think they would be able to."

"We should never underestimate our enemy," Wolfsaber admonished them, in a quiet yet firm way, as he piloted his fighter in behind two oblivious OA Stingrays, blasting them apart with two short and highly accurate bursts of plasma shuriken. If the others could have glared at him across the battlenet, they would have.

"Regardless," Cyph said forcefully, trying to keep the discussion - if a mental link could be regarded as such - on track, while lining up another target. "We need to ascertain if this puts a crimp in our plans."

"With four minutes, fifty-seven seconds to Omega detonation, and the OA fleet putting on at least a flank speed parabolic turn, they will have an approximately fifty-eight percent chance of being at least partially outside the radius of the Omega effect at zero hour," Nekekami responded. "Even higher if they risk a full-military-power turn."

"Damn," Cyph said, not liking the odds as he opened fire on fresh targets. "And how badly will this reduce the chances of the MT/TD fleet breaking through the defensive line and reaching orbit with the bulk of their terrestrial attack forces in tact?"

"Hardly noticeable," Neke replied quickly, as if he knew that would be the next question, and perhaps he did. "However there is another, possibly far more important flow-on effect to this change."

"That being... what exactly?" Tiny asked, as he banked through a pair of Mantas, blasting the wing off one, which caused it to uncontrollably roll into the other. Cyph mentally sighed - now Tiny was just showing off.

"We will no longer have a proper test of the device," Neke said, as if it was blindingly obvious, "and it is unlikely that we will have the time, finances or raw materials to make another for some years." If the four Ozorans could have nodded in agreement across their synthlink, they would have.

"Then we must attempt to change the quarries' mind, and intended direction of travel," Cyph said. "This will, of course, greatly increase the danger to ourselves, and our craft, and could quite possibly result in damage, or death." There was a short pause, and then the three other pilots intoned "Acceptable" across the mental bridge, one after another. It was simple; without a proper test, all their years of work would be wasted.

"It is decided then," Cyph stated, stealing his resolve. "Prime your remaining missiles, and follow this attack order." Cyph instantaneously passed his plan on to his fellow pilots.

Bridge, Outworlds Alliance Corvette Galetaea, retreating back to orbit of The Stepps.
12th February 3070

Omega minus four minutes, forty-five seconds

"Order the fighters back inboard!" Commodore Garrett demanded of his coms officer. "It's blindingly obvious that they are outmatched by whatever sort of stealth units the enemy are employing. We might as well keep them out of harm’s way than to lose them for no return."

"Aye, Sir," Swindon said, relaying that message to the remaining allied birds.

"Helm, what's the condition of our turn?" Garrett asked next.

"Attitude thrust at ninety percent optimal," Amanda Stent, the Galetaea's helmsman, replied. "The main engines will be at ninety-five percent of full military thrust in eight seconds. To go higher would risk damage to the superstructure of the ship."

"Very well," the Commodore said, easing back into his chair as he felt the situation was coming more under his control again. "Tracking, what are those bandits..."

"Fleet sensor net has isolated four targets, fighter class!" Martinez called abruptly, speaking over the Commodore in his excitement. "They are closing in on the fleet from the upper rear port quarter."

"Are the point defence grids engaging them?" Garrett queried, leaning forward against the restraints again to study the four bogey signatures that had just appeared on the plot.

"Yessir," Cooke said, his face betraying some concern, "but tracking is having a hell of a time getting clean locks." A few seconds passed. "And now the enemy targets are skirting close to the corvettes Viron, Audacity, Echelon, and..." he paused for a moment and looked up at Garrett, "us, Sir."

Members of the bridge crew glanced around as if they might spot the lone aerospace fighter coming in on them. They heard the staccato rumble of the point defence cannons tracking the bogey, and the whooshes of anti-fighter missiles launching, but the display showed the shimmering target still closing in on them fast. The symbol for the Galatea and the bogey merged for a brief second, before a deep, resounding boom echoed through the ship. When it had passed, the rumble of the drives that had dominated the background of the bridge hubbub, since the adjust course order had been issued, quickly died away.

"REPORT!" Garrett shouted, his face a mask of anger.

"The... the bogey was unaffected by both our point defence and missile fire, Sir," Cooke said, staring at his screen as if what he was seeing couldn't be right. "It completed an attack run down our fuselage, and hit us with one salvo of some sort of missiles that the computers didn't recognise."

"Damage?" the Commodore asked, fairly certain that one aerospace fighter, even some crazy advanced prototype like these things had to be, couldn't have done that much damage in just one pass.

"Significant, but isolated to one system," Cooke said, in a tone that suggested even he didn't believe what he was saying. "The main and backup drive control matrices have been rendered inoperable."

"So you're saying that one small fighter, with just one salvo of fancy missiles, has taken out our drive control capability?" Garrett asked, incredulity etched in every line of his face.

"Not just us, Sir," Martinez chimed in, then suddenly wished he hadn't as the Commodore turned his angry glare on the coms officer. "Uh, the Viron, Audacity, and, ah... the Echelon... well they all report similar damage to their drive controls."

Garrett let loose a broadside of vulgarity, the likes of which would make an ensigns hair curl. He knew that all the Corvettes in his flotilla were of the same design, and he also knew that when their drive matrices went offline the engines shut down, to prevent any random manoeuvring that might cause a collision. Effectively, his four biggest ships were now unguided ballistics; unable to continue to turn, change velocity, or escape.

"Cooke, get repair crews on a bypass to that system, yesterday," Garrett demanded.

"Already started, Sir," Cook said, keeping his reply to the bare minimum.

The Commodore glared at the main plot through eyes hazed with red. He couldn't believe he'd been crippled so quickly and so completely... then he noticed that although three of the enemy targets had streaked away from the fleet and vanished off the track, one remained, seeming to drift along ahead of the fleet.

"What happened to that bogey, Lieutenant Martinez," Garrett asked, his curiosity getting the better of him while he could do nothing but wait.

"According to the Audacity's fire reports, that bogey took several rounds from the point defence while on its escape vector," Martinez replied, glad to be able to finally impart some good news. "Scans suggest it wasn't destroyed, only disabled, however it's outside our weapons range at the present time." Martinez paused a moment. "Ah Sir, the undamaged ships are asking what they should do; follow along with the Corvettes or continue on the parabolic turn?"

Garrett ran his hand through his hair, which was becoming quite unruly due to repetition of the nervous action.

"Tell the smaller ships to stay with us; they'll only get picked off if they go out on their own. Tell the Hornet and Minnow to move up and attempt a grapple of that bogey. I think we just might get out of this by the skin of our collective teeth if we could bring home that bird to examine."

"Passing the orders on now, Sir"

Moments later, Garrett watched the two patrol class vessels move forward to obey.


Juraian experimental combat core Crushing Victory, near Outworlds Alliance Defensive Fleet of planet The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.
12th February 3070

Omega minus two minutes, nineteen seconds

Cyph swung his Swordfish Aerospace Fighter around and headed back towards where Nekekami's damaged plane drifted. Despite the fact that the prototype could take hits that would destroyed a standard plane, it had still suffered enough damage to render it inoperative. Through the still functioning battlenet, however, Cyph could tell Neke was unhurt.

"Swordfish designation Nekekami: system functionality at thirty-two percent," the aerospace fighter told them.

"You'd better eject," Tiny said, "we'll come pick you up."

"No can do," Neke said, his tone resigned, "the ejection system is one of the sixty-eight percent that isn't working."

“And we will soon have company,” Wolfsaber noted, as their shared sensor net resolved two OA patrol-class vessels coming up from the fleet towards them. “No doubt they want to capture an example of the fighters that disabled four of their corvettes in one pass.”

"Damn," thought Cyph, running through the options in a more private part of his head. "Swordfish School, arrange yourselves around Neke's fighter, triangle formation, and activate graviton beams. We'll tow him outa here, and away from the enemy." After a pause while the ships closed to dock, "make it quick. Those enemy ships are closing fast."

"Winglead," Neke said, as the other Swordfish latched onto his craft with focused gravity, and began to take his stricken fighter away under tow, "we have more problems that those patrol craft." His voice turned cold and clinical. "Omega zero hour is in one minute, forty seconds by my estimation. With us moving at maximal towing velocity for the remaining time, I calculate that we will not have reached minimum safe distance when the device detonates."

There was a long silence over the mental link.

"I... knew that, Neke," Cyph admitted.

"What?" Wolfsaber said, his anger rippling across the lake of their shared consciousness. "You knew we won't make it out of the blast radius, and yet you order us to drag the crippled craft to our deaths?"

"I thought..." Cyph began.

"No, you didn't think," Wolfsaber cut him off, his tone undercut with a low growl in their minds. "You'd kill us all to try to save one." It was a statement, not a question. "You'd throw away our combined research and tactical value, decimate Ozora's finest and deny an already depleted Jurai of three of its best?" Wolfsaber snorted. "That's madness."

"Maybe the device is off course enough relative to the fleet that we won't get hit?" Tiny proposed, hopefully. They all knew the weapon had been building to detonation for hours - there was no chance of deactivating it.

"No," Wolfsaber growled, then his tone mellowed a touch, "we did too good a job arresting the course change of the fleet. If we stay, we'll all be hit."

"It'll be okay, won't it?" Neke asked, his tone probing. "I mean, these fighters are plenty tough; surely they can take the outer edge of an explosion."

"He doesn't know, does he," Tiny chimed in, again statement, not question.

"Know what?" Neke asked.

"No, he doesn't," Cyph said, his mental voice sounding apologetic. "Neke... the Omega device isn't a regular explosive."

"Well I figured that," Neke said. "But it's not a singularity device either. Has the wrong energy signature."

"No," Wolfsaber said, almost sounding proud, "Cyph and I designed it to be so much more than that."

"Thing is," Cyph went on, "it uses math that even we have problems fathoming, and it has possible outcomes that... we can't really even begin to guess at."

"So what your saying is, being caught in the blast radius is, in all likelihood, a death sentence, regardless of distance from space zero or protection," Neke surmised, again a statement.

"Yes," the other three replied in unison.

"Right," Neke said, his tone hardening, "well you'd better get out of here then. You have forty-five seconds to get clear. Go. Go now."

"I'm sorry," Cyph said as the towing fighters deactivated their graviton beams and boosted away.

"Yeah," Neke sent after them though the synthlink, "so am I."

Omega minus forty seconds

“That’s odd,” Garrett noted, nodding towards the plot, “that damaged enemy fighter began accelerating away from our closing patrol ships, but now it’s slowed again.”

“Perhaps it was being towed?” Stent suggested, and then a look of confusion overcame her pretty features. “But if they were towing it – and we just couldn’t pick them up because they were too far away and stealthed - why did they stop?”

“I... don’t know,” Garrett said, “unless... it wasn’t safe to be in the area anymore!” The Commodore’s eyes went wide. “Martenez, call the patrol craft back, get them away from that ship. Cooke, what’s the condition of our drive controls?”

“Almost patched, Sir,” Cooke replied, “the repair crews are doing a bang-up job down there. Two more minutes, tops.”

“We might not have two minutes...” Garrett stated, swallowing hard.

Omega minus thirty seconds

The Swordfish engines howled as they were pushed far into the red. The aerospace fighters shook and vibrated with the strain, and being linked into the planes themselves, the Ozoran pilots were likewise affected.

“Is it... enough... thrust?” Wolfsaber asked, through the mental equivalent of clenched teeth.

“It’ll... have to be,” Cyph replied, and mentally inched his fighter’s throttle a little further into the red.

“There it goes,” Tiny said, indicating a vague sensor trace falling astern of them as they raced against time.

“The Omega device, you mean?” Cyph asked, though he thought he already knew the answer.

“No,” said Tiny, his mental tone frigid. “Death... or something worse.”

Omega minus twenty seconds

“So how long until your fancy bomb, or whatever it is, goes off?” KB asked the image of Arizona on the main screen, from a position standing next to Nailor’s command chair on the bridge of the Insanity.

“Oh, any time now,” Ari replied, looking distracted. Arizona could see on his personal plot what had transpired between the Swordfish School and the OA fleet, and he didn’t like that it appeared one of Ozora’s own was being left behind, and would be caught in the blast radius at detonation. However, he could see why, and he knew enough about what Omega might do that he could understand the reasoning. He didn’t want to lose all four of best technically-minded Mechwarriors in Jurai to a weapons test. Still, it pained him to see the stricken plane, and know one of their own had to be sacrificed.

“So what sort of result should we expect from your tidy new weapon, Arizona?” Nailor asked, his interest piked.

“Nothing like you’ve ever seen,” Ari said, his gaze remaining fixed on his own plot. Nailor and KB exchanged curious glances.

“But it will deal with the OA fleet so we can get finally get on with this damn PA, won’t it?” KB asked gruffly.

“In all likelihood, more thoroughly than you can possibly imagine,” Arizona stated, his blood running ice cold.

Omega minus ten seconds

Neke floated cross-legged in his cockpit, calming his mind with a meditative mantra. He had decided that if he was going to die, he’d face his end calmly. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and exhaled, knowing that there could only be mere seconds left before Omega hour. Then he realised with a start that he was still hooked into the battlenet, and that the other Swordfish were not going to be far enough away from his damaged craft, for his node to be disbanded from the network, before the bomb went off.

“Ozorans of Swordfish School, disengage me from the battlenet, hurry!” Neke called out to them across the stretched but still active link. He could tell they were startled by the realisation that they two had failed to disconnect him, and that each were mentally racing to enact his demand.

Neke, waited... seconds ticked by...

“It won’t disengage,” Wolfsaber cried, anguish blurring his mental speech, were stuck together until the distance breaks the connection.

Tiny swore.

“I know what I must do,” Neke said, drawing a dagger from his flight boot, “goodbye, my brothers.” With that, he plunged the dagger between his ribs, and into his rapidly-beating heart.

As the dagger struck home, Omega was born in fury.

to be continued...

[/rpOFF] I don't normally borrow other's art to illustrate what's going on in my stories. I prefer to let my words and your imaginations do that. But when I saw this - Sacrifices wallpaper by darulian - over at deviantart, I just couldn't resist. This IS the Omega device detonation. He must have read my mind!


Big version here.

Find darulian's work here.

Also, these next two will be the last posts of the Space Battle, and the last posts of Book 1 - Starfall. Look forward to the PA story, in Book 2 - Ground War, coming 'real soon now.™' [/rpON]

Post 21

“ …It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End…”
Revelations 21:6, Christian Bible

The dark seed, pill-shaped, and large compared to man, but so very very small when put in context with the grand scheme of things, travelled on, thrust-less, through the inky velum of space. Set in motion forty-five minutes previously, and building toward detonation for the last thirty, The Package - Omega - a device that had taken five hundred combined man-years of effort to produce, and far more to conceptualise before that, could not be seen, could not be found, and definitely could not be stopped.

The OA fleet was very nearly oblivious; just one man sensed that they were all in grave danger, but he didn't know why, or from what. There was no way Commodore Garrett could know. No device like this had ever been activated before, and, if any and all sentient creatures that were to come after that time had any sense, would never be again. No, Garrett sensed danger folding its black, leathery wings about him and his fleet, but he could do nothing, prevent... nothing. It was all pre-ordained. He and his ships were the guinea pigs for the biggest mistake mankind might ever make.

Omega, it's energies grown to an obscene level, matching small suns in photonic potential, began to unfold. Panels swept back, enclosed equipment extended, and in less than ten seconds it locked into position, ready to fire; not outward, as any normal weapon should, but inwards, at the very fabric of time-space itself.

Relying on math extrapolated from theories postulated in the early second millennium, Omega was designed to reach down into the quantum fabric of reality, tear through the bonds that held our universe together, and allow the contents - whatever they might be - of a very specific divergent dimension access to our universe, if only in a limited area, and for a limited time. That was the plan, at least; it had never been tested. It never should have been.

Juraian scientists, some one-hundred and ten years previously, had discovered that the main energy signature of this particular dimension was completely at odds to the energy signature of biological structures...

Energy waves rippled out from the multiple generator cores of the Omega device - enough energy to power the IS for an entire week. These were deflected by high concentrations of gravity waves forming a bubble around the device, and funnelled back, down and into compression coils made of substances almost unknown to IS or Clan worlds, to be focused on a point so small, it was to an individual atom what a person is to the entire galaxy.

At Omega hour, reality resisted the impossible breach. The Omega device pushed harder... by exploding.

That sudden release of energy, pushed into the miniscule weakness, tore reality asunder. A gap formed, between what we know and a dimension so unlike ours that it made dark matter look as mundane as silly putty. This utter alienness sensed the breach, and rushed through it, eager to find, envelop and destroy.

Through the flash of the Omega devices' demise, tendrils and ribbons, both gargantuan and miniscule, of or rippling, wiggling, whipping, squirming, purple... stuff... rushed into our universe. It seemed to grope around the area of space in which it found itself, searching, grasping, desiring... and then it found the OA defensive fleet, The Stepps Contingent. Supper, placed right on its doorstep.

Cthulthu mythos of old Earth spoke of Elder Gods, trapped in the outer darkness, biding their time until they could return to wreak destruction and madness on all living things. Perhaps this is what H. P. Lovecraft was referring to.

The ribbons and tendrils of wrongness reached out to the ships, some grasping them, some, less interested in the intricacies of the physical laws of this universe, dived straight though the outer shells of what amounted to big tin cans, and got at the gooey centres within.

Crewman working frantically on the drive control systems of the four damaged corvettes were enveloped by tentacles that shouldn't exist. They screamed and struggled as the very fabric of their beings was obliterated in showers of light and gore. Likewise the gunnery crews, kitchen hands, com tech personnel and every other living thing aboard, including the ships mascots, be they cat, bird, or ferret, were erased from reality.

For the bridge crews, it was worse. They saw Omega open the doorway to hell. They saw what came out, reaching, searching for them. They were driven mad, and then consumed, torn apart and all the while knowing it.

They were gone in less than twelve seconds. The fleet of ships were stripped clean of any and all biological material. Then the thing, having gorged itself and wanting more, felt the tug of the hole it still hung through start to close. It whipped and struggled madly, having it's 'hand' in the cookie jar, and not wanting to let go. However, just like the poor souls aboard the ships didn't have a choice in their fate, neither did the thing. It was dragged resolutely back towards its own domain, flicking and quivering, and just as it was about to be sealed back in, it spotted one last, delicate morsel just within reach.

A small black fighter, damaged, with one life sign aboard. A life sign that was rapidly fading. No matter, this biological stuff tasted just as good dead as living.

With a last flick of an obscene, purple tentacle, it snatched Ozora Nekekami from his fighter and disappeared back to the hellhole from whence it came.

The OA fleet flew on...

to be continued...

Post 22

“ …Knowing a great deal is not the same as being smart; intelligence is not information alone but also judgment, the manner in which information is collected and used…”
Dr Karl Sagan, 1934 - 2024

Great Library research room, Monastery of Truth, Galloway Cliffs, planet Ingress, Dominion of Blake.
17th June 3877

The Monastery of Truth was a strange, eclectic mix of natural and low-tech materials, and technology so advanced that those not fluent with it might consider it magic. Braziers flickered along the walls, guttering and going out when the light of morning streamed through the high, arched, stain-glass windows, and miraculously flaring to life again at the onset of night. As one would expect of such a wondrous place, they never needed cleaning, nor the addition of any form of fuel. Likewise, the candelabra of differing size and complexity that adorned the long, wooden tables running along under the windows, required no new tallow or wax to feed their flames, and produced natural, even, balanced light that could not have been bested by the latest in photonic generation.

Randomly dispersed along the bench-tables in this room on this night, in front of piles of velum-covered books, ranging from pocket sized to massive, sat monastic acolytes in their scholarly robes, seemingly simple vestments of coarse, light-brown material. Some wore their cowls up, perhaps feeling it better to concentrate this way. Others had the hoods of their robes down, enjoying the slight breeze that played through the Great Library of an evening, blowing in off the Emerald Sea, below the Galloway Cliffs on which the Monastery stood.

One particular acolyte, with a particularly large pile of books on his section of the bench-table, was so engrossed in what he was reading that the failed to notice the Acolyte Precentor of the Monastery of Truth himself shuffle up and standing next to the studying lad until the man had cleared his throat - a second time. The acolyte was greatly surprised by the interruption to his studies, and even more so when he glanced up and saw exactly who was doing the interrupting, that he jumped, and nearly lost his grip on the book that he had been pouring over. The volume in question was launched into the air, and the acolyte grasped in vein at it, attempting to regain his hold on the holy text. But it was the Percentor who snatched the book out of the air one handed, by the spine, which effectively closed the book with a snap. He then deposited it gently on the bench, to join the multitude of others haphazardly piled there.

The acolyte, his face reddening, bowed his head to try to hide his shame, and clasped his left fist in his right hand, in the accepted sign of respect for the head of the acolyte training cadre at the Monastery of Truth.

"Korvan Nathal," the Precentor began, his tone party admonishing, partly amused, "it is good to see you so swept up in your studies, however it would hold you in good stead to be more aware of your surroundings. If I had been an assassin, I could have killed you five times over."

"Yes, Precentor Halatha," Krovan intoned, bowing his head respectfully and proffering the hand in fist sign again. "I was just so engrossed in the topic of my End of Phase project that I did not notice your approach. It will not happen again." Acolyte Precentor Ishuan Halatha did not doubt that the lad would do his level best to uphold that oath, however, Ishuan knew that the boy was far more comfortable in the past, his nose buried in the histories of the IS from eight hundred years in the past, than he ever would be in the present. The boy was sharp however, very sharp. He'd make a fine researcher by the time he finished his training.

"And how is your project progressing?" Halatha asked, his voice taking on a more congenial air. "'Social and Historical Factors Influencing Periphery Governments'
Alliances in the 3070's' wasn't it?" Korvan swallowed, his eyes going wide. He had no idea that the Precentor of Acolytes had taken enough interest in him to know his chosen area of study for his project, and was rather taken aback by this sudden interest. What he didn't know was that the Percentor had a cranial implant, one of the features of which was a direct link to the Monestery mainframe, and he had accessed Nathal's file the moment he had chosen to interrupt the lad.

"Uh... yes, with a case study on the military and social alliance between the Minnesota Tribe and the ruling power of the Tortuga Dominions - the House Jurai, in early 3070," Korvan added by way of clarification. The Precentor of Acolytes nodded. "There is so much information to be found on the subject, I just had to pursue it!" Korvan continued, his enthusiasm bubbling to the surface and his previous error forgotten.

"Ah yes," Halatha agreed, "both the Minnesota Tribe and the House Jurai of the day were excellent record keepers. Makes our job all the more pleasurable." The Precentor graced his charge with one of the older man's rare smiles. Despite his sometimes gruff exterior, Ishuan did harbour a deep love for the lessons of history.

"Indeed," Krovan said, the shared interest easing his nerves around such an esteemed individual of his Order. "I've been particularly interested in the records surrounding the use of what was called 'The Omega Device,' on a defensive fleet of the Outworlds Alliance, by the newly formed MT/TD alliance, during a combined attack on the planet The Stepps in February 3070."

"Ah yes," Halatha said, slipping his robe around the end of the bench seat and sitting down next to the surprised acolyte. "Quite a few acolytes have found that little fragment of history interesting over the years. So tell me, what reports from that incident interest you the most?" It was like a ghost story, the reports of that incident. Again and again, an acolyte would stumble upon the information and become enamoured with it. Halatha didn't mind. What they took from it told him a lot about each acolyte that went down that road.

Krovan smiled at the interest taken in his work, and happily pulled his personal notes volume across in front of him. Unlike the books of hundreds of years previously, all the books in the Great Library of the Monastery of Truth had only two pages; those on the reverse sides of their covers. No true information was recorded manually in said tomes, but rather all text and images were held in the Library datastore, with wireless, instant access to the contents of the books whenever they were opened, and access to any page out of possibly millions at a flick of a finger, or the selection of ranges running across the bottom of the pages. Other, more sensible methods of access could have been instituted, but the leadership of the monastery just couldn't let go of the idea that a library was a room that should be full of books.

Opening his personal notebook, Korvan ran his fingers expertly over the control surfaces of the seeming parchment-like double page within the cover. Finding his place, he activated the page display function, and the worlds filtered down the pages, filling both sides in seconds as if a magic hand had written them.

"This first noteform that I selected is a conversation between Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona, the then supreme commander of Juraian forces - what there was left after the disaster at star 1343-442, known as Mimic at the time - and the search and rescue crews specifically sent out from the Nodachi - the Juraian Flag in system - to recover the experimental fighters - codenamed Kei Swordfish - after contact with them was lost," Korvan rambled, his fingers dashing round the controls of his notebook, bringing the referred to passage onto the pages. It was lucky that Halatha had some prior knowledge of these events, or he might not have followed the younger mans train of thought.

"The transcription itself isn't that enlightening when viewed in isolation, however it is interesting to note several key factors," Korvan began to lecture, settling into the telling. "Of the Ozora Samurai of the House Jurai that had piloted the original four prototype fighters on the attack mission, only three were recovered, and they were unconscious when found. Apparently their experimental shared-consciousness battlenet had failed to disengage the pilot that had to be left behind, and the other three pilots suffered severe neural feedback through the link when the unfortunate pilot, Ozora Nekekami, attempted to commit sepeku before he was taken by the effect generated from the Omega Device." Korvan studied his superior after the end of this statement, watching to see if the man corrected him about the actual source of what had been dubbed 'The Omega Effect.' The elder man either didn't know the full details of what the device actually did, or he didn't feel the need to correct Korvan at this juncture. Either way, Korvan found this interesting. "Those pilots and planes were sent back to the Dominions on the Nodachi when it returned home for final repairs and resupply, and attached medical notes for each Ozoran suggest that they suffered post traumatic stress and terrifying nightmares for several years afterward once they had been discharged from immediate medical care."

"Next item of interest is a conversation between Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona and Brigadier General Nailor Grey of the Minnesota Tribe - acting CO of MT in system - about the safety of sending search and rescue teams into the OA ships. It would seem Arizona was sure that the ships were no longer hazardous, and he told the MT CO that the reason no contact could be made with any of the ships was that they were deserted, and were now spoils of war - a gift from HJ to MT. This please Nailor in the first instance, and it was only later, when he and his XO Coronel Killer Bee deVega found out the full extent of what happened to the enemy personnel, that they became concerned and agitated." The acolyte drew a deep breath, and moved adjusted the pages of his book to a new entry.

"Here's where it gets really interesting," Korvan continued, his enthusiasm obvious. "A report from the first Search & Rescue teams into the enemy ships. It notes a complete lack of any biological material what-so-ever." Korvan's eyes went wide at this, even though he was the one doing the telling. The Precentor nodded along, a faint smile playing round his mouth. "No living thing, person, animal, bacteria, fungi or virus could be found on any of the ships. Even the bacterial cultures in the carbon dioxide scrubbers was gone. And all natural materials, leather, wood, and even food stuffs was gone. Hell even the contents of tinned food cans were absent, without the tin itself having been opened. The crews found it very creepy, and several personnel refused to go back into those ships." Korvan nervously rolled his tongue around his teeth and swallowed, before moving on.

"Then we have a report addressed to the Tai-shu, on the recovery of the damaged Kai Swordfish aerospace fighter. It likewise had no sign of life; everything removed down to the biofilms that are normally left on controls handled by bare hands. A lone knife, with a synthetic handle, was found floating in the ship. It seems Nekekami had a preference for natural fibres, and they went with him, to wherever he went." Korvan looked uneasy again, but the excitement was still there in his eyes.

"Then things got a little tense between the MT and TD leaderships when the full extent - and creepiness - of the weapon became clearer. In a three way conversation between Arizona, Nailor and Killer Bee, deVega got rather angry at the Tokomi leader for using such a horrendous device, a Grey, always the diplomat, requested that Jurai not use said weapon again during combined MT/TD operations. As the lack of TD pilots required MT support in nearly all their major engagements for the next twenty years, Arizona's agreement to this stipulation meant the device was not used again in that time, and by then, the whole project had been shelved for being too expensive, dangerous and inhumane."

"So you understand what the weapon did?" Halatha asked now, catching the acolytes gaze with his own.

"Yes, Precentor," Korvan said, reverence one more colouring his words, "it's all contained in the Ozoran technical report to the Juraian Warlord Council in mid-3070. And I also found the Continuality Accord of 3099, where all major governments signed a treaty outlawing research into breaching the barriers between divergent dimensions. That would seem to have put an end to any of that sort of research." Ishuan nodded, pleased himself that such efforts had been stopped, hopefully permanently.

"Good good," Percentor Halatha said, preparing to rise. "So is that everything you've found for your report?"

"Not quite," Korvan said, and the undercurrent in his voice made Halatha take his hands from the top of the table and turn to face the lad again. "I found two reports; the first suggesting that... well... best as I can describe it, there were ghost sightings aboard those captured ships for years after the incident. On some of the vessels it was so intense and frequent that the Minnesota Tribe sold off the ships to other allied governments, the black market, or scrapped them." Halatha found himself nodding again, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he listened. "But the strangest thing was a final report - a medical report - only a header. The subject of the report was one Ozora Nekekami, same spelling as the pilot lost, in the damaged fighter, to the Omega Effect. The date for the report is after his disappearance, late in the same year - 3070, but the file is empty... erased." It was Korvan's turn to lock gazes with the Precentor. "What I don't understand is what happened to the contents of the file. If the header is still intact, and seeing as how the order is dedicated to the enlightenment of the truth, no matter what it may be, then how could there have been a medical report about a man who's very atoms had been consumed by an energy field from a divergent dimension?"

"Very... interesting questions, Korvan," the Precentor said, rising and stepping around the end of the bench seat, to stand, hands clenched together and hidden in volumous sleeves, facing the still sitting acolyte. "And ones we may never know the answers to. The content of that file may have been wiped before we received it, or been corrupted at some point in the centuries since it was written. We can only know the truth as far as it is passed down to us from times past, young acolyte." At the intonement of this sacred verse, Korvan obediently lowered his gaze, and uttered the reverent reply.

"Truth in all its forms."

"Well I must be off," the Precentor said, before Korvan had a chance to speak again. "Very good work, Korvan Nathal, on your research for your End of Phase Project. I look forward to reading the final report."

"Thank you, Precentor Halatha," Korvan said, caught by surprise by such high praise.

"Truth be with you, my son," the Precentor intoned, and then turned and walked away.

"And with you, Father," Krovan replied after the Precentor's retreating form, but his gaze narrowed. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that the Precentor of Acolytes of the Order of the Truth of Blake was hiding something.

Precentor Halatha strode purposefully from the Great Library, and travelled by the most direct route back to his cell. The monk stepped into his utilitarian quarters, shutting the door firmly and striding to his desk. There he sat down, and drew out his own notebook - one with far more features than that given to acolytes.

He opened it, first noting that he would have to keep an eye on one Korvan Nathal, and that, if he could be trusted, he might be moved on to the advanced preparative stream for military intelligence.

Then, after flagging the Nekekami medical report header to 'hidden' so that it wouldn't come up again in research requests, he opened the restricted file and began to read...

[end of book one]

[rpOFF]Hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Book 2 - Ground War, will begin in a week or so. Stay tuned! [rpON]

Very nice , looking forward to the ground war.

As I promised a few people who find reading forums difficult, PfA Book 1 - Skyfall can now be downloaded in a PDF version here. Should be quite suitable to print too, if you find printed pages easier on the eyes.

Ground war is coming along nicely, and posts should start apearing soonish.

Max

[/rpOFF] Welcome to the long awaited (sorry it took so long) beginning of Book 2 – Ground War. I’m posting this from the hospital room of my father, who is having long term antibiotic treatment in Melbourne’s St Vincent Private Hospital due to a cat bite of all things. It might be that the infection has got into his heart valve, but after 2 days of sitting around, we are yet to hear from a specialist. So I think it’s only fitting that I dedicate this second book of the “Pseudonym for Armageddon” saga to him!

Note: This first post is to bring anyone who doesn’t know about the main characters in the story ‘up to speed,’ and is part of the dissertation that the Acolyte Korvan Nathal was working on in the last post of Book 1, to link the two volumes together. If you think you know enough about the characters you can just skip over it, or use it as a reference if you want to know a little more about them.[/rpON]




Book 2 – Ground War

Post I

“…Know thy enemy and know thyself and you need not fear the results of one hundred battles…”
"The Art of War" by Sun Tsu.

Excerpt from Korvan Nathal's End of Cycle Dissertation on 'Social and Historical Factors Influencing Periphery Governments' Alliances in the 3070's: Case Study of the Minnesota Tribe/House Jurai (Tortuga Dominions) Merger, February, 3070.' Submitted for consideration, 30th June 3877.

[Excerpt begins]

3.2 On the disposition of House Jurai/Tortuga Dominion forces, and the Minnesota Tribe forces, before the Merger

Even before House Jurai/Tortuga Dominions (HJ/TD) lost a considerable number of their best pilots in the natural disaster at the star 1343-442, also known at the time as Mimic, their forces were stretched thin across all the small pirate nation's theatres of operation. Always pushing to improve, the Juraians fought hard and smart, and were ever ready to adapt in the face of superior odds and tactics. However they were prone to rely on their technology a little too much, and when unexpected losses occurred, like those at Mimic, they had little reserve to fall back on. It was then rather fortuitous that at their weakest, they fell into the laps of perhaps the one government in the region that, like Jurai, were expanding at a rate that they themselves could barely keep up with.

The two nation's social and military structures were laid out along similar lines - although with differing cultural heritage – and this allowed the differences of the then recent past to be put aside, to return to good relations that had been the norm for quite some decades. Where it became convent for both sides, was that their strengths dovetailed together so well, it was hard to believe that the resultant combined force had not been designed to go together in the first instance. Whereas Jurai were strong in space hardware and technology related to space warfare, Minnesota Tribe (MT) were at their best with ground engagements and well supplied with Clan Mech Chassis - long considered the stronger of the two types (Inner Sphere Chassis being the alternative). It was a simple matter for HJ/TD to make up the MT shortfall in space assets and technology, and for MT to supply pilots, mechs and support materials to all ground engagements throughout the two budding empires.

Together, their combined strength was far greater than the sum of its parts.


3.3 On the Space Battle to reach orbit of The Stepps, 11th through 13th February, 3070

HJ/TD's first opportunity to show their worth to the new alliance - while the ink was still drying on the Documents of Uniformity - was in making up the shortfall in MT space forces to break though the Outworlds Alliance defensive fleet protecting the planet The Stepps from attack. Even with the addition of a second Flag-class vessel to the MT armada, the battle would have still been a close call using the conventional weaponry available. As fortune would have it, Jurai had some as yet field-untested, and in some cases highly experimental technology available. Combining this with unorthodox tactics allowed not only a near flawless victory over the OA fleet, but full salvage of the OA craft by the winning force [see section 4.1 - 'The Omega Device Detonation and its Ramifications' for more detail].

The use of these experimental weapons, while originally appreciated by the MT commanders for their expediency, was subsequently reviled once their true nature was discovered. Addendums were written into the merger documents that expressly forbid the use of the Omega Device and any technologies of similar ilk while the current treaty was in place. As it turned out, the leadership of Jurai had no problems with this stipulation, as they too were surprised by the true nature of the weapon they had created.

The space battle effectively over - the orbital defence grid was nullified over the combat zone by electro-magnetic pulse weapons supplied by the TD military - the combined MT/ TD force moved on to the next phase of the operation: ground assault of planet The Stepps itself.

3.4 Major historical figures on planet The Stepps during the MT/TD planetary assault, February-March, 3070

Before a full outline of the offensive PA by the fledgling alliance can be analysed, it is prudent to go over the main historical figures that played a part in the battle on both sides of the field of combat.

3.4a Juraian Officers of note:

Tokomi Arizona - Warlord of House Jurai, Arizona had seen thousands of battles, on hundreds of worlds, being ex-Clanner and several hundred years old (personal assertion - needs reference). Well versed in space combat, he commanded the capital ships of TD with a deft tactical hand, finding success in many engagements, including the neutralisation of the Outworlds Alliance defensive fleet protecting The Stepps from ground invasion in February 3070. Also a deft hand at piloting a Battlemech (mech for short), Arizona left the leadership of mech units to other, more successful terrestrial commanders. At the time of this Planetary Assault (PA) he was the head of the Tokomi Samurai Family within HJ, and as such had the distinction of being one of the elite few who were tasked with being 'Defenders of the Royalty' in Family Jurai (the samurai family from which the House gained its name). Ari was also an accomplished diplomat, who brokered deals with other governments within and without the borders of the Inner Sphere with much skill, unless his anger was provoked. Most of that provocation was provided at this time by his headstrong daughter, Tokomi Jessica - a mechwarrior and a Tai-sa in the HJ military - and her twin siblings.

Maxtac Jurai - Another Warlord of House Jurai, Maxtac was an experienced and reliable Mechwarrior, an occasional field commander, civil servant, and had the singular distinction of having been the only surviving Juraian who had both the Heng and Jurai gene seeds retrovirally inserted into his genome as of 3070. A quote an ancient science fiction story, "Dune" illustrates the point: "...They tried and failed." "No. They tried and died..." The Heng 'gift' was limited precognition, its downside being visions of that Heng’s own demise. The Jurai gene seed often engendered in its recipient some form of mental powers. It has been well documented by those that had spent any time around a member of the Royal Juraian Family that it was a bad idea to piss off a Royal Juraian! At the time of the invasion force landing, Maxtac was unconscious on a medical ship at the northern nadir point of The Stepps system, after saving his bridge crew from a freak radiation wave at a far off Nadir point in the Mimic system.

Tokomi Teralitha - Another Tokomi who was on board the Juraian Flagship Nodachi when it was hit by a freak radiation wave, Teralitha was stoic and dependable. A successful tactician and a superlative pilot in his day, he excelled in any roll assigned to him, or chosen for himself as a force commander in the years leading up to The Stepps PA. Tera was greatly saddened by the loss of so many good HJ pilots, support crew, and friends. He subsequently found it difficult to adapt to his new role as part of the greater Minnesota Tribe military machine.

Tokomi Tyr - Another superb pilot who was in the service of the House Jurai in 2070, Tyr was often off on covert operations for the House, as a leader of personnel in the Internal and External Security Services of Jurai. When he wasn't needed in covert ops, he loved nothing better than to take the bull by the horns out on the battlefield, happily piloting just about any mech assigned to him. His only failing was a rare form of narcolepsy that wouldn't allow his circadian rhythms to stray from his home planets day/night cycles. On the rare cases when the plant on which he was fighting matched his home world, he was nigh-on unstoppable, but in a lot of cases, his snores could be heard across the battle coms while he slept at the stick when not in contact with the enemy! As the battle for The Stepps opened, Tyr had just arrived in system on the JNS Firelance, the ship commanded by Tokomi Jessica.

Tokomi-Tor Jessica - Daughter of Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona and Tokomi Helsy, Jessica was a headstrong young woman who had made it up the totem pole of the Jurai military by her own skill and ability, not by family patronage as some less reliable accounts might suggest. She was known to let her personal desires motivate her military decisions from time to time, as was the case in her attacks on the Clan Cloud Cobra planets of Brihuega, Salford, and No Where, around the time of the Mimic incident. The reason for this was that several months earlier, Jessica and her close friend and XO Amanda "Night Stalker" Anderson-Tor had married two Tor Knighthood recipients in a night of drunken debauchery - one of many during a holiday on Pirate Haven, a small unaligned planet in the southern IS which was a regular haunt of many a piratical spacer. The two Minnesota Tribe officers had then slipped away after realising what they had done – on orders to return to the Tribe - talking money and personal belongings of the young ladies to finance the trip. Naturally, the hot headed Tokomi-Tor and her XO pursued the men half way across known space, searching their last known whereabouts - the planet No Where. Little did they know that Mondo Tor and Deathwing Tor were both aboard the ships heading in to attack The Stepps, and these two men were in close proximity to Jessica's father. As the battle for The Stepps began, Jessica and Amanda's ship had just arrived at the Southern Nadir point of the system in question, smack bang in the middle of the Southern Nadir defence fleet OA had set up there.

Heng Asmudius - A high ranking officer of the family Heng, and Major Domo of his Family in 3070, Asmu was well known for his sense of humour and love of the humble Nukie, or Newcastle Brown Ale, a beverage from his home planet. He was known to fight his way across entire sectors of the IS to get to them, or retrieve them after a successful enemy raid on Juraian holdings. Also a fine strategic and tactical thinker, he had been moved up into a more planning roll, however his expert skills in a 'mech cockpit had not dulled by 3070. He was known to be fiercely loyal, and to give his all to the mission at hand. At the beginning of The Stepps invasion, Asmu is at Maxtac’s bedside, awaiting the Warlords return to consciousness.

Heng Taipan - A fine facilitator, Taipan had worked as Arizona's right-hand man for many years before the Mimic incident. As able in the cockpit as he was at the planning table, Taipan had even pulled off some successes leading lances of mechs that others had thought were at the very least highly unlikely. Known for having the patience of a trap-door spider, Tai worked the battlespace until everything was in position, and then strike where it would be most disadvantageous to the foe. At the time of the PA in question, Taipan had been sent back to the Dominions with the tender class ship Reliable, to help integrate the MT pilots assigned to fill the defensive mechs across the Tortuga Dominions, after the loss of so many TD pilots at the disaster at Mimic.

Diaka Kobi - XO of the JNS Nodachi - and Captain when no Warlord was present - Diaka knew the ship’s systems like the back of his hand. Quiet and dependable, he kept the bridge of the HJ Flagship humming like a well-lubricated fusion reactor.

Ozora Samurai - Ozora Cyph, Ozora Wolfsaber, Ozora Tiny and Ozora Nekekami were the pilots of the Kei Swordfish Experimental Heavy Aerospace Fighters that were used to launch the Omega Device. Although primarily technicians, scientists and Mechwarriors, Ozora were known to turn their hands to almost any vehicle or technology. They were the only pilots that had the required synthlink battlenet adaptors fitted at the time of the space battle for The Stepps, and thus the only choices for piloting the craft. Cyph, Wolfsaber and Tiny were also instrumental in the development of the Omega Device, and somewhat ironically, were the only survivors to have any experience with what the Omega Effect was like [see section 4.4 - 'Medical Reports of the Ozoran pilots effected by the Omega Detonation' for more detail]. During the course of the PA on The Stepps, all involved Ozoran pilots but one were being transported back to TD space for medical treatment and assessment of the data they had collected. Ozora Nekekami, who was caught in the blast of the Omega Device, is reported MIA, however a [section deleted].

3.4b Minnesota Tribe Officers of note:

Nailor Grey - A calm and calculating officer, Nailor had a strong sense of honour, duty and fair play, and was determined to not only succeed in his and the Minnesota Tribe’s goals and aspirations, but to do so in a proper fashion. Possessed of a silver tongue and a quick mind, Nailor was successful in diplomatic situations that other commanders in MT might have handled with less aplomb - to the point of starting wars. Always willing to go wherever he might send his men, Nailor would be regularly seen in the command lance of a Planetary Assault he was commanding, his mech giving as good, or better, than he was taking. He was aboard the overlord dropship Hammerfall as the MT/TD forces headed planetside at the beginning of the PA.

Killer Bee deVega – Widely considered one of the better and most dedicated field commanders of his era, KB deVega – as he was known to most – was usually considered primary target by all of MT’s enemies, and some of their allies as well. An excellent tactician, as well as a top pilot, KB never hesitated in leading his Mechwarriors into battle, and due to his ‘favourite target’ status, would often be the first pilot, after contact with the enemy, to be sitting out the rest of the battle in his escape pod far too regularly for his liking. Despite these setbacks, KB was always happiest in his mech, leading MT to victory time and time again across the IS and Clan-held space. Prone to wearing his heart on his sleeve, those around him always knew what he was feeling, and he showed no hesitation to tell anyone just what he thought of a situation. Still considered quotable to this day, many field commanders have borrowed from his repertoire of common phrases, such as ‘Get up here and put some fire on them,’ and ‘Kill [insert target name here], do ett now!’ KB was the main field commander on the MT/TD allied side during The Stepps campaign.

Deathwing Tor - A fine young officer climbing the ranks within MT, Deathwing had held his Knighthood name of Tor for only a year before The Stepps campaign. Celebrating his success with another young, new Tor, Armondo (Mondo), Deathwing went to the notorious Pirates Haven, a planet well known for vice and debauchery. Distracted from the mission they had been sent on by their superiors – to contact officers of the House Jurai in hopes of reopening diplomatic relations after a period of hostilities – DW and Mondo hooked up with what they believed were two pretty, young women from local periphery states. What they weren’t aware of, however, was that these two supposed farm girls were actually the officers of Jurai that they’d been sent to contact, holidaying on the outlaw planet under false names. After several weeks of heedless hedonism, a very drunken night found the two couples suffering ‘Las Vegas Syndrome’ – that is, they woke up one morning very hung over, and married! DW and Mondo woke before their new wives did, to discover their ill-advised change of marital status, and messages waiting for them ordering them back to MT space – in preparation for the assault on The Stepps. Confused, broke, but under orders, the lads ‘borrowed’ money and possessions from their new wives, left notes for each and then left the building... planet and sector. Understandably, when the ladies awoke, they were none too impressed about being ditched, and set about hunting down their husbands using whatever military might they could muster. At the opening of The Stepps campaign, DW was assigned to the command battalion, and his angry wife was just arriving in-system. DW knew he cared deeply for Jessica, however at the time he was not sure he was ready to settle down. Also, DW or Mondo had only days before discovered that Jessica was pregnant with Deathwing’s child.

Armondo Tor – Nearly inseparable from Deathwing from the time they became Knighthood brothers twelve months before The Stepps campaign, Armondo – known as Mondo to almost everyone - was a young man of light heart and good spirit in 3070. KB, on discovering the mess that DW and Mondo had created, ordered them into different lances with their battalion, hoping that splitting them up would reduce the aura of mishap that seemed to surround the two when they were together. Mondo was a good pilot, skilled and intelligent on the battlefield, and was actually sure of his love for his ‘wife’ Amanda. He missed her greatly, and deeply regretted what he and DW were forced to do under orders. He would have like nothing more than to drop everything and run off to find his lost love, and fall to his knees in front of her to beg for her forgiveness. Little did he know at the beginning of the planetary assault that the opportunity to do just that would be arriving in short order.

Happy deVega – A newly Knighted member of the cadre at the beginning of 3070, Happy loved his work, and felt most at home in light or medium mech chassis, often scouting for a command lance in combat operations. However, as his Knighthood would suggest, he was deadly in any class of mech. Also good on the paperwork side of the military, and being a good undercover operative, Happy was assigned to be Tokomi Arizona’s minder until the formal alliance treaty was signed. At the beginning of The Stepps campaign, Happy was on assignment as the scout to Coronel KB deVega’s command lance.

Rogue Mandaka – A top scout – when he didn’t get overly excited – and an up and coming field commander, Rogue had come a long way in a short time with the Tribe. Deadly in any class of mech, Rogue relished any role requested of him by his commanders, giving his all to succeed. Still aware he was on the learning curve at the time of The Stepps PA, Rogue freely admitted to any errors on his part, and was well liked by Mechwarriors under his command. At the beginning of the PA, Rogue was XO of The 291st Heavy Assault Regiment, commanding until the arrival of his battalion commander, Rhino Tor.

Rhino Tor – Legendary for his masterful use of the Long Tom – a massive-bore ballistic cannon of the time with impressive destructive potential in the right hands – Rhino Tor was the Minnesota Tribe’s equivalent of the Ozora Patriarch. Highly skilled on the field with all manner of weaponry and chassis, and off the field in a technical role, there were few times when failed technology could stop Rhino – or any Tor for that matter – completing his objectives. A man who was proud of his cadre, and of the technology he managed to keep MT functioning as an effective fighting unit, Rhino was needed – and universally welcomed – in all theatres of combat that MT was involved in. As such, Rhino did not arrive in The Stepps system until after word had reached MT central command that the PA was underway, and mechs were on the ground.

Nasty Sherette – Originally from an agrarian planet on the periphery, Nasty got his name in the battlegrounds of Solaris before signing on with the Tribe. After a slow but steady climb up the Enlisted, and then NCO ranks, at the beginning of The Stepps PA Nasty was the Gunny Sergeant for the 382nd Royal Dragoons. Known to be a little distracted when not in contact with the enemy, Nasty was always keen to get in range of his targets once they were located. A crack shot, and a solid team fighter, all members of the Cadre were pleased to have Nasty fighting on their side. Nasty, on the other hand, was just as happy to go hunting or fishing, which he availed himself of at every opportunity, even being late to muster on occasion because of his forays into the wilds of whatever planet he found himself on at the time. At the beginning of The Stepps campaign, Nasty was assigned to the assault command company.

Farslayer Sherette – A crack shot with long range weaponry, Farslayer was well named. Preferring to work at extreme range, he was known to greatly dislike fighting in urban environments. A Mechwarrior that liked to work in the background, he was always considered a lucky charm when assigned to an attack or defence. At the beginning of The Stepps PA, Farslayer was assigned to KB deVega’s personal lance.

Hellfire – Another pilot who was considered lucky to have around, Hellfire was a Mechwarrior more interested in fighting than commanding. So much so that it is suspected he started several bar fights on and off base in the time around 3070 to keep himself off the promotions listings. Despite this, any lance leader who was assigned Hellfire was glad to have him, and his tactical insights were always welcome. Hellfire was never one to ‘stay with the group.’ Ranging afield whenever not ordered otherwise, he had a great ability to position himself tactically for maximal impact on the battlefield. At the beginning of The Stepps campaign, Hellfire is also assigned to KB deVega’s personal lance.

Rebakka – Sent on the most dangerous missions, and into the craziest of situations, Reb as he was known to his fellows, besides having a penchant for wearing woman’s clothing when not in battle, revelled in being in the most danger, for the longest periods of time. Almost inseparable from his long time friend, Zymoses, the two would find themselves saving the day – almost inadvertently at times – and holding the Cadre top two spots for being blown up or ejected from a mech going critical the largest number of times. Despite this, Reb was an effective and talented Mechwarrior, and as The Stepps PA opened, was an up and coming lance leader on the battlefield.

Zymoses – Another dependable pilot, and known as the forbearance to Rebekka’s recklessness, Zymoses had a tough time keeping himself and his close friend Reb alive over the many years that they fought for the Minnesota Tribe together. Alone, Zy’s preference to hold back would have seen him languish in the lower ranks indefinitely, but as the Yin of moderation to Rebekka’s Yang of gung-ho recklessness, they made an effective team. Zy was Reb’s second-lance-command in the 291st Heavy Assault Regiment at the start of the PA.

Legonnaire – The quintessential freebooter, Lego, as he was known in the Cadre, worked his best magic out by himself on the battlefield. Having a preference for light and medium chassis, Lego preferred speed and jump ability over heavy firepower, and it wasn’t unusual for Lego to be piloting the last mech standing after his lance had gone down, and he had successfully picked off the remaining, damaged mechs of the enemy in the area. Other members of Lego’s company never held this against him, as it was always preferable to have the surviving mechs in a combat area piloted by friendlies – made it much easier to be picked up from the escape pod by your own side that way. At the start of the PA, Lego was switch-scouting for the 291st Heavy Assault Regiment.

There were many other fine Mechwarriors on the MT/TD side of the battlefield during the campaign in question, however it is not possible to find detailed information about all of them after all this time, nor would it be prudent to overload this study with dossiers on participants that do not figure in the remainder of the exposition.

3.4c Outworlds Alliance Officers of note:

Note: this section is limited due to the scope of this report being directed towards the MT/TD alliance, and the newly formed relationships therein.

Chairman AC – The man responsible for the defence of The Stepps, AC was well known for quick decision making as well as soundly planned defensive tactics. Often considered a hard taskmaster by the populations of the planets he was sworn to protect, AC none-the-less had instigated many public works and social programs, usually aimed at bringing newly subjugated territories more in line with the Alliance’s thinking and social norms. After underestimating the technical superiority of the MT fleet after they secretly received bolstering from TD forces, Chairman AC was determined not to underestimate his adversaries again. Being a man of action, first and foremost, AC shunned staying hold up in his Grand Citadel at the top of the steppes on the main continent of Valgardis, preferring to meet the enemy head on, leading his hand-picked contingent of highly skilled and experienced Mechwarriors against the hated foe. As the PA began, AC made his way from his capital to the forward mech base in the heart of the expected enemy advance.

Supervisor Deadmeat – The man behind the man, as it was said, Deadmeat was the right hand of the Chairman on The Stepps, and also responsible for clearing up any ‘unfortunate incidents.’ Seemingly devoid of emotion, and fanatically loyal to OA, Supervisor Deadmeat was the threat used to get rowdy children to sleep at night, and poorly performing cadets to concentrate on their piloting... or else. In private, the man behind the Deadmeat name was not nearly a heartless and uncaring as the tabloids of the time would have the casual reader believe, but in public, he played the persona needed to motivate, which was especially necessary in times of war. Also a highly skilled Mechwarrior, Deadmeat was regularly seen on the battlefield in the presence of the Chairman, fighting by his side, and it is said protecting his back, from enemies within and without. He was never seen far from AC’s side during times of conflict, unless specifically ordered away.

3.4d Circinus Federation Officers of note:

Note: A Circinus Federation (CF) contingent was on planet when the invasion began. Below are noted the lead officers present during the fighting.

Commander Okami – New to the position of Commanding Officer of the Circinus Federation Armed Forces, Okami was a family man at the start of The Stepps PA. Visiting the planet for talks with Chairman AC, Okami became trapped on The Stepps after war broke out. Okami had also brought his new family with him, reticent to leave them alone on one of the CF worlds as he didn't want to miss the arrival of his first born. Initially angry with AC for underplaying the MT/TD threat in-system, Okami eventually put himself and his honour guard Mechwarriors to work defending the planet, not only to fulfil the terms of a budding military alliance between OA and CF, but also to protect his family. This overwhelming urge to protect his own is considered of great import to the events of the first MT/TD PA on The Stepps of 3070.

Major TV – Okami's reliable second in command, TV was uncertain of OA's intentions at the time of the PA. However he was totally loyal to Okami, and ready to lay down his life for the Circinus Federation if need be. TV was determined that his homeland would not be torn apart from without after all its citizens had gone through to make it the burgeoning periphery power that it was at the time. He wasn't so sure about laying his life down for the much larger and self confident Outworlds Alliance, but if Commander Okami ordered it, he would do it. TV was at the head of the Commander's Honour Guard visiting the Grand Citadel on The Stepps when MT/TD invaded.

[Excerpt ends]

Post II

“…Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it…”
"The tale of the Monkey's Paw" by W.W. Jacobs.

Jergenson Ranch, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, Planet The Stepps.
14th February 3070: Morning

Kurt Jergenson paused in his hay-forking, from the back of his father's old flatbed truck into the hay loft of their barn in the farmyard, and wiped his brow with top of a grubby arm. The sun beat down mercilessly even at this early hour of the morning, and Kurt still had several other chores to do before it go to hot to be doing anything outside the air-conditioned central hab-core. But that was their lot on this mangy holding, on the edge of the Shanras desert, in the northern part of the southern habitable zone of Valgardis. The land his family had been forced to work sucked, the local town of Foulbard sucked, and the occupying Outworlds Alliance Military definitely sucked!

'It just isn't fair,' Kurt thought as he adjusted his goggles and got back to work. 'We had it good under Minnesota Tribe rule; local representation, elected seats on the continental council, a say in how the planet was run, and a share in any c-bills generated by the system itself. It didn't make the land better, but you just felt it was all worthwhile. But not now.' Kurt sighed.

OA had held the planet for two long years now. They'd promised a program of civic reconstruction after the invasion was over, but it soon became evident that it wasn't going to happen. Kurt couldn't tell if it was a lack of funds, or that their new governors just didn't care. Hell they could be on the take for all Kurt new. No free press anymore, so who could complain.

More than likely the local Alliance Council spent the money supporting and housing the huge numbers of mechs they had stationed on the planet. It was just crazy! All this war, and for what. So you could say you had more planets than the next government down the galactic block? Who really gave a frack? The everyday man just wanted to live, get by, and maybe one day improve his life a bit. That all one could really hope for on this near desolate rock. Hell the hay Kurt was bailing came from far to the south, so they could keep their pair of diary animals alive through the hellacious summer months. The family were just barely scraping by, and with Kurt being drafted into the OA military just after his fast-approaching eighteenth birthday...

Kurt's face darkened. 'If only the Minnesota Tribe returned to take the planet back!' he thought to himself, for even uttering such a hope was treason in the current political environment. He'd heard some 'lose talk' around the bar in town suggesting that an MT strike force had been located at the system's northern Nadir for several weeks now. 'If they were in-system, why weren't they getting down here and getting the job done?' Kurt wondered. 'If they did liberate The Stepps from OA's control I could stay on the farm. We might even have enough tax relief to improve the land, grow better crops, get better livestock...

The farm boy's musings were cut short when he noted a number of far-off 'crump' noises echoing through the hot morning air. He looked up, shielding his already-goggled eyes from the harsh sunlight, and picked out some dozen or more dark shapes falling though the atmosphere overhead. Kurt watched, dumbfounded, as the dark shapes coalesced into the forms of heavy and super-heavy dropships, their undersides still glowing red hot, and then the deafening roar of their retro-thrusters kicking in as they made to decelerate before they could be smashed into the careless embrace of the planet's surface.

The harsh glare of the retro-thrusters overhead, matched only by the day star climbing high in the sky to join the descending dropships, Kurt realised that not only was this sizable force making planetfall nearby, but most were likely to set down on the Jergenson farmland! Kurt leapt down from the back of the truck, intending to run inside to tell his Pa, but was stopped dead in his tracks, staring skywards with a slack-jawed expression, as the slowing dropships overhead began to fire out across the farmlands that Kurt had worked the past few years. Particle projection cannons, laser cannons, long range ballistic weapons, and salvos of missiles reached out, and Kurt followed their trajectory with his eyes to see two flights of fighters angling in on the descending ships.

Kurt ran for the cover of the main hab-core's awning as stray fire from the attacking fighters splattered across the farmyard between the hab buildings and the outbuildings. The farm boy shielded his eyes as the ballistics tore a trench through the yard, throwing up chunks of hard packed earth, and then the trail of fire caught the front end of the old truck. The poor old vehicle, far older and in much worse shape than Kurt himself, gave in, exploding in a ball of orange flame that engulfed the loose hay in the barn loft, and within seconds the flames had spread and the whole building was ablaze. Kurt stared on in shock as his father and uncle ran outside to find out what the commotion was all about.

"Pa, Gregor, NO!" Kurt yelled, jumping up from his sheltered position, grabbing his father and uncle by the back of their shirts and dragging them down behind cover, as pieces from and exploding fighter sprayed the farmyard where they had been standing moments before. The rapidly disintegrating chassis of the fighter cart-wheeled overhead, trailing flame and smoke, to explode over behind the hab-buildings. The impact shook the farm buildings, as the heat from the burning truck and barn washed over them.

"I'll bet that hit the orchard," Kurt's father, Conrad said, his eyes down, head shaking. "And just look at the barn, and the truck!" Conrad went to rise to go toward the now well alight building and ruined vehicle, but the hands on his shoulders from both Kurt and Gregor made sure he wasn't going anywhere. There wasn't anything he could do about it anyway.

Overhead, the weapons fire from the slowing dropships petered out as another group of fighters, these ones diving in from a steep angle - possibly from orbit, Kurt surmised - moved in to engage the remaining fighters that had attacked the dropships. They chased off or shot down the enemy planes, while the drop ships, now thrusting hard and falling as if in slow motion, deployed their landing legs ready for imminent touchdown.

Then Kurt saw a hatch slide up on the side of one of the dropships, but this was no personnel-sized hatch. This opening was at least three stories tall, and out of it tumbled a wonder of the modern military age: a battlemech.

This first bipedal, stories-high war machine looked like an egg on legs, with two sets of differing-calibre cannon barrels where arms would be if it were more humanoid. Kurt knew almost instinctively, from a considerable interest in weapons of modern warfare, that this 'mech was designated an Avatar, a chassis in the heavy category and one of the workhorses of the IS and periphery militaries. It fell from the opening, in freefall until jets of flame lit off behind it, propelling the Avatar forward and away from the falling dropship, and also slowing the 'mech's descent. The jets flared brighter as it neared the ground and then cut off as the huge feet met the surface, and the great legs buckled at their joints to take up the impact of landing. As the legs unfolded back to their original length lifting the Avatar to its full height, the torso of the war machine tracked back and forth searching for targets. Meanwhile, three more enormous, bipedal war machines landed behind the first.

On the left of the Avatar a blocky, humanoid-looking 'mech with a head offset to the right landed, and Kurt knew this model to be a Summoner, a Clan heavy chassis. On the other rear quarter of the Avatar, another type of 'mech, with a domed body and missile pod-like ears, set down. It had reverse-kneed, or chicken-walker legs, and Kurt knew this was another Clan chassis, known as a Timberwolf. Finally a smaller, almost crab-like 'mech landed to the rear, making up the fourth corner of a diamond. This mech was stout and looked fast, and was known by the designation of Shadowcat, Kurt knew. The four 'mechs spread out slightly, scanning the area as the juggernaught-like dropships - dwarfing the enormous 'mechs themselves - settled to the earth with a spray of dust and fumes from their retro-thruster exhausts and a hollow booming sound as their bulks settled onto the sod.

Finally the whine of the massive spacecraft engines wound down, and the lesser sounds of the burning barn, and the ticking of the cooling metal of the dropships and mechs reasserted themselves. Kurt wiped the fronts of his goggles with the hem of his old, battered T-shirt, and then scanned across the surface of the lead 'mech to find its unit insignia. He spotted it a moment later, and his face split into a grin. The design was distinctive; the numbers three-three-one, over the shape of a now lost state from old earth's United States, itself over a blue sphere. There was no denying it, these forces sported the unit insignia of the group Kurt had longed to see here again, and thought he never would.

The Minnesota Tribe.

"Pa, Uncle," Kurt called over the sounds of stomping 'mech feet, excitement obvious in his voice, "it's the Tribesmen, their back!"

"Wonderful," Conrad replied, standing up and brushing his now dusty farm clothes down. Just then the patrolling Avatar stepped into the farmyard proper and stopped, facing the hab-blocks and the three men standing in awe of all the military technology that had dropped in on them, literally from orbit. It seemed to give them the once over, before a loud speaker on the lower right side of the mech crackled to life.

"Do not be afraid," a deep, raspy voice, slightly tinny from the speaker, began, "we are the Minnesota Tribe, returned to liberate your world. We mean you no harm."

"Great!" Conrad said, pulling his hat off to make his goggled face more recognisable to the mechwarrior in the pilot's seat, and then playing his fists firmly on his sides just above his hipbone. "Now you can tell me who I have to talk with to receive just compensation for the destruction of my truck and barn, the fire that’s likely burning in my orchard right now, and who's going to pay rent on my lands while I can't work them, because you have your freaking enormous dropships parked all over them."

"Well," the voice from the mech spoke again, clearing its throat before continuing, "you'll be wanting Brigadier-General Nailor Grey. If you'll step up to the Overlord dropship over there, he'll be with you shortly."

The farmer 'humphed,' and then he, his brother and his son walked off in the direction of the large, egg-shaped dropship that’s main gangplank was already descending.

Grand Council Chambers, Grand Citadel of Valgardis, Planet The Stepps.
14th February 3070: Morning

"Councillor AC, Councillor AC!!" a whiny-voiced, middle-aged man in the ceremonial garb of the Citadel Crier came running into the huge and opulently appointed day room. Councillor AC, Supreme Commander of the Outworlds Alliance Military, had chosen the room as the location of the day’s meeting with his opposite number in the Circinus Federation, Commander Okami. The two quietly conversing leaders turned to look at the ridiculous, red-faced, portly and clearly out-of-shape man waddling hurriedly towards them over the highly polished floor. The Citadel Crier was clearly scared, Okami noted, but scared of some event, or having to announce that event to his master, Okami didn't know. Glancing over at AC, Okami noted that the OA leader’s previously calm demeanour was melting rapidly. Okami was reminded that it was ill-advised for an underling of AC's to embarrass him. Heedless, the portly man blathered on.

"Oh, Supreme Commander," the Crier said between gasps, "I'm so glad I found you." The man then seemed to register the look of growing consternation of his leader's face, and the - carefully - watching allied Commander sitting with AC, and in a belated display of respect, bowed with a flourish to both men. This seemed to placate AC a notch, but he was still less than impressed.

"Well," he said when the Crier hesitated just a moment too long, "out with it man. What is so devilishly important that you would interrupt delicate inter-governmental negotiations like this?"

'Delicate negotiations, eh?' Okami gauffed inwardly, his outer facade remaining carefully neutral. 'He was just finishing one of his many fishing stories. But I suppose we are both stifling in dress uniform, so it is an official meeting of sorts. Regardless, perhaps this interruption will be more entertaining.' Okami leant forward, his interest piqued.

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir," the messenger's whiny tone was back, "but the operations officer said that you would want to know this as soon as possible." At the words 'operations officer' AC straightened up, and his gaze hardened. He was about to berate the Crier when the man continued. "The Minnesota Tribe has somehow broken through the defensive fleet, and the orbital defence network. They are currently making planetfall on the far side of the Shanras Desert. Local defence forces scrambled to intercept, but were beaten back by superior firepower." The Crier was almost panting with exertion by the time he had all the message relayed. He stood, slightly hunched over, catching his breath, waiting for a reaction, any reaction, from his silent, possibly stunned leader.

Okami too sat silent for a pregnant moment, his thoughts whirling. The planet assaulted. He, his retinue and worse still, his family, likely trapped on world while enemy warships were in orbit. This was not how this friendly visit was supposed to be turning out. He turned to glare at AC, who in turn sprang suddenly to his feet and backhanded the Citadel Crier across the face.

The portly man was stunned, as was Okami, but for considerably different reasons. The stuck man toppled over backwards, falling on his ample behind, his mouth agape, and a large red welt forming across his left cheek where he'd been hit. Okami rose to his feet to protest, but took an involuntary step back when AC launched into a tirade.

"Gods-damn that useless sombitch Garrett," AC growled, striding a few feet across the polished stone floor, his fists clenched in rage, just to turn and stride back toward the sprawled Crier. The portly man scrabbled back away from the angry leader of the OA military, to bump into some highly polished jackboots being warn a man who had entered the room after the Crier. "All he had to do was go out and kill me the MT flag. He had the superior numbers and firepower. How did MT manage to..."

"They had help," a new voice, clear and crisp, broke across AC's angry musings. Okami and AC glanced across at the new arrival, as he reached down and helped the Crier to his feet. "You go put a cold pack on that now, it'll be fine in a few hours," he added as he shooed the confused looking Crier towards the door. The Crier, looking hurt, confused and not entirely sure if he should go, as the Supreme Commander hadn't given him permission to leave yet, started towards the door then slowed, but seeing that AC was now focused on the sharply dressed officer that had entered behind him, decided to leg it.

"What do you know of this, Deadmeat?" AC asked of this new man, his second in command, beckoning him closer. Deadmeat strode up slowly, making sure he was outside arm's reach of the Councillor.

"I know from initial reports of the forces landing in outer Solomish, that they have both MT and TD IFF signatures," Deadmeat said, his tone circumspect.

"Tortuga Dominions?" Okami asked, and Deadmeat nodded. "What the hell are those crazy Juraian bastards doing way out here? Both OA and CF have been raided by them from time to time on our southern boarders, but I've never heard of them coming all the way out here, nor helping MT in a PA of all things. Weren't they at war there recently?" Okami rubbed his lightly stubbled chin.

"Yes, they were," Deadmeat confirmed, "however, hostilities ceased almost a year ago now, and there have been reports of MT sending envoys out to try to contact Juraian officers, with hopes of improvement in relations. One suspected envoy was seen leaving Pirate's Haven several months ago."

"Well it looks like they are all chummy again," AC said, his tone derisive, "but that doesn't explain how MT, even with TD's help, busted through our naval blockade, and the satellite defence network."

"There are two Flag-class ships, one from each government, currently in orbit," Deadmeat said, handing his Commander a datapad. AC snatched it up, scanning it with practiced efficiency.

"Last contact with Garrett's forces was 0130 hrs yesterday morning?" AC asked, and Deadmeat nodded.

"They weren't officially listed as overdue until this morning because it's often hard to communicate in a battlespace filled with jamming and counter jamming," Deadmeat replied. It was AC's turn to nod. He was well aware of standard military practice, in space or on the ground.

"But even with another flag, it should have been a close fight," AC stated, screwing his mouth up as he read, "but this says that force deployments seen in orbit and dirtside by recon units equal upward of ninety-five percent of expected MT availability." OA let the data pad fall to his side as he locked gazes with Deadmeat. "Are you trying to tell me that we inflicted no damage on them at all? What did Garrett do, bend over and let them have their way with him?" AC's demeanour was just asking Deadmeat to agree with him. Deadmeat, of course, had known his Commander and friend for quite long enough not to be flippant at times like these.

"No, I don't think so," Deadmeat began instead. "Going on Commodore Garrett's pervious performance reviews and past successes, I'd say he was totally right when he told you that MT had an ace up their sleeve, and I suspect it was something new and unorthodox from their new TD buddies."

"Hrm," AC said, rubbing his chin as he studied the datapad again. Privately he couldn't doubt the logic, but he wasn't about to admit to it, especially if Garrett was dead... after all, a dead man made a great scapegoat. "Get some light recon up to the battlespace when there is a verified gap in the orbital interdiction, and get any information we can." Deadmeat nodded, and made a note on the small datapad he always carried with him. "In the meantime," AC continued, his voice now icy calm, "mobilise the Citadel Guard, the terrestrial fighter cap, and instruct all south sector bases to advance to war footing. I want the mechs stationed at bases one through thirteen on the move, out into the Shanras at nightfall. The guard will meet them there by dropship before dawn, and we'll set up a forward Base of Operations under fighter cover. Well meet them as they move out of the dropzone, and attempt to push them straight back onto it." More nodding and scribbling from Deadmeat. He glanced up when he was finished. "That's all for now. Go make it happen for me." Deadmeet saluted, spun neatly on his heel and strode purposefully away.

"And what about my Circinus Federation contingent?" Okami asked, his tone tense, once Deadmeat was out through the door and away. Okami didn't like discussing CF business in front of Deadmeat; the man was very capable, but also rather all to knowing. Okami felt that the less Deadmeat knew about him, the better.

"You're welcome to attempt a trip to the Southern Nadir to jump outsystem if you want to, but I can't guarantee your ship's safety in a time of war," AC replied, knowing full well what Okami was getting at. Okami rolled his eyes at this mercenary reply, but AC was right. It was just too dangerous to take his family up through enemy controlled orbits during a planetary assault. "Or," AC continued, a cheeky smile spreading across his face, "you could fulfil your part of our mutual defence contract and mount yourself and your honour guard up and ride into battle with me. After all, you can't exactly leave safely until the battle is won, so why not speed up the process of kicking the Tribe and the Juraians off my planet so you can leave?"

Okami had to hand it to AC, he was right, and quite convincing. It would be good to kill a few MT and TD mechs, and they might just take some salvage home with them.

"Very well," Okami agreed, "we shall ride together to kick these scum off your planet."

AC's grin was feral. This shouldn't take too much time at all.

to be continued...

Post III

“…Preparation for war is a constant stimulus to suspicion and ill will…”
James Monroe, 5th US President (1758 - 1831)

MT/TD Dropzone Base, Jergenson Ranch, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, Planet The Stepps.
14th February 3070: Afternoon

"Hopefully that will cover you for loss of the building, vehicle, and the damage to the orchard, and stand as just compensation for the use of your land until such time as we move our base of operations forward, or take the Capital, whichever comes first," Nailor Grey said. He used his best diplomatic tone, and showed what he hoped was a pleasant as he sat at his desk aboard the Overlord-class dropship Hammerfall, doing his best impression of a ‘benevolent liberator of the populace.’ From the look in the eyes of this farmer and his brother that the MT-TD invasion force had dropped in on, it was barely adequate.

The disgruntled farmer 'hrmphed' at Nailor, grabbed the bag of C-bills off the desk and without another word lead his brother out the hatchway, into the busy corridor outside Nailor's small office - well it was small when compared to his one on the flagship. Nailor watched them go with a curious look, then sent a marine after them to see them safely out. Once that was done, he turned his head and raised an eyebrow at KB who was leaning against a bulkhead, thoughtfully chewing on a grass stalk that he'd picked up somewhere outside, between his Avatar battlemech and the dropship.

"You know you gave them half a small fortune in compensation," KB commented, the grass stalk switching from one side of his mouth to the other while he spoke. "It's the down-time here in outer Solomish until they get some more precipitation later in the year. They couldn't grow anything now anyway. And that beat up old truck and cheep, prefab barn..."

"Yes, yes, I know," Nailor said, his movements conveying apology, "but I feel bad for these people. I feel bad that we had to leave them here to the less than tender mercies of the Outworlds Alliance regime, one that I'm sure has mistreated them because they are ex-Tribe populace. And I feel bad that we landed on their farm. They don't need that. The assault force being parked here will be a damage magnet to their property, you can bet on that, unless AC and his band of trigger-happy yah-hoos don't bother us until we strike out across the deserts toward the capital."

"And there's not much chance of that, I grant you," KB said, pushing off from the bulkhead to lean on the corner of Nailor's desk. "Speaking of which, I should probably report that the scout lances are out, lead by Happy and Lego, and deployment is proceeding apace." KB smiled one of his rare, toothy grins. "I have to admit, I like the set of the Juraian's jibs!" Nailor smirked slightly at KB's attempt at 'Pirate Slang.'

"How so?" he asked, playing along. He hadn’t expected this change in KB’s attitude toward their ‘new partners’ so suddenly after the revelation of what that Omega Device actually was. Perhaps KB was leaving that in the past. Sensible thing too... MT command had enough to do without developing a poor attitude to their new allies.

"Well they run pretty tight ships," KB said. "Down, on target, and deployed before some of our boys had their gangways down. I think the ground force integration of our combined forces will go quite smoothly. If what's left of Jurai can fight like they did when we faced them on the field..." Nailor made a 'quit it' hand signal as there was a rap on the half open gangway hatch, and Arizona stuck his head into Nailor's office.

“Not intruding, I hope,” Arizona said as an opening comment. Continuing his ‘benevolent liberator’ persona, Nailor threw on a pleasant smile and bid the Juraian Warlord enter with a wave of his hand. The look on KB’s face was somewhat less diplomatic.

“Glad to see everyone’s down and safe, at least for the moment,” Arizona said, taking up the proffered chair on the business side of Nailor’s desk. KB stepped back to lean against the wall again, and his arms crept across his chest to be folded there.

“Yes,” Nailor agreed, “the operation has gone well so far, besides that little ‘problem’ with the enemy fleet.” Nailor deliberately downplayed the several heated discussions that had taken place at the battle scene and in orbit, but the mention still stung, and it was Arizona’s turn to take up a defensive posture. Reports were still coming in from the prize crews; the ships were a disturbing reminder of the totally alien encounter that had gone on there, and floating mausoleums to the crews that had paid for it with their very existence.

“Well yes, it didn’t go quite as I’d hoped,” Ari said, his voice tinged with the appropriate level of regret, from what Nailor could tell. “But you have to admit, it was effective, and got your ground crews down here without loss or damage.” Nailor glanced at KB reddening face and inwardly sighed; he never should have brought it up.

“But it was WRONG!” KB blurted out, unable to stay his tongue any longer. Nailor raised the hand closest to KB in a ‘stop motion,’ and the obedient Coronel clamped down on whatever else he had to say about the incident. 'Not quite in the past, just yet,' Nailor concluded.

“Yes it was,” Ari agreed, looking at the floor; then he looked up. “And it won’t be used again, if I have anything to say in the matter. That research project is finished.” Secretly, Ari knew that Misato would be gleeful about the success of the test, even beyond her twisted expectations. She had been the driving force behind the project, and she would fully appreciate the quick, efficient, and most importantly clean nature of the result. Ari would push to have the project permanently shut down, but he also knew that funds would probably disappear from the Dominion’s budget for years to come, just as they had in years past, to fund pet projects of Misato’s. This one would probably take a long time to resurface, but resurface it would. Ari could only hope that when it did, likely decades from now, he wasn’t anywhere nearby!

“Good to hear,” Nailor agreed, glancing up at KB to give him a non-verbal signal to drop it. KB was a great field commander, but he could be like a dog with a bone at times.

“So what happened to the plan of setting up the LZ in unoccupied territory?” Ari asked in way of changing the subject, waving his arm in a sweeping motion to indicate the farm they were currently parked on, although none of the men present could see said farm though the layers of ferro-fiberous armour that surrounded them.

“Well the last recorded land surveys we had available said that this grid reference was uninhabited,” KB cut in. He had been the one to choose the landing site, and KB was a man who took full responsibility for his actions. “This land is barely arable, and when we were the governing body here, several years ago, we wouldn’t have asked any of our people to try to eke out a living on the edge of the hellish Shanras desert.”

“And yet here they are,” Nailor added, shaking his head slightly. “When we resume the rightful governship of this planet, I intend to set things straight."

“A very laudable aim,” Arizona agreed, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Well I have some equipment to organise, so I’ll leave you two to sort out the finer details. Contact me if I can help with anything, but otherwise I’ll see you on the ready line at dawn.”

“On the ready line?” Nailor echoed, confusion creeping over his face as the Juraian Warlord made his way to the door.

“Why yes, Brigadier-General,” KB said, a smirk playing about the corners of his mouth, “Tokomi Arizona here has agreed to fight as a member of the Tribe, under our command, during all engagements instigated by MT, where he is so required.” Nailor slack jawed stare swept from the Tokomi to the deVaga and back again.

“That’s right,” Ari said, stretching in his Warlord’s uniform, “it’ll be a nice change to get out of this stuffy thing and into a coolant suit. I’m gonna be a private again.” Arizona chuckled as he stepped though the hatchway and was gone.

“He’s gonna be an honorary MT during the PA?” Nailor asked, surprise colouring his tone, “and piloting no less?”

“Yup,” KB said, “you did give me leeway to select my pilots, and after the madhouse that Tokomi put us through on the way here, I thought it was only fair that I should get some payback!”

"Alright, alright," Nailor said, after a moment's pause, 'just don't get him killed, okay?"

"I'll... do my best," KB said, and Nailor shot him a glare. Grey knew that the Coronel hated waste, and that included rather annoying if occasionally useful allied commanders.

"I'll keep you to that," Grey stated, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his chin. "I think this little idea of yours might work out rather well," he continued after a moment, "we could make a separate rank structure, mirroring our own for the Juraians, give them a special name, Juraian Brigade or something, so they keep their identity but still have a place with us... could work rather..." Nailor's line of comment trailed off as there was a knock at his partly open gangway hatch.

"Come in," Nailor said, and the two men waited. No one came in. "COME IN," Nailor said again, louder this time, thinking he might not have been heard in the noisy hallway. Finally the door swung open with the sound of protesting metal, and the young man from the farm stepped into Nailor's office, glancing around curiously.

"And what can we do for you, young man?" Nailor asked, thinking the boy might be lost. "Your father and uncle have already left the ship, so if you hurry..."

"Oh, I didn't come here to find them," the boy said, with more confidence than either Tribesmen would have expected. "I came here to find you, Sirs."

"Oh really... Kurt, isn't it?" KB asked, and the boy nodded as KB pushed off the wall and plonking himself on the edge of Nailor's desk, to fix Kurt with an apprising eye, "and why would you be looking for two old, grizzled Mechwarriors like us?"

"Because I want to join up," Kurt said, deadpan, "and the master of the watch said I needed to come speak to KB or Nailor about it."

"Look I know that it looked rather impressive, us dropping in here with big ships and mechs," KB began, "but war is dangerous... people get killed."

"That may be so," the Jurgenson lad replied, "but if I was a trained Mechwarrior, at least I could do something about it if the wrong side arrived at the farm. And you know, civilians get killed in war too, cos they don't have tons of ferro armour between them and the enemy!"

"Kid's got a good point," Nailor nodded. He glanced at KB, who was still not looking sold on the idea. Kurt turned to speak to KB directly.

"The OA military has compulsory service here on The Stepps. I turn eighteen next week, and they would have been here to haul me away to military school if you hadn't dropped in. So I was headed for the army anyway, and at least this way, I actually get to chose which side I fight for, and you've already treated our family better than OA ever did, despite how my father reacted." Kurt actually winked at KB. "He's always like that," the lad added.

KB was stumped. This boy was smart, courteous, and just cheeky enough to make a hell of a Mechwarrior, if his aptitude tests were up to the mark.

"Well you don't just become a Mechwarrior overnight," KB began, and Nailor smiled; he knew his long time friend was coming around. "Takes years of testing, training and working your way through the academy."

"Oh I fully understand that, Sirs," Kurt said, stepping in at just the right moment so he didn't talk over KB. "But until such time as I can do the tests and complete the training, surely there is something you can have a strong young farm boy with considerable local area knowledge do to help the war effort?"

"Well we could use a local to go over our maps, to pinpoint what's outdated on them," Nailor said, "and there is always lifting and carrying to do. Can you drive a fork truck or a prime mover?"

"Oh I excelled at geography and cartography at school, Sirs," Kurt said, his excitement showing, "and I already have a licence for a class B fork-truck, and all classes of civilian transport. Farmwork," he said simply by way of explanation.

"Alright then," KB said, pushing off from the desk. Come with me and I'll properly introduce you to the Officer of the Watch. He can get you signed up and supplied with the basics. Welcome to the Recruit Cadre, Kurt." KB smiled at the lad and turned him around, giving him a friendly clout between the shoulder blades to propel him out the hatch.

Nailor smiled as he watched them leave, then returned to adjusting the force deployments for the following day's opening of hostilities.


Grand Citadel of Valgardis Spaceport, Planet The Stepps.
14th February 3070: Sunset

"You have to admit, it's impressive," AC said out the side of his mouth to Okami as they stood on the rooftop balcony of the Excise and Trade building, fifteen stories up, overlooking the spaceport and all the frenetic activity it was struggling to hold. He didn't turn his head to speak because he didn't want to miss a moment of the perpetrations before the sun sank into the sand haze far to the west.

"Hmm," Okami said in way of reply, as enamoured of the sight before them as his ally.

Long rays of hazy orange sunlight swept in from the blood-red day star to the west. The light filtered across the scene in front of them, casting long shadows from the mechs and dropships they looked upon. The full garrison was being mobilised, besides a skeleton contingent to hold the Citadel against sneak attack, and as the two commanders watched the preparations, a cold beer within easy reach of both of them, they could do naught but smile.

Three Hamilcar, two Leopard II, and more than a dozen Fury class aerodyne dropships sat scattered around the spaceport. Mechs of all classes, tanks, hovercraft, LAV's and troops in battle armour moved purposefully in groups into the waiting maws of the military dropship's bays. As Okami watched, taking a swig of his cold beer, two of the Hamilcars zipped up, loaded to capacity with troops and vehicles, and after their support vehicles had trundled ponderously away, lit up their drives, lifting off with a thrown up cloud of sand, heat haze obscuring their lines in the setting sunlight. Their bulks was soon lost to drive flares as they poured on the power to struggle into the sky, and then they lit their horizontal drives, powering off towards the south.

Okami thought the spaceport looked a little empty after the departure, until another, even larger, aerodyne dropship flew low across the walls of the Citadel defences to settle into the space left by the departed transports, in a cloud of sand and dust that took minutes to clear.

"Woh," Okami said, glancing away from the scene for the first time to check that AC was listening. "That Aero is massive! What the hell is it?" Okami couldn't stop himself asking. "I've never seen anything like it."

"I'm not surprised," AC said in a lazy, smooth-as-silk tone. To emphasise his point, he took a swig of his beer before continuing. "It's known as a Conquistador, and it's my command ship on planet. Seventeen-point-four kilotons, it can carry twenty-four mechs, with space left over for fighters, vehicles and lots and lots of infantry." AC grinned. "It has lots of CnC capacity, and the empty bays can double as a field hospital at need. It's a very recent Outworlds acquisition, so new that the paint is only just dry on the burning sun symbols!"

"Impressive," Okami admitted, a little jealousy colouring his tone. Circinus Federation wasn't big enough, or lucky enough, to score something like that monster aerodyne dropship, but that didn't stop Okami from having a great desire to ride to battle in it. "So, do me and my boys get to travel to the front in your new ride?"

"Only if you're really nice to me," AC replied, then laughed. "It's my command ship, and you are the allied commander on planet. Of course I want you aboard with me, but the price of admission is tactical discussions on the way there."

"Fair enough," Okami said, knowing that he would have had to put his tactical two c-bills in anyway. "But I'm not taking my flashy honour guard mechs to the front. My guys ride in your toys, this deployment." AC turned to look at Okami after that comment, and Okami met his gaze with a similarly strong look.

"Okay," AC said simply after a moment’s consideration. "I've got so many mechs stuffed onto this sandbag you'll be falling over them at the rendezvous point. I think we could probably spare a few for your guys."

"Good," Okami said, finishing up his beer as the sun started to sink into the dust clouds lining the western horizon. "I'll get back to the barracks and get TV and the boys organised. They'll like combat against the likes of MT and TD far more than sitting around the dorm getting fat." AC gauffed quietly, and then his face turned serious as Okami turned and started to walk towards the stairs off the balcony.

“You know, you made a good call not running for the southern Nadir,” AC said, his tone cold and venomous, carrying easily over the noise from the war preparations below. Okami stopped and half-turned, wariness evident in his stance. “I received notification less than half an hour ago,” AC continued, his voice deadly, “that a Dominion’s attack fleet hit our forces on the Southern Nadir. I don’t know what the fools were doing, but they were surprised and overrun, and my ships were forced to run back towards the planet, taking substantial losses.” AC locked eyes with Okami, and the CF leader swallowed.

Images flashed through Okami’s mind unbidden. His own dropships might have been caught up in that, and scattered, or... destroyed. His family... Okami screwed his eyes shut and shook his head once to clear it. ‘I’ll never bring my family along again,’ he vowed to himself. ‘They stay back at the capital on Circinus from now on, as safe as I can make them.’ Okami’s gaze met Chairman AC’s again, and this time determination resided within. This time, it was AC’s turn to look away first.

“So, we are here for the duration,” AC concluded as he looked out over the spaceport again, his tone lighter, his usual, devil-may-care attitude restored. “I’m glad to have you in this with me, Okami.”

Okami nodded once, his jaw clenched. “We’ll wipe the pirate scum from this planet, and then I’m taking my family home.” Okami spun on his heal and strode away without another word. AC watched him go, a slight smile playing round his lips. The announcement had had the desired effect, and AC was confident that the CF contingent would fight as hard as his own, or he didn’t know Okami!

Okami walked down the stairs and away. The CF leader was right, AC considered, going back to the previous train of thought; going into battle was far preferable to sitting around the Citadel getting lazy and fat, and having the enemy come to you was even better than being sandwiched on a dropship for weeks before getting to the good stuff.

The OA Chairman put down his now empty beer and glared through the haze towards his command dropship, where he could just make out his personal battlemech being loaded.

A good time for a fight indeed!


MT/TD Dropzone Base, Jergenson Ranch, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
14th February 3070: Sunset

The daystar was just dipping into the sand haze on the western horizon when Kurt made it to the top of the hill, east of the farmstead he’d called home for the past two years. Kurt watched the orb of the star’s light turning blood red as it slid into the smudge across the horizon that was caused by the many and frequent sandstorms that plagued the region of the Solomish and its surrounds during the dry season. The orange light that shone across the fields at this time of day was quite eerie, but Kurt was quite used to it; he’d sat on this hill and watched the day star set on many evenings, however, this evening, things were considerably different.

For one, he now wore the blue uniform of the cadet cadre of the Minnesota Tribe. Kurt was very proud of this, and intended to do his utmost in service of the government he had chosen to fight for. He also hoped his father would understand, however the old man was far beyond the desire for action and adventure, being so down to earth that he considered any particular government a temporary inconvenience at best. “Well I think better treatment and more personal freedom is worth fighting for,” Kurt had argued with his father on many evenings, to which his father had replied; “It’ll be what it’ll be, you just concentrate on doing the work that puts food in our bellies and a roof over our heads.” Well you get all that in the army, Kurt mused... so he didn’t think he was doing such a bad thing.

The big change to the vista before him was the sprawling landing zone base that MT and TD had set up in the few short hours since they had touched down. Modular buildings, sat dishes, temporary sheds – some quite large – mobile mech repair bays, and of course the range of enormous spheroid dropships littered the fields and clearings across the inner forty. These dropships came in two colour schemes; muted red and blue that tagged them as MT, and those decorated in black and muted purple, with orange highlights – notations, warning signs and the like – that marked them as Juraian. Between all this, hastily set up turrets and mobile anti-aircraft vehicles tracked the skies, and flights of aerospace fighters flew overhead every few minutes. To add another level to this impressive display, hundreds of personnel and vehicles rushed to and fro, like ants disturbed from their dropship ant mounds. Each had a purpose in the greater whole, and Kurt felt excited to suddenly be a part of that. Farm boy in the morning, MT recruit in the afternoon. Who would have thunk it?

But the most exciting part of the scene below him was the massive battlemechs that stood and walked around amongst the other goings on, like giants among the little people of old stories. Kurt could pick out a lot of the chassis, knew their origins and the weaponry they might be packing. Here a Raven touting a large missile launcher, there a Bushwacker armed with Light AutoCannon 5’s and a backup laser. But the mechs that impressed him most were in the heavy and assault classes. These mechs were every young man’s idols, the posters they had on their walls growing up, and Kurt’s heart fluttered when he spied a Maddog carefully picking its way down a busy dropship ramp, to join an Avatar and Timberwolf in the staging area.

Floodlights flickered to life as the last of the day star’s blood red orb slid down behind the strip of sand clouds blanketing the horizon, and the long shadows vanished as the twilight of the impending night settled on the area. With the direct starlight gone, Kurt was able to take of his protective goggles outside for the first time that day, and after blinking perspiration out off his eyes, he took in the scene again in a more natural tone. Then Kurt drew a sudden breath and his heart leapt into his throat as he spotted an Atlas - a one-hundred ton assault mech considered one of the kings of the battlefield - stepping out of the gathering darkness behind an Overlord-class dropship to head across to a field repair bay. Kurt watched it avidly, his eyes soaking up the site despite the imperfect illumination from the spotlights. The mech halted in range of the repair bay, and the large gantries on pivots swung round the body of the mech, sealing it in to a multi-story framework from which the technicians and mechanics would do... whatever last minute adjustment were required. Kurt thought the death’s head of the Atlas looked funny poking out the top of the huge repair bay, but then he reconsidered, wondering if one day he would be staring down the business end of the assault mech’s guns. If he did well in the cadet cadre, there was a least some chance he’d make Mechwarrior one day. He hoped that day would come soon.

Glancing down at his watch, Kurt realised that he only had five minutes to make a meeting with KB and the other strategists of the planetary invasion. They obviously wouldn’t be letting him in on their plans for the PA attack, but they would quiz him about landforms, best paths to key locations, sources of food and water, dangers and errors in their maps and Kurt was more than happy to provide whatever local area knowledge he could. He’d been ranging out from the farm on his days off ever since they were forcibly moved to this plot, and his excellent memory, and spatial awareness, would finally come in handy. He felt he couldn't be happier as he tripped off down the hill, toward the MT-TD landing zone that was also his home.

***************

"So are they moving forward to hit us before we make the deep desert, or are they sitting back in the citadel and waiting for us to come to them?" Rogue asked, as the meeting started. The command staff were gathered around the battle-map table, in the strategy and tactics room, deep inside the Overlord-class dropship Hammerfall. It had taken several hours of questioning the boy Jergenson to pin down the errors in the old maps they'd been using, and the command staff's personal technician had been busily fixing them while Kurt explained the nuances of the area they expected to first meet the defending OA forces. The boy had been dismissed before the final planning meeting started, standard security protocol, and now Rogue sat in the room with himself, KB, and Nailor on one side of the holographic display table, and Arizona, Teralitha and Deathwing sitting on the other. Rogue looked at the other men expectantly, and his eye's finally settled on Deathwing, who looked somehow nervous. Perhaps it was the job of Intelligence Officer that he'd been assigned for this planning session, but he did seem rather distracted. So much so that he didn't notice that he was the one that was supposed to answer until KB had cleared his throat and tapped his stylus loudly on the table.

"Huh, oh, um, yes," Deathwing said, snapping out of his own thoughts and back to the moment at hand. He flicked through a datapad until he came to the data he wanted. "Heavily amplified scans of the invasion corridor to the capital suggest that, a. they have strong jamming set up, and b. with the Nodachi's high powered scanning suite, we were able to punch through a lot of it." DW tapped some controls on his side of the display table, and a relief map of the invasion corridor appeared. From where the LZ was to the citadel was displayed, with the Solomish desert in the middle. An area of rolling hills, mesas and cliffs gave way to rolling dunes, and then an area of sulphur springs, volcanic cones - some still active - noxious gas clouds and a type of baked silica that made the sand in that region reminiscent of pebbled window glass. This strange aggregate reflected a lot of the head and light from the already hot volcanos and the worst of the day star's glare, and made that area hell on earth, to borrow a phrase. This stretch gave way to more dunes, and then the increasingly populated steppes up to the citadel itself. The vegetation became more significant the further north toward the Citadel, with the remains of a deciduous forest sporadically blanketing the upper steppes around the capital itself. The distance between the first set of cliffs off the desert lowlands to the Citadel was very close to the distance across the deserts from the southern habitable zone. Deathwing’s fingers tapped a few more controls on the touchscreen, and small dots of red light appeared, moving steadily back and forth across the desert.

"These their dropships?" KB asked, his gravelly voice edged with weariness. He pointed to the red dots moving above the relief map.

"Yessir," DW replied, adding more moving lights to the map, and some stationary ones too. "The smaller, faster, red dots in the air are conventional aircraft, while the ones snaking along on the ground are truck convoys. They all seem to be making for here," DW lit up an area of the map just within the southern border of the Solomish desert itself, "about one-hundred and fifty kilometres away. That appears to be their forward base of operations, and where they will attempt to engage us from tomorrow." There were nods at this.

"Where are those dropships lifting off from?" Arizona asked, curious as he had never been on this planet before.

"About half are coming from the Citadel itself," DW said, adding arcing tracking traces to the larger flying dots. "Others are coming from down near the bottom of the steppes, near the verge of the northern Solomish." He tapped again, and a ring of blue base markers appeared around the bottom cliffs of the steppes. "We've tried to pinpoint them, however they seem to be well hidden, and at this range, with all the jamming going on..." DW shrugged.

"Wish we'd had those when we were defending this dirtball," KB mumbled, appreciating the idea.

"That's not so important just now," Nailor said, steering the conversation onto a more useful track. "So we know where they are setting up for the initial engagement. Do we have any idea of mech numbers we’ll be facing, and of the air superiority we'll have available?"

"Yes," DW said, and was busy again with his data pad, as the little lights on the holographic strip-map continued to move on with their own business. "We have estimated that at most they will have moved up twenty-two percent of their available mech forces on planet by tomorrow morning. Major McMannus of the aerospace battalion reports he'll have all his remaining aerospace fighters and some conventional fighters airborne for tomorrow’s first contact. He expects that if things go well, we should have total air superiority over the area of both our base and their forward position by the end of the day. That way, they'll have to set up a rear drop off point for fresh mechs and supplies, and walk or drive them in." Nailor nodded, looking pleased.

"What about your fancy black birds," KB asked, looking square at Arizona, "it would speed things up in that regard if you'd commit them to the battle. With conventional armaments, of course."

"Of course," Ari said, a dark shadow seeming to cross his face for a moment, "but you see, that won't be possible." KB and Deathwing looked at Ari inappreciably, and the Tokomi added quickly, "It won't be possible because they are prototypes, and as such they have taken battle damage that we can't repair this far away from the Dominions. Also, all the pilots that have the new, advanced neuro-interfaces for the craft are currently unconscious and in intensive care aboard the Nodachi." Ari's face turned grim. "No, I'm sorry, but they have done their part, and the rest will have to be up to us." KB looked like he was going to say something, but Nailor jumped in before him.

"That's alright Ari, you got us all down here without the heavy losses we were expecting before you dropped in on us, and we are grateful for that," he said, giving KB and DW a 'don't go there' look that they both seemed to understand. "We'll make do with what we have left." The end of that statement lead to a pregnant pause in the briefing.

"So, Deathwing," said Tera, stepping in to the breach, "can we see the battlefield you expect we'll be fighting on tomorrow?" Tera was more interested in the here and now of mech combat, and damn it, now was the time to be talking about it.

"Sure, Tera," DW said, happy to be moving on with the information session. He adjusted several controls on the display panel, and the map zoomed in, coming to rest in a much closer, tactical-scale map between the two previously displayed army encampments. It showed a wide open plain edged with rolling hills, and a highway running down the middle, through a bombed out town. "This was the city of Karnish, back before the OA invasion that pushed us off-planet." KB, Nailor and Rogue all grimaced at the thought.

It had been a bloody battlefield; both sides had lost good mechs and fine pilots, friends, brothers... there. Both sides had fought almost to a standstill, until OA had unexpectedly pulled back, out of Karnish. The then Major Magpie Tor had been all for going straight in and evacuating the remaining population of Karnish, but KB had recommended caution. But outranked by Magpie at the time, the decision was made to go in, and the huge spread of bombs that the OA forces had planted there were detonated before the MT mechs or the truckloads of civilians could clear the area. Magpie himself had been blown half to pieces, and had undergone several long months of surgery and rest before he was able to pilot a mech again. Yes, Karnish had some serious history for the Tribe, and it was telling that the small city was left deserted after the destructive power of those munitions.

MT command was determined to make a better fist of it this time round.

"The deserted, bombed out city should give us a little cover, as should the rather large bomb craters scattered about," Deathwing continued his assessment, unaware of the emotion attached to the history he hadn't been involved in. "The rolling hills around the area also provide manoeuvring cover, but the tactical assessment that Tera and I have developed suggests medium to long range munitions and firepower will be necessary to prevail in this area."

"And it will need to be secured," Nailor added, his face grim, "it's the only easy path north into the desert for eighty klicks in either direction."

"Well we'll have some artillery ready," KB said, determined not to be caught out there again. "Damn shame Rhino isn't here yet. Rogue, did you put the call through to Leo, announcing our bridgehead on The Stepps and asking for Rhino to be transferred to this theatre of operation?"

"Yessir," Rogue said, checking his own data pad for details. "Leo said he was pleased that the invasion was underway, but we will have to be watchful for the dust storms that rage across the Solomish at this time of year. They can play merry hell with mechs and other vehicles, and ground aircraft." There were nods from Nailor and KB at this. "He also said, and I quote: 'Captain Longtom is on his way.'" There were chuckles from the MT's around the table at this, and confused looks from the Juraians.

"Oh don't worry, my dear Juraian allies," Nailor said, amusement brightening his features, "you'll soon find out what it means. Just hope that when you do, you are not on the receiving end!"

***************

The strategy meeting had gone on for several more hours, and both Teralitha and Arizona were weary by the time they left the Hammerfall to return to the Juraian dropship Son of the Dawn. It was late, and they both needed sleep before their turns on the ready line in the morning, yet there were still several things Ari wanted to run by Tera, his Tokomi brother and confidant, before they turned in for what little sleep was their due.

"Any news on Tai-shu Jurai Maxtac's condition?" Tera asked as they headed down the gangway of the Overloard-class Hamerfall, both men pulling their coats tight around themselves as the chill of the desert night air reached out to them. Most of the floodlights were dim as operations had wound down for the night, and overhead the heavens own lights were winking in their millions - this part of The Stepps had a great view of the galactic plain.

"None, as yet," Arizona said, looking up to admire the starscape. "I would have thought he'd have shown some sign of improvement by now, but..." Ari left it hang. "I've kept the Nodachi in orbit so that Heng Asmudius could inform us of any improvement, and he would, you know how dedicated he is to his ex-Patriarch."

"Yeah," Tera said as they walked around a shutdown Stormcrow, "that's the byline isn't it? Once a Heng, always a Heng." Arizona chuckled and shrugged.

"I don't think it matters," he said, "but I do have to decide what to do with the Nodachi. It's advanced sensors are quite useful up there, but I need to get the Swordfish and the unconscious Ozora samurai that flew them back to the Dominions for proper care. Also it wouldn't hurt to get the research data back home, and get the Nodachi properly seen too. I hate to see her all mismatched and patchy like that." Tera rolled his eyes at Ari. To Tera, it was just a means to get mechs to a planet for whatever purpose you had in mind. He didn't go along with all this 'the ship has a soul' malarkey.

They'd arrived at the Son of the Dawn, a spheroid, Excalibur-class dropship of some sixteen-thousand tons, fully loaded. The Tokomis strode up the gangway, and the officer of the watch snapped off a tidy bow from the waist. Arizona motioned for the gangway to be closed, and as they made their way into the crew area of the dropship, the whine of hydraulics could be heard bring the big door up.

"I have one other thing I wanted to sound you out about," Ari said, his face a mask of indecision. "Want to drop past the officer's bar for a nightcap?" Trea shrugged, and Ari led the way.

A short time later, comfortably ensconced at a table in the practically deserted bar area - no warrior worth his salt would drink heavily before a battle - Ari reached in a pocked and plonked one of the small eavesdropping scramblers that Maxtac was so fond of on the table.

"Oh, one of those sorts of talks, eh?" Tera said, taking a sip of his beer. Ari nodded, and likewise sipped at his single malt scotch on the rocks before beginning.

"I can follow all the decisions MT command have made about this PA so far, expect one," Ari said, cutting to the chase. "Why the hell set up the LZ so far away from the target, and across a desert no less?" He gazed intently at Teralitha across the table, keen to hear what the other man might say about the topic.

"Hrm," Tera said, swirling his beer in its bottle while he thought, "now you mention it, I did think there were probably more and better LZ's to the east or west of the capital, and with more supplies and water available locally too. And you'd also avoid all the hassle of the dust storms while fighting across the deserts." Tera was nodding now. Something really was amiss here.

"So presuming they weren't just daft," Ari said, adding to the points Tera had rightly made, "MT has to have some sort of reason, good or not, to put us down so far south." Ari nodded at that, more convinced than ever that he was onto something.

"Perhaps they were trying to draw the OA forces out of position, to strike at them away from the protection and supplies at their main bases?" Tera suggested, but the look on his face suggested he wasn't buying his own sales pitch.

"Naw," Ari replied, "they could have done that east or west of the capital too. There's got to be some other reason."

"MT could be planning a hot drop at the capital after they've stripped it of defenders?" Tera tried again.

"Again unlikely," Ari countered, clinking the ice around in his half empty glass, "all intelligence reports say that the Citadel is a fortress that can't be cracked from the sky without heavy losses, due to the multiple circuits of anti-air defence. By the time you got dirtside from a hotdrop above that place, you'd either be dead or shot to hell, and surrounded by turrets, mechs and tanks. No, I don't think any sane commander would choose that option. A desperate one yes, but sane, no." Tera nodded, taking a long pull on his beer while he pondered the question.

"So, if they are determined to travel through the deserts, overland to the capital, fighting all the way, it can't be just for the fun of it," Tera said, shaking his head as no more possibilities would come to him. Then his eyes widened.

"Could there be something else on this planet that MT are after... salvage maybe... that's located closer to this end of the desert, that might be more.... more important than taking the planet??" Tera looked at Ari like he couldn't believe his own conclusion.

"Oh good," Ari said, his smile broad as he threw back the last of his drink, "so I'm not totally mad in thinking that. That's all I need to know. Thanks, Major Domo Tokomi." Ari stood up, bowed from the hip to his Samurai brother, and then wandered out of the bar and off to his quarters without another word.

Tera, shaking his head in wonder, watched him go.

to be continued...

<RP off>
I am contributing a little bit here to Max’s thread – with Max’s permission – for some detail on Tokomi Arizona which has been hinted at in the past and which would have been included if Max had access to the PC’s dossier. The following are just hints until we can get the HJ website, Nodachi, back up with our storylines. And yes, it is a little self-indulgent. Enjoy.
<RP on>

JNS Dropship Son of the Dawn, MT/TD Dropzone Base, Jergenson Ranch, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, Planet The Stepps.
14th February 3070: Late Evening

The door to the darkened stateroom slid open. Outside, a lone security guard stationed to one side of the portal politely bowed to the senior officer as he entered, and the lights in the stateroom came up to a low, evening level. The officer was Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona, his frame lightly outlined on the far side of the red lit corridor by the whiter illumination of the stateroom’s lights. The duty guard made sure he did not glance into the stateroom to preserve his night vision as the stateroom’s door slid closed behind the Warlord, leaving Arizona alone with his final thoughts and work of the day.

To Arizona’s right, sitting squarely on the front of his work desk, a holo-display pad came to life and he spoke a single word, a command, “Review”. The holo display showed a picture of each person who had entered the room since Arizona had last been in it, with a quick list of what each had done and where they had been in the room. Green dots and lines quickly flashing in rapid order around the room showing where each had been. Arizona was satisfied no unauthorized personnel had gained access and each had done their job correctly. Only four people who had been there since he had left day; the two Yeomen who were tasked with maid and secretary duties, along with the junior and field officers who had brought in or retrieved the day’s paperwork from the desk. Only the senior Yeomen, Sho-ko Jacobs, had been in the private aft section which was his sleeping area, and then only to turn down the bed and prep his combat uniform for tomorrow. The second of two footlockers there had not been disturbed.

Sho-ko Jacobs was a good man, and Arizona paid him very well for the extra duties he preformed. The extra came out of the Warlords own personal funds, since this Jacobs acted more like a butler then a senior sergeant, and he was in charge of protecting the Tai-shu’s secrets - even if he did not know it - which included the assignment and evaluation of the security details to the Tai-shu. Of course, Arizona knew full well Jacobs was also getting paid by the Juraian ISS (Internal Security Service) and reported directly to Jurai Misato’s senior underlings. He had even confronted her on it one time jokingly saying ‘It is better to know the hidden hand of a trusted friend then the open hand of an enemy’. Afterward he had regretted the comment, and had to fight her hard to keep Jacobs on the job. But Jacobs was well worth the effort; a high compliment from the Tai-shu. Jacobs had the knack of making the pin bugs comfortable to wear and very discrete when they were placed on his Tai-shu's uniform, but were Arizona could remove them or turn them off when it was required. Misato may not have liked it, but she had learned to defer to the old Tai-shu’s judgment in the area of his personal diplomacy and security.

Arizona then spoke aloud another command, “Tasks”, and the display showed a nice ‘To Do’ list, all but two of the items colored red as completed for the day, leaving only a short list of remaining items and just one item for the next day, ‘Muster with MT’. Arizona mentally noted the last two items would be quick to finish. The first was simple, ‘Final combat preparations’. He went over to the second of the two footlockers. It looked like a standard military issued footlocker, but it was Ozora made and Ozora/K-A tech protected. The box served as his private combat and personnel file locker; mag-locked to the deck with many layers of security, it acted as his portable, personal safe. If anyone should actually gain entry into it without disarming its protection systems, all of the contents would be destroyed and the box would be empty, or so he had been told since he never did test it. Arizona had conceived of the design, but his Ozora and K-As techs finished the work to make it a reality. The locker was actually larger on the inside (by about 50%) than on the outside using spatial toroidal geometry/symmetry engineering. The first of those equations had caused Arizona’s such great headaches and frustrations to figure out he finally handed the project over to his research team to finish. They had taken a decade to build this small demonstration model for him with another for Jurai Maxtac before incorporating the principles into the Juraian Flagships' hidden com and command centers. The larger the space, the more power was required to create and the more expensive the materials to fabricate.

Arizona opened the top lid after following proper procedures to disarm the protection. Inside, on top, was the standard foot locker tray holding personal combat katana, shoto, tanto and Nakishu .50 pistol. He placed each sword and the dagger on his desk with great care and honor, and the pistol he placed into the holster of the combat belt hanging on the wall with his uniform for the morning. Tomorrow he would attach the two swords to the belt.

Arizona then lifted the tray out of the footlocker to revival the box was split into two sections, an open section on the left with a duffle bag in it and a safe top on the right. He retrieved his combat duffle bag from the open left half and placed it next to the desk. The duffle was a survival kit he had instructed each of his kids to make after years of field experience. It would go with him into his mech just in case he needed it, which he well might with the realization of all out war facing them with the dawn. The bag contented items which in the past had kept Arizona alive when he was forced to rely upon his ejection capsule during combat: a compact 30 cal rifle with 100 rounds of ammo, two med kits, several compact emergency food ration kits, a small water maker kit, a small universal power pack, extra ammo for the Nakishu, and other sundry equipment.

The first task was done and he spoke “Task, item 28, done” and the holo display turned on for a moment to change the item from red to green before blinking off.

As Arizona was closing the footlocker he had a moment's pause and stopped. He placed his right hand on the file safe top and quickly thumbed in the combination, letting the hand scanner check his palm print and bio-signs before pulling the lid up until the unit locked into position. Below the safe lid was an open frame, three-drawer filing cabinet packed with files. The file jackets were in a rainbow of colors with different high level security clearances assigned to many of them, and a few had no counterparts outside of his care and this locker.

The front of the top two drawers were indexed with different sets of family names on them: Jurai, Tokomi, Ozora, Heng or K/A on the top drawer; Ayer, Eyre, Truelove, Southerland, Coonitz, Turner, and Fuller were just a few of the names on the second drawer. Arizona opened the bottom drawer; it was marked ‘Military Records’. The first file in it was an old copy of a Star League Military personnel file, with a silver star on it and a different name, one of the ones that appeared on the second drawer. He moved it to the back of the third drawer. The next file was newer, and tabbed ‘Blood Spirit/Wolf Years’ - it had the insignia of a Galaxy Commander-Oath Master - again with a different name, ‘Arizona-Bodil.’ He moved this one to a new location; in front of the older file. The next file was newer again, but still old. It was tabbed ‘Merc Years: WD/GDL/RDL/4H’ – it had a ring of five silver stars on it with just the single name Arizona. He moved that one backwards in the drawer and in front of the clan years file. The new front file he left in place. It was a purple with black strip Juraian military file with a gold edge along the top. This file had the name Tokomi Arizona on it with the insignia of a Warlord next to the name and was tagged simply ‘HJ’. Arizona left the file in place, but he pushed them backwards to make room for a new file which was on his desk. ‘Going to have to do something to make more room at this rate, I wonder what else can be put on the encryption chips?’ he thought as he noticed the drawer was getting tight on space like the others above.

Arizona stood and walked over to his desk to retrieve the new file. It was tabbed ‘MT Record’ with Tokomi Arizona as the file name. He turned and walked back to the open file drawer to place the file into it. As he held the MT file Arizona paused and looked over at the file with the clan names and thought, ‘If KB and Nailor were horrified at what the Omega Device did, I would gladly replace their horror and vision of it to rid me of the terrible memories from those hard years.’

Arizona absently rubbed his hand across his face as he remembered the plague that had slowly killed off his first galaxy command so many decades - had it been almost century? - before. It had left him isolated for almost ten years on a lonely rock in clan space, as the sole survivor, resistant only due to some earlier inoculation he received while a member of the Star League and/or medical treatment he had undergone from combat wounds suffered during the Exodus. The Grand Council had ordered the rock quarantined; writing him off until he could prove the place was plague free and he had completely disposed of the victims. He could remember each of their faces, alive, dying, and dead. The memory of the horror of those faces and the treatment he suffered afterwards would eventually drive him back into IS space, making him wish the Clansmen had not decided to resurrect him after so long in med-cyro storage, after he was found in the back of a long forgotten cold storage facility. The clan doctors had called his resurrection an experiment, designed to be used to save an il-Khan, or other high council member, in times of emergency. But since then, he called it something else as it left him with so many years of life ahead of him to reflect upon the many memories and horrors he has seen. Only House Jurai, the companionship of his wife Helsy and his family made life worth living again. ‘Yeah KB, if you thought Omega was bad, I will trade you memories, you can handle it, just give it time,’ Arizona thought as he toughened up his defenses and put the memory back into its cold mental coffin, knowing all the tears for that particular subject had long since been shed and dried.

Arizona took a pen from his tunic and wrote ‘Don’t end up as command this time' on the front of the file in big, bold, black, block letters. Below it he added, ‘HJ forever and in spirit, SL-MT in mind and body’ in his own hand script. Then a grin stretched across his lips, the type of grin several many would call – include old Max – a ’sh-t eating’ grin and Arizona chuckled a bit as he wrote ’Truelove’ behind his name on the new file. Then he walked over and put the file to the front of the drawer. After which he closed up and locked each of the sections in the footlocker and reset the footlocker’s defensives

‘One more thing to do tonight,’ Arizona thought as he moved to the desk and sat down. “Task”, he said to bring up the list one more time. The last unmarked item read, ‘Read, Pray, Meditate, Bed’, “Task last done. Close, secure,” Arizona said as he reached for his private data tablet. The holo display shut down and went back into locked, stand-by mode. Arizona picked up the data pad and opened it to an old data book, one titled ‘Bible, NKJ’. He opened the file and turned to read chapters: Psalms 19, 86 and 123, along with Proverbs 14. After which he closed the tablet screen and took a few minutes to pray and meditate on the passages. Finished, he reached into a top draw of this desk to withdraw a simplified Juraian crucifix pin. Arizona got up and walked over to his next day’s uniform hanging on the wall to affix the pin to the center of the upper left pocket flap. He stood back for a second to look at it before he said, “It is better to die for a belief and a greater cause than one’s self then to live without.” Then he got into his bed, ready for the up-coming PA and the adventures that were sure to unfold in the not too distant future.

“Lights,” out Arizona said, his last statement for the evening, to once again place the room in darkness and to send him off to his rest.

“…No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy…”
Field Marshall Helmuth Carl Bernard Graf von Moltke (1800 - 1891)

Battlefield around ruins of Karnish, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, Planet The Stepps.
15th February 3070: Early morning

The Stepps system star was just peeking between the eastern hills and a band of low cloud stretching along the same horizon as Killer Bee deVega's Maddog jogged up to the waypoint, two kilometres south of the ruins that had once been Karnish. KB was still a bit wary about fighting over this area yet again, but at least he has a good idea of the combat zone, and he felt that his plan would have a good chance of success if they weren't over-run in the first instance with a much larger force of mechs and support vehicles. That, and he didn't think OA had had enough warning nor time to have mined the town - again.

KB checked his radar, his Maddog running active with the protection of Electronic Counter-Measures, or ECM. The blue dots on the readout were his two lances of mechs forming up behind him. deVega had decided to go with two medium/heavy lances, preferring a good mix speed and firepower in this opening gambit, until he knew what sort of opposition he was facing. It was general practice to save your assault chassis for later, when you mightn't need to get the hell outa Dodge, so he expected to see about the same force deployment from the Outworlds Alliance.

Nailor, in an Avatar, stepped up next to KB's Clan Maddog. It was obvious from looking at the two mechs side by side that although they were both in the same tonnage range, these mechs had been born from two divergent design philosophies. The Avatar, IS born, egg-shaped, with gun arms down both sides, and the Maddog, a Clan chassis, with its low, thin arms beside a body that angled back sharply from the bottom of the nose, where the small turret mount was positioned, and flanked with two large missile launcher bays. They were both fearsome weapons the MT-TD arsenal, and in the hands of two highly experienced pilots like these, sure to have a considerable effect on the outcome of the impending battle.

On the other side of KB’s mech, a slightly shorter - and a weight category lighter – Stormcrow stepped up. Although sporting MT tags, the pilot was none other than Tokomi Arizona, Warlord of Jurai. Ari rubbed his nose and checked his instruments, then adjusted his coolant suit for a better fit. It had been too long since he’d been in the pilot’s chair, and he was finding that he’d softened a little, despite regular trips to the gym. But Ari was ready for whatever came, and cracking his knuckles, gripped his controls in anticipation.

The last member of KB’s lance was Happy de Vega. A freshly minted knight, he was ready to do his utmost for his Knighthood House and his Unit, and under the watchful eye of the leader of the House, he was very keen to prove his worth. Happy's Shadowcat - a short, wide Can design of forty-five tons, fully loaded - which was often used for scouting - paced impatiently back and forth behind the other three mechs, as if eager to be about the mission.

Several hundred metres distant, another group of four mechs came to a halt. This was the second lance, lead by Rogue Mandaka and his second, Farslayer Sherette, both piloting Maddogs. The other two mechs were both Hellspawns, IS mechs of forty-five tons a piece, they looked like little men – if you’d call two stories high little – in mechanical suits. These mechs were piloted by Hellfire and Deathwing.

From the cockpit of his mech, KB could see they his lances were both in position, so he opened a channel to the MT millnet, to check in with the operations officer in charge of his area.

"First Strike Leader to Zone 1 Ops," KB said, his tone definite and his phrasing succinct, "First Strike 1 and 2 in position, and report ready Op."

"Very good, First Strike Leader," came a crisp reply from Lieutenant Christi Shore, an experienced Ops officer assigned to Zone 1. "All Early Combat Zones report Ready Op. What are your orders?" KB took a deep breath. It was time to start the ground war.

"Order are; all commands, Operation Takeback is go. I repeat, Operation Takeback is a go."

"Roger that, First Strike Leader," Shore's reply sounded far away as she replied a few moments later. "Takeback is a go." KB nodded. Now it was time to make some advances in this gods-forsaken valley. "What are your orders for combined forces in Zone 1?" Christi asked another moment later.

"Order Plunderer wing to overfly waypoint one in the Karnish Valley, up to the dry riverbed of Earne," KB ordered. "See if they can't scare us up some enemy to fight," he added, deciding that a sense of humour was necessary in any situation this tense.

"Roger that, First Strike Leader," Ops Shore replied, her tone registering her amusement at KB's turn of phrase. After a few moments of silence, she came back on the line. "Plunderer Wing Lead reports overflight with aerospace assets commencing." KB nodded to himself at this.

"First Strike Group moving into expected contact zone," KB added moments later. "Report relevant information on channel 4-3. Will report contact with enemy and then go quiet for combat manoeuvres."

"Roger that, First Strike Lead," Ops replied, "Ops out." KB changed mental gears, and swapped to Lance Command coms.

“Rogue, take your lance to the southwest and set up in the craters over there. Once we make contact, send the ‘spawns out to harass, while you and Far lay down fire as you see fit. Call me if you get into trouble.”

“Roger that, KB,” Rogue replied, and his lance began to move out to the required co-ordinates.

“In the meantime, KB lance, push up to the ruins of Karnish while we wait for our eyes-in-the-sky to find us something to shoot at. All mechs passive unless you have ECM. Happy, you have freedom of movement to range out as local area scout.”

“Aye Sir,” Happy replied, and he pushed his throttle to the max, heading for the low hills to the west.

Just as KB lance reached the outskirts of the city ruins, four Turk Omni aerospace fighters howled overhead, leaving vapour trails in the early morning air as they raced, fast and low, north up the valley. KB watched them go from the cover of the corner of a ruined light factory, and as the fighters reached the far end of the valley, where the hills closed in toward the road again, they took fire from the west, from target or targets unknown. The MT fighter pilots were well trained, and they broke in pairs, in opposite directions, swinging out and up to come back around on the enemy they’d managed to flush out. KB watched the action on his zoomed visual display, concentrating hard to pick up any sign of what the fire might be coming from. Just as the MT aerospace fighters swung round to acquire their targets, Light Autocannon fire spranged off the armour near the cockpit of KB’s mech, making him just into action. He reacted instinctively, shoving his throttle hard forward and stepping around the edge of the building, and taking part of the closest wall down with his mech’s right arm. As he spun to get his bearings, a radar signature popped up at max range to the east. It was quickly followed by several more.

“We got VTOLs,” Nailor stated over coms, his Avatar several hundred metres closer to the enemy, but hidden by what must have once been a high tower - at least for this small town - that had been burnt out, and sheared off six stories up. Stepping the Avatar around the base of the building, he opened up with his three Rotary Autocannon 2’s, and a hail of fire, every third round a tracer, poured across the open area to the left. The fire zeroed in on the lead VTOL, the one that had hit KB, and the much softer chopper was shredded in short order. Its rotors smashed off, and it’s cockpit a smoking ruin, the VTOL plummeted to earth, to explode on impact, flinging sharpened in all directions. Nailor stepped his mech back, counting silently in his head while his RACs cooled.

“There’s still several more out there,” KB said as he moved up to Nailor’s cover. “Happy, can you see the enemy VTOL’s where you are?” In reply to this query, two volleys of Long Range Missiles arced upwards from a point in the low hills to the south of the VTOL’s position. They angled in on one of the remaining VTOL’s, and its Anti-Missile System went to work, plucking about half of the first volley out of the sky before they could strike. The remaining missiles had no such hindrance and slammed, one after another into the side of the chopper, blowing it into thousands of pieces before it could reach the ground.

“And that’s why I’m not a VTOL pilot,” Happy said, happily, shifting his mech's position again. “Radar picks up two more VTOLs. They are pulling back. Should I pursue?”

“Take another pot-shot, perhaps not so many missiles this time, and then resume scouting duties. I don’t want us too split up when whatever Plunderer was firing on gets here.”

“Aye Sir,” Happy replied, and moved off outside KB’s active radar range.

“Speaking of which,” KB said to Nailor, and then switched through to the Ops channel. “Zone 1 Ops, come in, this is First Strike Leader."

"Zone 1 Ops, receiving, go ahead," Christi's voice came back moments later.

"What did Mac and Plunderer Wing flush out to the north of Karnish?”

“Mac reports two outsized lances, ten mechs, headed your way, First Strike Lead,” Shore's voice came back. “One aerospace fighter was lost to heavy, long-range ballistic fire, but they destroyed a Nemesis and shook up a lance of Bushwackers in return, so it about evens out. They have at last count four Bushwackers, two Avatar, a Black Knight and two Marauders. Plunderer have bugged out for rearm and repair. Other combat zones report moving in on pre-assigned sweeps, no contact as yet.”

"Thank you, First Strike Ops, First Strike Leader out." KB finished, but his look was grave.

“Ouch,” Nailor commented. “Lucky we had better air support than they did. Still they out-ton us by a decent amount. Do you think we have enough here to take them on, or should we pull back and wait for support?”

“Bah,” KB replied, his tone unforgiving, “I’m not about to slink away from this battlezone yet again. Why just over there beside that collapsed mechanics shop was where Magpie was left, injured and bleeding, by OA’s dirty little surprise. We are taking back this battle zone, and we are doing so right now. Remember, we have the best weapon of all on our side, we are MT!” Across the coms, the MT pilots yelled encouragement. Once the cheers and cat calling had calmed down, Ari cleared his throat. “Oh, and the best Allies, eh Ari?” KB added.

“You got it,” Ari replied, “now let's go kill some OA mechs before I get pensioned off!”

KB lance moved out, heading for the roadway and the opposite blocks of shattered buildings. And then the artillery barrage hit...

“Sh*t sh*t sh*t sh*t sh*t,” Rogue cursed up a storm over the lance coms as the barrage fell on the two blocks of Karnish that were still sort of standing. “The bastards must have had the co-ordinates locked in and were waiting for us to wander in there.” There was nothing his lance could do to help but keep their heads down in the large craters that they were in and wait it out. When the shells finished falling, Rogue stuck the cockpit of his Maddog up and scanned the area. There was little to be seen as the dust was settling, but just as he was about to give up hope, three MT mech, rather the worse for wear, jogged out of the blast zone.

“KB!” Rogue shouted, relief evident in his tone, “how the hell did your lance survive that?”

“Aw, it was a nice try, but they are gonna need more than that to get us,” KB announced as his battered but still functional mechs joined up with Rogue lance. “They mustn't have had time to get any really heavy ordinance up here, and most of the shells hit the ruins on the other side of the road before we got there. We didn’t do too badly considering. Ari’s Stormcrow lost an empty arm, but otherwise it was just a bit of shrapnel damage. Nothing a few plates of new armour couldn’t fix,” KB replied across the coms. “But let’s not try our luck again. KB and Rogue lances form up, we are going to swing anticlockwise around the ruins and come in through the rolling hills and craters to the east.”

The mechs all moved together, the Stormcrow a little shaky on its legs as its gyro worked to compensate for the loss of weight on its right side.

“I have them,” Happy announced ten minutes later as First Strike came up upon a drainage channel along the side of the road, several kilometres south of the Karnish ruins. “They are moving out of the hills to the north west of the ruins, probably looking for survivors of their arty strike, and wanting to verify kills.”

“Well I got some news for them,” KB said, the hunger for action in his voice quite apparent. “Happy, get their attention, but don’t get killed. DW and Hellfire, get up into the hills behind them and help him. The rest of you, form a firing line and then approach at forty-five kph, be ready to break right into cover when they come at us.” A chorus of roger’s echoed the commands. Seconds later, all was in order, and the core of First Strike moved forwards.

The first enemy mech to come into view as a Marauder, striding confidently across the open fields between the hills on the right and a group of large craters on the left, the mech’s large main gun scanning ahead of it with the turning of the turret. Clearly this side of the formation was not expecting attack from the east.

“Weapons free, open up on that Marauder, put some fire on that thing, go go go!” KB’s excitement got the better of his as he pummelled the enemy mech with Ultra AC2 fire. The enemy pilot speed up, heading for the cover of the craters ahead of him, while torso twisting to line up his weapons on the attacking mechs. Before he could line up a target and fire, Farslayers twin gauss cannons reached out and plucked the dorsal mount gun clean off the Marauder. It’s pinion point destroyed by the huge titanium slugs, the weapon spun backwards and away, to fall smoking and sparking amongst the rocks, mosses and sparse ground cover plants that clung to life in the region.

The enemy pilot fired, his twin, arm-mounted, Extended Range Particle Projection Cannons lancing out to strike the mech that had hit him. The excited particles slammed into the right torso of Farslayer’s mech as he turned his centre torso away to protect it, and blew straight through to the back. Luckily the panel was empty, but Farslayer’s gyro alarm beeped frantically as the skilled mechwarrior fought to keep his battlemech standing.

“It’s okay,” Far said over coms moments later, “still got the control circuits to the right arm gauss cannon, now will you guys slap that OA S.O.B silly already?” In answer, UAC2, RAC2 and LRM’s rained destruction down on the offending Marauder, yet it somehow managed to make it to the lip of the crater. Arm torn off, staggering and smoking from the same side torso, the pilot must have been thanking his lucky stars that he made cover before two sniper missiles – big guided rockets fired from the twin Hellspawns sent up into the hills earlier, lanced across the battlefield and into the damaged side and rear of the Marauder, blossoming into fireballs as pretty as they were deadly. More damage that it could take, the mech fell forward into the crater, but not before the plot’s ejection pod shot up into the sky above the battle, and headed north. A silent moment passed, and then the core of the crippled mech overloaded, the white-hot, shining blast of the mini-nuclear detonation, mostly contained by the crater the mech had fallen into, pushed skyward announcing the mech kill. Even seven hundred metres away, the blast shook the mechs on the firing line.

“Who fired that last sniper?” KB asked.

“I did,” replied a somewhat sheepish sounding Deathwing.

“Good kill, now what’s going on with the rest of them?”

Before Deathwing could answer, RAC2 fire from two separate locations up towards the hills began pouring into KB’s mech. KB accelerated away to spread the damage, swearing wildly.

“Sh*t, I’m bein’ torn up here. Put some fire on the enemy, damn it!” KB demanded. The firing line began to move as the Avatar RAC boats switched targets as KB was no longer in range, and Nailor and Rogue replied in kind. Then missiles arced in from behind the Avatars and slammed into the closer one. The unexpected assault having the required effect, causing the mech to stumble forward and further out of cover. Happy’s manic giggling could be heard in the background of the coms.

Then two more sniper missiles lanced down from the mountain heights, but not at either of the Avatars... the dropped behind the low hill to the MT groups right, and the explosions of their payloads echoed against the steep slopes therein.

“They’ve got another Marauder and four Bushwackers about to crest the rise in Charlie-Two,” Deathwing called out, as he backed down behind the peak of a mountain as RAC fire raked his perch. “They’re probably brawlers, get out of there!”

KB swore again, knowing they’d be after him, and accelerated away towards the large drainage ditch some five-hundred metres east. Sure enough, four ‘wackers and a Marauder crested and poured fire into the MT group, however, as there was more than one Maddog, their fire was split. Luckily, the Avatars had decided to play chasey with the Hellspawns and Happy’s Shadowcat, so it was five fresh mechs against MT’s five.

The Maddogs made to extend, spreading fire from the enemy over their torsos and arms. Medium Range Missiles, AC 10’s, and PPC fire rained down on the two lance leaders, as the other MT mechs did all they could to distract the charge.

Finally, thought Ari, as the enemy had reached his five-hundred metre range. Zooming around from behind a hillock to the north, he emptied his missile batteries of High Explosive Advanced Tracking Missiles into the closest Bushwacker. The mass if jet propelled death slammed into the missile arm of the Bushie, and the mech disappeared for a moment in the blossom of high explosive munitions. When the smoke and flame cleared, the enemy mech was down on its side, right arm gone, and pockmarks of missile damage across its remaining right side armour panels. While Ari’s racks were automatically reloaded from missile hoppers within the chassis of his mech, the beleaguered Bushwacker struggled to its feet, dead-fired a – much reduced – volley of Medium Range Missiles at its assailant, and then made to move off in the direction of its fellows. Most of the MRM’s stuck Ari’s mech on the side with the missing arm, and he was suddenly distracted keeping his own mech on its feet. He struggled with the controls for a few seconds, and then targeted his damaged prey, ready to hit the fire stud as soon as he got lock tone...

A sniper missile lanced down from the heights of the nearby peaks, striking Ari’s target on the external missile rack on the Bushwacker’s damaged left side. The rack exploded, and the violence travelled back along the loader path, taking the missile reserves with it. The right side of the mech exploded outwards from several locations as the stored missiles cooked off, destroying the much abused gyro of the Battlemech. Mortally wounded, the Bushwacker staggered to its right, to fall on its side and remaining still, smouldering.

“That’s two to me!” Deathwing crowed, and Ari couldn’t decide if he was coming to like this young man, or was getting annoyed by him.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, the rush of enemy mechs had taken a toll on the MT forces. KB was all shot to hell, down to two UAC2’s and fighting off several Bushwackers. Rogue was fairing slightly better, having the legs to have keep the distance open, he was dropping missiles from his remaining launcher – the other had been destroyed in the rush - on the remaining Bushwacker that was dogging his track. Farslayer was trading shots with the remaining Marauder and coming off second best due to the reduced range. One of the enemy Avatar’s were busy with Happy and Hellfire, while the other had decided to hunt Arizona, stuttering RAC2 fire all across the Stormcrow’s torso from outside its range. Not being one to run from a fight, Ari turned and charged the heavier mech, and Deathwing could see that his father-in-law was going to come off second best. Activating jumpjets, the Hellspawn flung itself into the air on pillars of flame, and dead-firing on the stationary Avatar so as not to alert it to his action, DW slammed a sniper missile into the mechs left arm. The Avatar stumbled, and its punishing volume of fire ceased for a moment as the pilot adjusted for the impact. As DW’s Hellspawn landed, he saw Ari make range, torso’s and one leg smoking from the RAC fire. He launched just as the Avatar opened up again, and the huge volley of HE missiles slammed into the Avatar, tearing off the already damaged arm and vaporising huge circular chucks of the torso armour of the mech. Managing to keep his feet, and deciding he was in trouble, the Avatar pilot moved his smoking ride back towards its fellow, who ceased putting fire on Hellfire and changed targets to Happy.

“Aw bugger,” Happy said across the busy coms channel as the rack fire bit through the right knee actuator of his Shadowcat in mid flight. Despite swinging his torso round as far as he cold and draining his jets dry to try to cushion his landing, the Shadowcat hit the side of a peak with a sicking crunch, to slide back down the incline onto flatter ground, and lay still.

Down near the road, Nailor had flanked to the south and come back around. Now he poured as much RAC fire as he dared – without locking up the finicky weapon’s feed mechanisms - into the Bushwackers that were circling KB’s shattered Maddog like buzzards. KB fought on to the last, firing his last UAC2 and a holdout Extended Range Medium Laser at his foes.

“Get offa him, damn you,” Nailor growled across coms, unconcerned that the pilot of the enemy Bushwacker couldn’t hear him. The Bushwacker’s MRM’s finally recycled, he pushed the firing stud, only to discover that both his banks of the deadly IS missiles had been disabled by Nailor’s fire.

“Ejecting!” Farslayer called across coms, he mech finished, the Maddog shattered by its less-than-optimal range fight against the once fresh Marauder. The escape pod rockets fired, hurling Farslayer skywards, and the Maddog teetered forwards, slamming nose-first into the torn up ground of the battlefield.

Hellfire jumped again, sighting the damaged Avatar of the pair, aiming for a kill shot. His finger was just edging onto the trigger when a mass volley of ERPPC fire tore through the back of his mech, shattering his gyro and melting his sniper missile system. He fell back to earth stunned by the impact, alarms wailing, and was knocked unconscious by the impact with the hillside.

Arizona charged after the retreating Avatar, not realising how under-supported he suddenly was. Rounding a hillock, he fired into the retreating back of the Avatar in question, and it fell forward, it’s back a smoking mess of HE pockmarks, its jumpjets – if it had them installed – quite disabled.

DW peaked over the crest of a ridge, to see Arizona below him, having just knocked one Avatar on its face, the Tokomi samurai was clearly unaware that the other Avatar was about to crest the ridge on its downed companions far side, after dealing with Happy’s Shadowcat. Reacting without really thinking it through, DW sent his ‘spawn rocketing into the sky, looking forwards and down to get a shot on the mech that was currently the most danger to his new father-in-law. He’d just got tone when a mass volley of ERPPC fire from behind him shattered the shoulder mounting the big missile weapon. His onboard computer announced that his only ranged weapon was destroyed, and Deathwing swore. However, he still had his forward momentum, and activating his jets until they ran dry, he angled down toward his target...

Arizona slowed and circled as he caught sight of the second Avatar on his radar. The first was shakily getting back on its feet, and amazing job considering how much fire it had absorbed. It was a testament to its builders, or just dumb luck, that it was still functional. He checked his missile banks, the two that were left, and found them slowly recycling. Eight seconds that felt like forever. The second Avatar crested the hill, and began a stream of tracer-laden RAC fire on Ari’s long suffering Stormcrow. The computer system announced critical damage levels battlemech wide, but Ari still had one volley of missiles coming ready... the question was, which mech to hit before ejecting?

The decision was made for him when DeathWing’s Hellspawn fell out of the sky onto the fresher Avatar, the stumpy legs of the forty-five tone mech hitting the torso of the seventy-five ton enemy dead centre. Both the Avatar and the Hellspawn disappeared down the far side of the rise, out of sight, and Ari launched on the remaining visible enemy, who didn’t have the weaponry left to counter effectively before it ate two groups of HE missiles, and arced over backwards, the peppering of explosions destroying it’s internals like a fire does a paper lantern. The enemy escape pod launched, sailing north on a parabolic course over the range of mountains and away.

Rogue’s last launcher was having a field-day, having put down the AC10 Bushie that had been perusing his Maddog, it was now finishing up the badly damaged Marauder that had forced Farslayer to eject. Likewise Nailor had crippled the last Bushie on KB’s shattered Maddog, which somehow was still standing, weaponless but able to stagger along. KB beat a retreat away from anyone and anything that even looked in his general vicinity, determined to return with his mech under its own power.

Rogue had circled around, back toward the road where it ran past an outcropping at the end of the range of peaks as he lead the Marauder on a merry chase, not letting it get close enough to hit him except on the rarest off occasions.

“Rogue, need any help with that?” Nailor asked, positioning to fire on the enemy Marauder, some eight hundred metres distant.

“No, I think I got this one,” Rogue replied, lining up for a shot on the Marauders shattered torso, looking to lob the missiles into the mechs internals were they could do the most damage. “One more shot should...” He never finished the sentence, as he was knocked cold as his escape pod was automatically launched far into the overcast sky. ERPPC fire had lanced down from the hills to the east, through the Maddog’s own shattered right torso, and damaged the mech beyond function. About the only systems that did work after that massive energy surge were the auto-ejection system, and the pod itself.

“Rogue’s down, PPC fire from the hills,” Nailor announced, seeing it all from his position moving up on the Marauder. He hammered the OA mech until it fell forward and the pilot ejected away, and then moved up toward Rogue’s finished Maddog, scanning the heights for that illusive, jump-sniping target.

The enemy mech, a Black Knight Nailor quickly discovered when it jumped again, must have been buoyed by his kill of moments before, because he jump-jetted up to fire upon Nailor, but the MT commander was ready, hammering the OA Black Knight with RAC rounds and throwing off his shot. Nailor ran the red line of locking up his racks as he mercilessly peppered the plummeting enemy mech with rounds until it fell out of sight, over seven hundred metres away, trailing smoke from damaged systems.

“Enemy sniper spotted, perusing to engage,” Nailor said, his face stony. He knew this mech must be responsible for the downing of several of his comrades mechs, and he wanted some payback.

“No,” KB said over the coms, his signal erratic and filled with digital noise. “Let him go, Nailor. We barely got out of this holding the area. You don’t want to go charging after him by yourself to run smack bang into any reserves.”

“Good point,” Nailor said, heading back to the drain area where KB waited. “Who else is still up?” he asked across coms, moments later.

“I’m still here,” Arizona said, though I wouldn’t be without the intervention of DeathWing and his amazing ‘death from above’ manoeuvrer.

“I’m still here,” DW said, his tone frustrated, “weaponless, but I’d be standing if I didn’t have both my ‘spawn’s feet stuck in the torso of this damn Avatar.” KB laughed at that.

“That’ll make a good story to tell, DW,” KB said, as he shook his head at the actions of his rash young Batallion XO. Switching to Ops coms, he continued. “First Strike Leader to Zone 1 Ops, all enemy mechs but one destroyed, last Black Knight fleeing. Let’s get some Search and Recovery in here, and another detachment of Plunderer wing. Perhaps they can chase down the sneaky sniper, and deal with those long range guns before we set up a mobile field base here.”

Evac point north of the ruins of Karnish, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, Planet The Stepps.
15th February 3070: Middday

Charman AC nursed his hammered Black Knight into the depths of the recovery dropship. He was less than impressed that the mornings battles had gone poorly for the Outworlds Alliance across large sections of the front he had set up. His own battle group had been hit hardest of all, his savaged mech being the only one to make it back to evac point Charlie. The only group that had succeeded in its objectives what damn Okami and his Glory Boys from CF. He’d have to pull back or be surrounded in a pincer by the MT-TD forces that had overrun the rest of the region, but he had made it to the hills of Gaton, overlooking the MT-TD dropzone, and had used Longtom artillery to stir up the mechbase and its personnel. The damage may have been minor, but it was demoralising, and that’s really what AC had wanted. Still, he’d have to ride in there with all but one of the pilots from his last failed encounter - in fresh mechs - and support the CF withdrawal. That might just take a little of the sting out of Okami’s jibes after the days battles.

AC exited his mech and rubbed his sore shoulder. He’d have to have it seen to by his personal masseuse, and enjoy the other ‘services’ she offered while he as at it. But that would have to wait until dark, for now he had to gather up his battered pilots, who, all but one, had luckily been recovered from their downed escape pods by the VTOL’s that he’d had waiting in the wings for just such a necessity. He’d gather them up, get them a hearty lunch, slap them in some new mechs, and put them on the battlefield again. It was tough, but war was like that. You wait for months or years in some cases, on guard duty or downtime, for several days or weeks of frenetic fighting once hostilities did break out. They had a job to do, and now was the time to do it.

The OA Chairman strode to the command deck as the Hamilcar-class dropship Pinch Hitter lifted off, taking him back to his men, and an afternoon of continued combat.

To be continued...

[rpOFF] What the hell, lets have 2 updates. It's time to get this story MOVING! [rpON]

“ …A sudden bold and unexpected question doth many times surprise a man and lay him open…”
Francis Bacon 1561 - 1626

ICU, MT hospital ship MTS Strider, Northern Nadir, The Stepps system.
15th February 3070: Late morning

Everything was quiet and orderly in the ICU of the MT hospital ship MTS Strider, just as it had been since the ship arrived on station at the Northern Nadir of The Stepps system more than a month previously. There had been few MT casualties from the campaign so far, however there had been an influx of a few HJ wounded from the JNS Nodachi when it had so unexpectedly arrived in system weeks before. The only individual that was admitted at that time that was still aboard the ship, as per Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona’s wishes, was the other Juraian Warlord to have arrived on the Nodachi, Jurai Maxtac. His continued coma had all but baffled the MT doctors, and as his physical injuries were healed by the time the MT-TD fleet headed for the planet, it was decided to feed the Royal Juraian via intravenous drip and let him wake up in his own time.

Heng Asmudius sat dutifully by Maxtac’s side, day in day out, as ordered by Tokomi Arizona. Some may have been disappointed by the duty, what with a full scale PA commencing on the habitable planet further in-system, but Asmu didn’t mind. He hadn’t told Ari, but Asmu had had a premonition that he should sit by the Warlord’s bedside until he awoke, so sit there the Heng Major Domo did. He was there for twelve hours a day, reading battle reports and running through mech combat scenarios in an effort to keep himself sharp.

’It's a shame they can’t get a mech training simulator in here for me,’ Asmu lamented to himself as he looked at the fifteenth battle report that day. ’I could really use some hands on... The thought was frozen, half formed, as Asmu noticed the Tai-shu’s eyes moving under his eyelids. Asmu put down the ‘pad and took careful note of Maxtac’s tiny movements, recognising as he did the telltale signs that the Jurai Samurai was having a premonition delivered while he was out.

***************

Maxtac strode across a desert battlefield, a mighty goliath among towering battlemechs. He was enormous, ten times taller than the tallest assault, wearing his Tai-shu’s uniform, and he felt that he could not affect the outcome of the battle playing out below him; as if he was there to observe, not participate. He looked down at the shots being traded by the mechs that he dwarfed. It was a close, tense battle. He recognised the Minnesota Tribe badges on the mechs that held the heights, and then he looked more closely at the mechs that were ranging across the sandy bowl below the MT position – Outworlds Alliance. They had to be.

Shaking his head as if to loosen the memory or piece of information that would make sense of this visage, Maxtac zoomed down to look through the windshields of the remaining mechs on the MT side, for there was no way Jurai would be having anything to do with OA, besides using them for target practice, Max considered. He glanced through one blast shield and another, seeing MT Mechwarriors, some he knew by sight, others he’d never met. Then he came to an Atlas, one arm shot off, sparks and smoke belching up out of the opposite torso, still the grim spectre of a face smiling its deaths-head grin at its enemies. Getting closer, Max moved his point of view to the mechs left eye, looking in through the cockpit blast shield. Inside, he saw... Teralitha! It was Tera fighting desperately as the mechs around him fell, shut down or blew up. He put an alpha of long range fire, - light gauss, ERPPCs and uac2s – into a Rifleman that crested the ridges to the west, and was rewarded with the mechs ejection pod sailing off into the sky. Moments later, a ‘whump’ of the detonating fusion core echoed across the badlands, and the shockwave, much diminished by the range, followed, washing over Tera’s Atlas as he turned to cross the badlands and open up the distance to the enemy on the other side.

It looked to Max as if the battle was over, seemingly won by OA as the last surviving MT? Mech withdrew... and then, Max felt the beating of a heart, a heart of Jurai, perhaps the heart of Jurai, and he followed the slight vibration... down, down to a heavily damaged Stormcrow. Its right knee actuator was fused, and it limped along through the badlands on the heights, its pilot probably searching for a way down that wouldn’t cause the mech to fail altogether.

It didn’t look like it would take much to bring the shattered clan medium to a halt, either. The left arm was torn off, the right blackened and pock marked, it’s torso’s were whole but the centre of the mech, where the pilots reinforced cockpit lay, was badly savaged. Blackened and melted, the canopy torn away in places, Max could easily see the injured pilot inside, fighting the controls despite his serious burns, and other less obvious injuries. Maxtac’s breath caught when he saw the face, one side burned and pink, hair matted and blood caked, the other side of the face set with grim determination. It was Arizona.

Maxtac tried to call out, but then remembered that he wasn’t really there, this was like a walk through diorama, a very real looking simulacrum. He watched, chest aching, as the valiant Tokomi worked his way towards the far side of the badlands, trying to follow the last order of his lance leader; to extend and evacuate. But he had little chance of success. Max wondered why Ari hadn’t simply ejected, but he knew how stubborn the old warrior could be, and looking at the damage to the cockpit, Max suspected that the ejection system might have been FUBAR as well.

Arizona was guiding his injured bird down a steep incline, close to the dropoff that a healthier mech might have simply shimmied down, when the bad leg of the Stormcrow came down on a loose bolder, and as it rolled, the mech stumbled. Max gasped, but Ari’s superb piloting managed to keep the mech standing, yet he was dangerously close to the drop-off. The noise must have alerted the searching OA mechs to his location, however, because two enemy mechs, a Marauder and an Avatar, stepped up over the rocky outcrop above the injured Tokomi, looking down on their damaged and outnumbered enemy.

There was a sudden exchange of fire; Arizona, alerted by the enemy mech’s long shadows falling across the rocks below him in the gathering evening, spun his mech suddenly to the left and dumb-fired a volley of ATM-HE’s at the nearest mech, the Marauder. The missiles detonated across its left side, some catching in a large tear in its right torso armour that had been the result of a hit earlier in the melee. As the exploding missiles tore into the mechs delicate internals, the feed lines for the dorsal gun mount caught, and the propellant in the Hyper-Velocity AC20 rounds ignited, causing internal ammo explosions deep within the chassis of the mech. As the Marauder’s escape pod was plying skywards, the Avatar opened up on the MT Stormcrow; a gauss round and a PPC blast slammed into the medium clan mech’s left torso, causing a similar ammo explosion in the missile pod located there. The CASE system shoved the detonating ordinance out the back of the mech, where it blossomed into a huge fireball, pushing the already overbalanced mech forward and too the right. The right leg, unable to keep up with this sudden forward movement, was left behind, and after a pace, the left leg likewise folded back, leaving the Stormcrow, flames still spewing from the gaping hole in its left torso, sliding down the rocky path on its belly.

The Avatar pilot’s victory was short lived, however, as his teammate’s abandoned Marauder went critical, exploding no more than fifteen metres from his standing mech. The nuclear fire enveloped the Avatar is its deadly embrace, and yet another escape pod flew skywards as the Avatar pilot bugged out. Arizona, however, was not so lucky, and the shockwave from the detonating mechs pushed his mangled mech over the edge of the precipice, to disappear with a flaming trail of the edge of the cliff, plummeting towards the desert sands below.

Max saw it happening and was powerless to stop it. He leant his gigantic body down, reaching out as if to catch what was left of the plummeting Stormcrow, but it passed right through his giant, ghostly hand. The pain and fear of loss was so intense that the colossal, ghostly Juraian stood erect, and shouted his disbelief to the uncaring sky.

***************

In the ICU room onboard the MTS Strider, Heng Asmudius was nearly shocked off his chair as the man he was charged to watch, the Warlord of Jurai who had been totally unmoving for the previous two weeks, suddenly sat straight up in bed, his back arched, his eyes wide, his left arm thrown out in front of him as if trying to catch something, and his right instinctively supporting his weight so Max wouldn’t fall over. He attempted to shout a warning, or rail against the images he was seeing, but instead of a loud ‘No!’ escaping his wide open mouth, an ‘n’ and then a croaking, choking noise was all he could produce.

Asmu recovered from his surprise quickly, and leapt up to catch the suddenly active Warlord, as he knew the moment the man’s muscles stopped their sudden spasm, he’d be on the floor. He eased Max back down onto the pillow, and then fetched a cup of water from the bedside pitcher. Max leant forwards, more naturally this time, and gulped down the water greedily. Once his throat was lubricated, he could actually communicate again.

“Wh... where are we?” was Max’s first question.

“Medical ship,” Asmu replied, “MTS Strider, Northern Nadir, The Stepps System.”

“Why MT ship?” Max gasped, and started in on a second offered cup of water. “Why Stepps.”

“Give me a sec to get a doctor in here to look at you,” Asmu said, reaching for the call button. “I’ll fill you in while the doctor’s take a look at you.” He needn’t have bothered calling for the medicos; the condition monitor repeater at the nurse’s station had alerted them to the fact that their distinguished guest had awoken.

One minute, and a quick recap of the past two weeks events later, a nurse and a doctor were doing all the standard checks on the Tai-shu as Asmu finished his report.

“...and so I’ve been sitting here waiting until you woke up, and Ari and Tera are down on The Stepps fighting with our new best buddies in the PA to take the planet back. Diaka is on his way back to this Nadir with the Nodachi under Arizona’s orders to return to the Dominions for resupply and refit, and he’s carrying the unconscious Ozora pilots who were affected by the mind link to Nekekami when he sacrificed himself trying to save them,” Asmu concluded.

“I think that’s quite enough excitement for the patient,” a rather bossy nurse grumbled, “he’s only just woken up, and needs rest, not to be thrown straight back into...”

“I’m fine!” Maxtac growled, and he felt the mental trigger of his mind powers activate – the mental equivalent of a baseball being struck very, very hard by a baseball bat, whilst inside a small metal box. The sound in his mind was usually accompanied by a kinetic wave that radiated out from his body, that should have pushed all the offending medical staff away. Yet when Max came back to himself a moment later, he opened his eyes to see the medical staff just where they were before, fussing away. The Warlord glanced at the Heng Major Domo standing off to the side of the bed, and Max saw recognition in the younger man’s eyes. Max’s mind powers were... absent, uncontactable... out to lunch: unavailable to him. It was a concern, but Max had a more immediate concern. He gave the Heng a significant look, and jerked his head towards the medical staff.

“How is he?” Asmu asked, his tone pointed enough to get the doctor’s attention.

“He seems fine,” the doctor began, “however weakened from inactivity. The physio while he’s been under has certainly helped, however. I will run some more tests, and keep him in for observations for at least forty-eight hours...” Max glared at the doctors.

“Doctor...” Max grabbed the doctor’s security pass and quickly read it, “Mendleson, I’m sure you are a fine doctor, however I have important information that must be passed onto MT command down on the planet... personally. So you can have your blood or whatever to do your tests, and then I’m getting up, showering and using the facilities, dressing and leaving. Do you understand?”

“That might be the way it works in your military,” the doctor said, snidely, “but you’re on an MT ship, under my care, and what I say here go...” The medico suddenly came up short as he realised Asmu had drawn a wakizashi in a lightning move, and after stepping inside the doctor's guard, held the very sharp and very bright blade of the long dagger-like weapon against his throat.

“What you don’t understand, dear doctor,” Asmu said, his voice cool and friendly, in stark contrast to his recent action, “is that if a Warlord of Jurai says he needs to get down to that planet, he’s going to that planet. No medical intervention, plague, famine, stock market collapse or enemy fleet will stop him. Now unless you want to start an intergovernmental incident between our two freshly allied nations, I suggest you let the Tai-shu up. You can send a doctor with him on his voyage to The Stepps if you are very concerned, but our flagship arrives in one hour, and the Tai-shu will be on it.”

The doctor eyed the glistening blade, his eyes wide, sweat prominent on his brow. Asmu glanced at his Warlord, and the older man waved his hand in a downward motion twice. Understanding the signal, the Heng samurai lowered the blade. The doctor looked petulant, but knew not to argue with a man holding a sword-dagger and ready to use it. He finished taking blood, put a patch over the wound in the Warlords elbow-pit and stalked towards the door.

“Your government will receive a formal complaint from me and my government,” he stated at the door, and left before either Juraian could reply.

“I am my government,” Maxtac growled, before pulling the tubes and sensors out of his body, and going to stand, intent on using the facilities for himself for the first time in two weeks. Asmu jumped as the Tai-shu disappeared off the other side of the bed, and raced around to help him up.

“Seems I’m not quite as fine as I thought,” Max said sheepishly, accepting Asmu’s hand up. “Legs a little week – they’ll come good.”

Almost exactly an hour later, Tai-shu Jurai Maxtac and Chu-jo Heng Asmudius of the House Jurai Military stood with MT Captain Forsyth on the bridge of the MTS Strider. Max was glad to be out of the hospital gown and back in his popper uniform, which thankfully had been cleaned and pressed while he was under. It sure gave him more command presence than the open-backed gown, and he hopefully wouldn’t need to have a subordinate pull a short sword, or worse, on anyone else that day.

Max watched as the impressive bulk of the JNS Nodachi moved into visual range, floating forwards on K.E. as it drifted into a holding position near the Nadir. Max had been in contact with Tai-sa Diaka who was acting Captain of the Flagship, and been made aware of the orders Tokomi Arizona had given the man. Max felt bad having to turn the Flag around yet again to go back to the planet, but Ari’s very life might hang in the balance, and he simply had to get down there. Direct contact with the ground was cut off during the opening stages of the battle, as jamming and counter-jamming made long range communications sporadic at best. If only there was another way to...

“Captain Forsyth,” a comtech said, and the short, rotund, bearded Forsyth turned to regard the tech, “we are reading gravity pulses from the Nadir. There is a ship coming through. Do you want the Strider to move away from the arriving ship or ships? The JNS Nodachi and the MTS Cavalier are well within range to engage if necessary, and the Cavalier can activate the seeker mines ringing the Nadir if needed.”

“Yes, pull us back,” the Captain said, his deep melodious tones hinting at Slavic ancestry, “but have the point defence on high alert. I don’t want us to cop a surprise capital missile volley for our troubles.”

“Aye Sir,” the operations officer said, and a short alarm note echoed throughout the non-medical sections of the ship. Moments later, a small vessel arrived on the Nadir. If it had been an enemy, it would have died quickly under the combined guns of a flag and a heavy corvette, however it was ID’d as friendly seconds after its arrival.

“IFF says it’s a Courier-class vessel, MTS Lancet,” the operations officer offered.

“What’s it carrying?” Forsyth asked. “Mail for the troops I’d suppose.”

“Some,” the operations officer agreed, “but its main cargo is human: Captain Rhino Tor, out from Mulberry to join in the festivities down on the planet.”

“That ship is heading down to The Stepps?” Max asked, an idea forming in his mind.

“Yessir,” the operations officer replied.

“Coms, get me the ranking officer aboard the Lancet” Forsyth said, picking up on the Juraian Warlords thinking. “I think our allies here want to catch a lift.”

Minutes later, Max was packing what few belongings he had with him into a duffle before he caught the transfer shuttle over to the Lancet. It turned out that Rhino was happy for the company. It would be a little cramped but only a short thirty-two hour trip to The Stepps orbit. Just before the Warlord went to step out of the room, hopefully for the last time, the coms station on the small desk near the bed chirped. Max sat down and activated it, and was surprised to see a Juraian coms signal, the Jurai cruciform spinning in all its three-d glory, with ‘ENCRIPTED TRANSMISSION – ACCEPT’ waiting underneath it. Max hit the accept, and Diaka’s face appeared on the smallish screen.

“Tai-shu,” the presiding Captain of the flagship said, bowing short and stiffly from the mid-torso.

“Go ahead,” Max said, curious.

“We have received contact from a Jurai assault group which had arrived at the southern Nadir,” Diaka said. Max was immediately aware of the tactical ramifications of that – OA was in control of that Nadir last he’d heard. “The group leader wishes to contact the ranking Juraian officer in system, and seeing The Stepps is hard to contact presently, I thought you should be informed.”

“Thank you, Tai-sa,” Max said, unconsciously smoothing his jacket, “put them through.” Moments later, after a short interlude with the spinning cruciform, Max was pleased, but not overly surprised, to see none other than Tokomi Jessica staring back at him. Then he remembered his vision, and his faced turned a little stony.

“Tai-shu Jurai Maxtac,” Jessica intoned, a short nodded bow all she could manage while strapped in to her command chair, “it is good to see you awake and healthy. Last reports I had received from this system, from my father, said you were unconscious.”

“I was, but I have need to be awake now,” Max said, and left it at that. “Was your attack on No Where and the related info gathering mission successful?”

“To a point, yes,” Jessica said, and Max could see she was searching for the right way to explain things without revealing too much. “The forces I had to deploy after you took the necessary mechs and men for your attacks, which I understand from my father was necessary, left me with few tactical choices. We took a bit of a hammering, and lost several good chassis, but I was able to ascertain that my target was no longer in that System.”

“Yes, I know that,” Maxtac said. “He’s here, in this system. Fighting on The Stepps, right now,” Max said, his voice deliberately steady. Max saw Jessica’s face change, her military poker face slipping to reveal anger, determination, and something Max hadn’t expected. Hurt.

“You know about...” Jess began, and then stopped, a tremor in her voice betraying her.

“I know that you and your XO were married under... inebriated circumstances, to two men you met on Pirates Haven,” Max said, and Jessica visibly flinched, “and I know that you were deserted by your new spouses, who turn out to be with the MT military.”

Jessica felt mortified, and her face reddened in response, but she should have known that her father would had to have told at least Jurai Maxtac, considering her insistence on completing the No Where raid, more for her own personal goals than that of Jurai. And her father had let her go. Of course he had to explain why.

“I see...” Jessica began, and then reigned herself in. After the pasting she’d taken from the clans, and the destruction of ships and crew at Mimic, Jurai was in dire straits, new alliance or no, and she shouldn’t be making it any worse, Tai-shu’s daughter or not. But she had to redress the affront to her honour. Maxtac had to understand that. “I’m heading to the planet at standard thrust. I’ll deal with my target when I get there.”

“We are in a full alliance with MT, now,” Max said, his tone steely, “and I don’t want that jeopardised by you killing one of their up and coming Mechwarriors. They need all the help they can get down there, I’m thinking...” Max’s vision flashed before his eyes again momentarily, “so we’d best get down there and help.”

“Hai, Tai-shu,” Jessica said, bowing with a head nod again, “No killing of allies.” That didn’t mean she couldn’t beat the tar out of Deathwing for what he had done, and Amanda could deal with Mondo as she saw fit.

“Wait,” Max said, as he recognised that Jess was about to cut the connection. “There is something else you need to know. I have had a vision; it’s about your father...”

Tokomi Jessica cut the connection less than a minute later.

“FULL MILITARY THRUST!” she demanded of her helmsman. “We have allies to support down on planet...” Jessica said in a strong command tone, “and my father to save,” she added in a whisper.

Around the bridge of the JNS Longlance, the well trained and battle hardened crew moved quickly and efficiently to enact her orders.

To be continued...

“ …Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new…”
Albert Einstein 1879 - 1955

MT/TD Dropzone Base, Jergenson Ranch, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
16th February 3070: Dawn

Deathwing humped his kit over the last hill before the MT/TD dropzone just as the sun was rising on the second day of the combat operations. He’d been shot out of his mech at sunset the previous day, and despite the extra range of the escape pods on the Clan Shadowcat he’d been assigned for his second engagement of the campaign, he’d still been a good thirty kilometres from the makeshift base on the Jergenson Ranch. With all SRT teams either out helping other, further-distant, downed pilots, at the base being repaired after taking fire, or shot down and destroyed, there was nothing else for it than for Deathwing to walk back to the base under cover of darkness.

He was glad he’d made it before the sun had got up. DW didn’t fancy having to wear his neurohelmet – which he’d dragged along with him – with the tinted visor down, to protect his eyes from the harsh light of the day star of The Stepps. He waved tiredly, in what he hoped was a friendly fashion, to the guards on the main road into the base, and walked up to them, hands well clear of his pistol holster, to be identified.

“Halt,” the guard said, full of his own self-importance, the weary DW thought, “identify yourself!”

“Lieutenant, Junior Grade Deathwing Tor, XO, three-eighty-second Royal Dragoons, now get outa my face before I have to shoot it off,” DW said in a disinterested voice as he trudged past the guards, holding up his security card as he did. It seemed to work, because they gave him no more grief. He did however hear one of them calling in his presence to the Master of the Base Watch. ’Good,’ DW thought as he stowed his pass, ’saves me doing it.’

Deathwing’s stomach was making its empty presence felt, so he made an exhausted B-line for the officer’s mess. He had no sooner stumbled through the door and dumped his coolant vest and helmet on the end of one of the long bench tables, than he glanced up at the line near the servery and saw Mondo lined up for breakfast.

“Sonofa...” Mondo exclaimed when he saw his exhausted friend join the line. “What happened to you?”

“Shot outa my mech, no SRT available... had to hump it thirty klicks back to base,” DW explained in a tired, the-less-talking-the-better tone.

“But last combat concluded at dark last night,” Mondo said, his mouth agape. “Don’t tell me you walked all night?”

“Okay, I won’t,” DW said, picking up a plate and loading it with scrambled eggs, freshly cooked rashers of bacon, a handful of hash browns and a pile of pancakes with maple syrup generously poured over them. Mondo was quiet until they got over to a table.

“We had it pretty easy, out on the western flank,” Mondo began, but DW didn’t want to hear it. Mondo was a Tor Knight, no doubt, and a Lieutenant, junior grade, just like Deathwing himself, but whereas DW had caught the eye of command and was cherry picked for the tough assignments, working with the best Mechwarriors in the toughest battle zones, Mondo always seemed to get rear guard, or flank duties. He was hardly ever in the thick of it. DW considered this unfortunate for Mondo, because without the real ‘this is it’ experience, he wasn’t going to learn nearly as quickly how to stay alive. Of course, he wasn’t nearly as often on the razors edge of death, either. “Only lost one mech, while routing the enemy forces. The Company commander wanted to push ahead, but with all the trouble on the centre and eastern flanks, it wasn’t prudent to push forward and get cut off.”

Deathwing nodded and kept shovelling. Mondo got the hint finally and shut up, getting a move on with his own plates. Finally, DW’s stomach was satisfied, and he sat back, patting his newly formed ‘breakfast belly.’ Then the mood to talk came upon him.

“You really should ask to transfer to a company that gets more of the action,” DW said, rubbing at a charcoal stain on his right arm. “You’d learn a lot more.”

“And get shot out of my mech a lot more, if your experiences are anything to go by,” Mondo said, half jokingly.

“Yeah well I’m regularly going up against Heavies and Assaults in a medium, so what do you expect?” DW said, a little more defensively than he’d planned.

“Hey hey, chill, k?” Mondo said, waving his hands down in DW’s direction. “I know you get it a lot tougher than me.” There was a moment’s silence. “I think I will request a transfer,” Mondo continued after a moment. “See if I can’t get in your Company, and stir up some trouble.”

“Aw geez, here we go,” DW said good naturedly, “tickets on himself, this one.” Mondo laughed.

“Well it was your idea,” Mondo noted.

“Oh don’t remind me,” DW said, getting up to stow his tray of used eating utensils and crockery. Mondo followed in his wake, as usual. “I gotta go check in with Command,” DW said, his mind turning to more military items on the agenda now his stomach was full and he felt more awake. “Do you know if KB or Nailor Grey are on base?”

“I believe so,” Mondo said, thinking for a moment. “Fighting was so heavy yesterday, and so many of the command staff were involved, that they are having a late start today. The reserve units were put in the dawn deployments, I think.”

“Roger that,” DW said. “I’d better check in, catch you later, brother Tor. Think seriously about what I said.”

Mondo was nodding as DW strode out the mess door, heading for the Hammerfall.

“Lieutenant, Junior Grade Deathwing Tor, reporting in after extracting himself from the area of yesterday’s second engagement in Beta Sector,” DW said to the Officer of the Watch with all the military precision he could muster, as he topped the gangway of the Overlord-Class dropship Hammerfall.

“And just what did you do with my Shadowcat?” Nailor asked, stepping out from behind the leg of an Archer, perpetuating a running joke that was becoming legendary in the Cadre.

“Left it where it blew up. Sorry, Sir,” DW replied, and threw the commander of the invasion forces a snappy salute.

“You know we don’t have an unlimited supply of those things?” KB’s gravelly voice grumbled from behind Nailor, where they’d been in the mechbay discussing mech loadouts and repairs. “Between you and Happy, I’ll have to hit the black market for more of them!” The two commanders stepped up to greet Deathwing, and shake his arm in the hand-on-wrist grip preferred by the tribe.

“Sorry, Sirs,” DW replied, “I couldn’t bring the mech back, but I did extract myself, that’s gotta count for something, right?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” KB said, looking only a little sheepish. “SRT units are taking a pounding. OA likes to keep our Mechwarriors away from new mechs, and out on the field so they can capture or kill them.” Both commanders’ faces darkened at this. It was a low tactic, even for OA.

“Seeing you only just got back, and were probably walking all night, you a cycled out for today, Deathwing,” Nailor said, using the Cadre’s term for being stood down from action. “You rest up today, and you’ll be assigned a new lance for the dawn actions tomorrow.” Nailor sighed. “Hopefully we’ll be moving forward soon, once we break the back of this first OA counter attack.”

“Just don’t get too complacent,” KB added, playing bad cop to Nailor’s good cop. “You are on ready five just in case this base is attacked, like it was yesterday.” All three Tibesmen glanced out across the far flung base to a burnt out supply shed, several guttered anti-aircraft tracked vehicles, and a destroyed Calliope turret. The OA Longtoming of the base had done more to lower morale than any of the losses across the front in the last twenty-four hours, but the Cadre, and their Juraian allies, were determined to turn it all around.

“So are we missing many pilots from yesterday’s battles?” Deathwing asked as the three men surveyed the damage, his tone carefully neutral. Some Mechwarriors always died in a big invasions like this, but MT always did all they could to keep deaths to a minimum. Enemy pilots were captured wherever possible, rather than killed in their mechs, and repatriated to their governments after the PA’s, successful or not. Only enemy pilots that committed war crimes against civilian populations were put on trial. Particularly evil ones were even put to death, but that hadn’t happened for a good decade or more.

“Yeah, we have a few down,” KB said, looking less than pleased. “We got eight pilots injured, two seriously. Those two will be getting transferred to the Strider when transport becomes available. Hopefully tomorrow. We got two confirmed dead, and five MIA.” DW thought that was the end of it, but then he twigged that KB was trying to decide whether to tell him something or not.

“What is it, Sir?” DW asked, not sure he was going to like the answer.

“Well Tera reported in this morning from the far west flank. Says they were hit pretty hard. His Atlas and a Jenner were the only mechs to get out still functioning, and three pilots are MIA from that battle zone; it’s just too hot, and we got too few SRT units functioning right now to risk them there.” KB stopped, and DW stopped nodding along. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then KB looked over to a silent Nailor, who nodded once to the Coronel.

“One of the missing Mechwarriors is Arizona,” KB announced in a carefully toneless, quiet voice.

“Sh*t,” Deathwing said, his face blanching, all thought of rest and recovery gone. He stared at the two commanding officers in front of him, dumbfounded that they hadn’t done something, anything... about this yet. “Well we have to go get him back,” DW said finally.

“We have our doubts he’s still alive,” KB said, as if such a careless comment would placate Deathwing. Nailor glared at the Coronel, and he made to clarify. “The Jenner from that drop, piloted by Buck, was in range to see Ari’s mech topple off the top of a cliff face and fall some seventy metres, landing in a flaming wreck, no escape pod launch.” DW’s face screwed up at the news, his lips compressed to a single line, his lower jaw quivering. “Buck couldn’t report this until he’d made it back to the forward repair centre, where he found Teralitha unconscious, suffering a moderately serious concussion from his mech being knocked down a steep embankment during the battle. By the time the news got back here, our forces had bugged out of the whole area.”

“But we can’t leave him and the other MIA pilots out there,” Deathwing said, his voice quivering. “We’ve got to get out there and recover them.”

“We will, Deathwing,” Nailor said, putting what he hoped was a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder, “just as soon as we push back into that sector, early tomorrow morning. The SRT units should be coming back up to strength by then. If they are alive and still there, we’ll get them out.”

“Give me a mech, anything, even an Urbie,” Deathwing pleaded, “and I’ll go get them out!”

“DW,” KB said, his tone as compassionate as he gravelly voice could make it, “we just can’t let you do that. An Urbie would take a long time to get there, be a sitting duck for enemy air assets, and would be overpowered by the sort of units that were seen in that sector by nightfall. And the crew space is so small in one of those tin cans, where would you put a recovered pilot if you found one?” KB shook his head sadly. “No, you’d just end up another casualty or worse, and we don’t want to lose another pilot unnecessarily.”

“Fine,” DW said, shaking Nailor’s hand off and stepping away from his commanders. “I can see you’ve covered every angle on this, Sirs, so if I may be excused, I really need some sleep.” Nailor and KB looked at each other, KB shrugged, and they turned back to the angry, young Mechwarrior.

“Very well, Deathwing,” Nailor said, he tone careful, “you are dismissed.” DW spun on his heel without offering a salute and stalked off down the gangway. “And Deathwing,” KB added. The Lieutenant, halted, and turned partially to face his Battalion CO. “You are ordered to stay out of any mech’s today unless we are directly attacked here, understand? You’ll be assigned a mech for your next scheduled op before dawn tomorrow.”

“Yes. Sirs.” DW practically growled through gritted teeth, not wanting to really tell them what he thought of the order. He turned and stalked rapidly away, before his disrespectful actions got him thrown in the brig.

The Coronel and the Brigadier watched him go, their faces grim.

“We are going to have SRT teams in there just as soon as we gain control of that region, right KB?” Nailor asked, his tone again careful, “it’s not that Ari annoys you and you want to leave him out there, is it?”

“Of course not,” KB said. “I don’t want to endanger our new alliance one little bit.” He beckoned Nailor over behind the Archer’s leg before continuing. “I want that area taken back just as much as Deathwing does. We need it before we can put plan Recovery Alpha into action,” KB said in a barely audible guarded tone. “After all, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

Nailor said nothing, but nodded slowly.

************

Later that day, Deathwing lay on his bunk, having just finished counting the paint chips in the ceiling for the third time. He was overtired, and he knew it, and his brain would just not relax and let him rest. He knew exactly why too. He needed to get out there and find Arizona.

It was complicated for him, this new family stuff. He couldn’t be sure the cause wasn’t his exhaustion, but his emotions were running high. It was bad enough that he’d deserted his new wife, on orders, but still bad for her. He knew she was pissed at him, and was looking for him over light-years of distance. So it was fair to say that when she finally caught up with him, and she would, that she’d be mighty pissed. And now her father was at the very least injured, possibly dead, or worse, captured, and he wasn’t allowed to do anything about it.

DW rolled over and punched the wall beside his bunk. The pain helped him focus; drawing him away from the swirling thoughts in his head. He couldn’t just lie there on the bunk and do nothing. Mechwarriors were men of action, and act he must.

He sat up and threw his legs over the side of the double bunk of which he slept on the top. The room was utilitarian, but Mechwarriors never spent much time in their dorms when on planet. They were more for travel time between systems, and you needed a good supply of books, and time in the gym and simulator, during those long, drawn-out hours. DW shook his head, and then started going over exactly what KB had said to him.

The battle zone had been in the Epsilon region of the eastern front. So he had a good idea of where that was, and the direction. He’d been instructed NOT to take a mech, but there was more than mechs on the base. He’d find a wheeled or tracked vehicle and head out just after dusk, making some excuse about testing the vehicle, and race across the desert fringe landscape till he got to the cliffs in question. After dark, and running on light enhancement, he should be able to find the place, and have it mostly searched before dawn. Downed mechs weren’t that hard to find...

But he’d need help. Hell Mondo might help. He jumped down from his bunk and went in search of his good friend.

He found the fellow Tor Knight working in a repair bay aboard the Union-class dropship Featherfall.

“What the hell is this thing?” Deathwing asked, as Mondo scrabbled out from underneath a huge, six-wheeled, armoured vehicle. DW had never seen its like. It looked like an oversized repair truck, built for very rugged terrain, with independently gambolled wheels, huge, rear-tractor-sized, ovoid, grippy tires, fully armoured, and a large boxed cargo space above an enclosed back area that you could almost fit a light tank into! It had a matching trailer, which looked like it could carry anything up to the size of a medium mech, with a crane built onto the side of it to facilitate with the lifting of said machinery. Both the truck and it’s trailer had extendible supports on them, to allow stabilisation before lifting heavy equipment.

“It’s a RRV,” Mondo said, grinning, as if that was all his friend needed to know. Deathwing set his fists into his hips, and scowled.

“And just what does that mean?”

“Oh, a Remote Recovery Vehicle,” Mondo said, walking around the front to close a panel, at head height, that had been giving him access to the twin, independent motors of the unusual truck. “It’s something that I’ve been working on with a couple of the techs. Took us ages to get a working model together. It’s based on a mining dump-truck chassis, with modifications for desert terrain, like the ‘fatties’ you see here. It can lift and haul a medium mech, has a full med-bay in the back, as well as gear and parts to repair quite a number of small problems with a mech in the field. Only has a large machinegun for armament, though, up in the pentile mount above the cabin, but it’s not meant to be fighting, just finding, fixing, recovering and healing.”

“How close are you to having it ready to test?” DW asked, a plan suddenly flashing into his mind.

“Oh it’s finished now,” Mondo said, looking as proud as punch. “Just needs some extra gear stowed, a few parts and ammo, oh and a desert paint job rather than this boring steal grey,” Mondo patted the armoured ‘bonnet’ housing lovingly, “and we’ll be ready for field tests.”

Deathwing’s smile was fiendish, and Mondo's face began to look a little worried.

“Tell you what, I’ll help you test it. This evening,” Deathwing said, putting his arm around Mondo’s shoulder and walking him away from the technicians in the bay. “Think you can get it ready by then?” Mondo nodded, still looking a little confused. “Great, here’s what I think we should load in it, to make it an accurate test, ya know...”

To be continued...

[rpOFF] I'd just like to note that the rather unsporting actions of the 'enemy' pilot in this post is not meant as an afront to any current or past player in either OA or CF units, or a reflection of their actions. It's an RP story, it's war, and it's meant to be gritty. If anyone has a problem with this, after reading this explanation, please contact me directly though the forums to discuss. Thank you. [rpON]

“ …Hey! You! If you dance in the shadows
The shadows will cover you
And paralyse all the hope in your eyes
That you'll need to bring you shining through...
I'm on my way, on my way, on my way
To find you my friend…”

Johnny Clegg & Savuka, ‘When The System Has Fallen,’ 2003

Outer Solomish, en route to battlezone Epsilon, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
16th February 3070: Evening

The RRV rattled along the rarely used track in the cool of the badlands night. It hadn’t been easy to get the monstrous vehicle out of the base without having to go through several checkpoints. It was lucky for DW that he was a Lieutenant, Junior Grade now, because it meant he could organise travel out of the base without it being signed by a superior officer. So he’d just gone up, as ballsy as you please, and put the test of the RRV on the exit schedule for the evening. No one seemed to notice, or if they did they didn’t care. Pretty much everyone had more important things to do than go breathing down a Lieutenant’s neck when he wanted to take a new truck out for a spin. It wasn’t a combat vehicle after all, and it wasn’t assigned to any SRT team yet either.

So here they were - DW, Mondo, and the local recruit, Kurt, sitting between them in the big cab of the RRV - bumping and jolting along a path that was barely a track, in total darkness, navigating via night vision enhancement. The RRV had a surface-tuned radar suite, but running active would have been a little too obvious, so night vision was the only viable choice. DW found a flat patch of ground across a salt pan, and the travel got a bit easier. He took a moment to turn to look at Mondo, who was looking more worried by the hour. Kurt, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind a bit that they hadn’t turned around yet; he was enjoying the ride, and getting off the base for a change. DW had brought him along because he knew the area around the farm-base intimately, and travelling at night without good light meant his input might make the difference between getting to Ari before dawn, and getting bogged until dawn!

“You’re not just out here testing this RRV, are you?” Mondo said, twisting and leaning forward to face Deathwing, finally having plucked up the courage to say it.

“Ah, no,” DW said, turning slightly to speak to Mondo, but not taking his foot off the accelerator. “We’re going out to rescue my father-in-law. You know, the Jurai Warlord?”

“Of course I know who you mean,” Mondo said, his anger evident. “I married Amada that night too, remember?” Mondo flushed after he realised what he’d said. “Okay, so we don’t remember, but you know what I mean. I heard that Tokomi Arizona was MIA from the second sortie, but what the hell makes you think we’re the right ones to go looking for him, in a prototype, untested vehicle, and without permission??”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” DW growled at Mondo, then turned back to watch the surface ahead – there was no road to be seen here. A brooding silence fell then, only broken when Kurt spoke up less than a minute later.

“You’ll want to go to the left side of those mounds,” the recruit said to Deathwing, his tone neutral.

’He’s learning fast,’ Deathwing thought, and then thanked him aloud.

“So why couldn’t it wait for the SRT’s to get there in the morning?” Mondo asked, his tone a little cooler than the last time he’s spoken.

“Because it’s been over twenty-four hours since Arizona was blown out of his mech,” DW said, an edge of hysteria evident in his tone, “and if he’s still alive, it’s likely he’s badly injured. This’ll be his second night out in the open, and we don’t even know IF the SRT’s will be in that area at all tomorrow. If MT-TD can’t take that region back, who knows when any help would get out there.” Deathwing went silent after he ran out of the reasons he’d come up with to try his daring plan, and he’s spent a few moments steering a best path around the mounds Kurt had mentioned. “So I figure, with this bus doing an average of sixty kilometres per hour, give or take, we’ll be out there in about three hours, with five hours to search, before we have to be heading back to make it back to base for ready line an hour before dawn.” It was just lucky that it was dark for twelve-hours during the nights at this latitude of The Stepps at this time of year. “And with Kurt with us, we are even more likely to keep to schedule, find Ari and maybe one of the other missing pilots, and get back in time to ready up for the next battle.” Mondo shook his head.

“Did you get any sleep today?” he asked DW.

“Um... I tried,” DW replied sheepishly. “Couldn’t stop thinking I needed to get out here... If you hadn’t had this beauty ready to go...” DW patted the dashboard almost lovingly.

“So you fought all day yesterday, walked all night, screwed around all day coming up with a plan to rescue ‘dear ol' dad-in-law,’ and now you intend to be out all night again, and fight the next day? Not a hope in hell, bub,” Mondo finished.

“Okay, so you drive back,” DW said, poking his tongue out at his good friend.

“Oh no, you don’t pin it on me like that. I’m supposed to ready up for battle tomorrow too, you know?”

“I’ll do it,” Kurt cut in, looking like the meat in a meat locker between the two arguing Tors. The both stopped to stare at the lad. “I mean, I’ll drive back. I’ve had more than enough sleep of late, I’ve handled big trucks during my farm work, and seeing as I’m too green to go into battle...”

“Yeah.... that’ll work,” Mondo said, leaning his chair back and rolling over. “Wake me when we get to the search zone, or when we get attacked, whichever comes first.”

Kurt smiled and DW snorted. Deathwing also made sure to hit more than the necessary number of potholes as they pushed on across the darkened countryside.

Battlezone Epsilon, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
17th February 3070: Night

Arizona tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He was dangerously dehydrated and he knew it, but his small ration bottle was empty, and there was no way he could go to find more water, not in the state he was in. His survival duffle, containing the small water maker amongst other things, would have been really handy just then, Ari considered, but the hadn't seen it since the fall off the cliff. For all he knew, it was burnt up in the guttered cockpit of his totalled mech. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about it, and the assistance it could provide him, if he had any hope of finding it.

Despite the burns, the disabled arm and the opposing broken leg, the clearly busted ribs and the blood that caked his face from a head wound that probably included at least some level of concussion, Ari had managed to drag himself from the vicinity of the burning mech to a cave, back under the cliff from which his Stormcrow had fallen. A small mercy, but perhaps not really considering his condition, the fusion reactor of the mech had not gone critical. The fire had burnt itself out too, without cooking off any more missiles, and so, if he lasted that long, Ari could expect someone to come for the mech, eventually. He hoped it would be his side. He hoped it would be soon.

The cave was more like a hollow in the rock, with just enough depth that Ari could remain out of the sun except for a short period first thing in the morning. He didn’t look forward to that time. The morning before had been harsh, and he hadn’t been so dehydrated then. But the pre-dawn brought the dew, and with it a few drops of life sustaining water that would drip off the rocks above. He’d catch the drops on his tongue, if he could move by then, and it might just keep him going for a few hours longer, a few more hours of hope.

He was drifting in and out of consciousness, his body cold in the near-desert night, dreaming of a Christmas long ago with Helsy and the kids. It had been a good time, a simple time, away from the demands of running the Dominions, of fighting war after war, to protect and improve Jurai. He might have done his last work in that line... his last work, permanently. He hoped his little girl would be alright; would find her husband and drag him into line. For her, and for the baby.

These thoughts were flowing languidly though Ari’s mind when he realised he could hear a motorised vehicle somewhere out in the desert verge. In his near delirium, he couldn’t work out what direction it was coming from, or if it was coming closer or going away. He desperately wanted to alert the crew of whatever it was to his presence in the small alcove, but his thumping headache stopped nearly all rational thought. He didn’t care if it was friend or foe... he just needed help, needed it bad. He drifted out, and when he picked up his thread of thought again, after an indeterminate time, he couldn’t hear the motor anymore.

He was ready to give up right then.

He lost some more time, and then the pain was eased in his body some, and he thought he must have been dying. Then he realised that someone was at his right side, kneeling next to him, talking to him in a comforting voice, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. Then someone on his other side was sliding a stiff board under him, and they lifted him up, carried him to some sort of oversized truck. Something Ari could have appreciated, given better circumstances. A large, square door with rounded edges was opened on the back side of the big cab, and he was slid inside.

"Duffle bag," Ari croaked, his throat still parched despite the slow rehydration these saviour had commenced. Even in his barely conscious state, he couldn't give in to the darkness until he at least tried to locate his survival kit. But the effort was too much, and he slipped away again.

He was shocked into consciousness when pain flashed though him with the burning intensity of a fusion core failure. His eyes flickered open, and he discovered that someone, someone he thought he should recognise, had just reset his leg. They were wrapping it in a honeycomb cast, and talking words that he couldn’t comprehend. He reached up with a shaky hand to touch his head, and found it bandaged. His left shoulder also felt better, probably was dislocated he’d through earlier, now back in its socket. He glanced around groggily, and saw a singed and sand-sprinkled black duffle. His duffle. They must have found it for him. That was good. He wanted to thank them but couldn’t.

There was a person near his head, talking to him now, and he felt a prick of a canulla needle going in, and a rush of coolness entering his arm. A few moments later the pain started to get further away, and he was drifting off again. Before he was lost to the world this time, he caught a word that was said by the person behind him, the one he couldn’t see. The word was ‘father.’

His last thought before he was sucked down into a black void was ’that doesn’t sound like any of my children, so who would be calling me that?’

************

“So what do we do now?” Mondo asked, stripping off the medical examination gloves and wiping his forehead, wet despite the cool desert night air. “He’s stabilised, but really needs proper medical attention fairly soon now. Do we call in an airborne SRT?”

“Can’t,” DW said, packing up a huge med-kit. “Our call might be intercepted, and we could be tracked back if we were really unlucky. And with the attrition of SRT’s we’ve been suffering of late, I don’t think they could afford to send one into a zone we didn’t control.” Mondo nodded at this, but didn’t look happy about it. “No we’ll just have to haul the old bugger, er I mean my revered father-in-law, back to the base ourselves. It’s only a bit over three hours away, and we’ve got nearly six until dawn.”

“Okay, but I’ll drive this time, you can’t steer straight,” Mondo grumbled. “You hit every pot hole in the last sixty kilometres!” DW hid his grin behind his hand as he climbed up the ladder into the passenger side of the main cab.

“I’ve got the medical monitors slaved into the shotgun side controls,” Mondo said as he activated the twin motors of the beastly truck. They grumbled to life below them, and the big wheels spun momentarily, before locking into park gear. “You can keep an eye on our patient from there,” he told Deathwing.

“Um, Sirs,” Kurt said, from his current position in the sensor’s station in behind the driver’s seat, where he’d been reading up on how the system worked while the two Lieutenants worked on the Juraian Warlord. “I think I’ve picked up an MT distress signal on sub-band C. It’s short range, according to the manual, and encrypted, firing off in timed bursts to lessen the chance of triangulation. Does that sound right?”

“Um, yeah, actually it does,” Deathwing said, spinning his gambolled chair around and crawling over to look over Kurt’s shoulder. “That’s an MT distress signal alright. Probably a mech that went down yesterday, correction, the day before now, when the rout occurred.” He glanced over at Mondo. “It’s not more than three klicks distant, round the rocky outcrop towards the desert bowl. We could sneak over there check it and be headed back towards the base in less than forty minutes. We got plenty of time. What about it?”

“Uh, I dunno,” Mondo said, looking a little torn, “we’ve been lucky so far, and over the ridge is where the battle actually took place. OA might have even set up a base there, for all we know. It’s bloody dangerous.”

“But if we come back with two of our precious, MIA Mechwarriors, KB might go a little more easy on us for coming out here without permission,” DW countered.

“It’s not the other downed pilots that I’m most concerned about at this juncture, it’s these two, one a recruit, that could be captured or worse if we are spotted,” Modo said, real concern etched into his green-tinted features as seen through DW’s light amp. Deathwing returned to the co-pilots seat, and swung it back around into the forward position. He sat there, checking Ari’s vitals, which looked fairly stable considering, and waited.

“Okay, okay,” Mondo said finally, “we'll go look, but only quickly. I’d hate to be left out there for the buzzards or worse if it was me that was downed with a faulty ejection pod and no SRT backup.” DW grinned, and it was infectious.

“I just hope our luck holds,” Mondo mumbled, sliding the RRV into first and pumping the gas.

But as with most things on the battlefield, be it day or night, luck is a fickle mistress...

After rounding the rocky outcrop from which Arizona had tumbled over a day ago, Mondo sent the RRV on a wide, looping back and forth path across the low, sandy hills, and down into the desert proper. He was trying to get enough angle on the signal to triangulate a bearing on which they should travel, and Kurt seemed fairly deft at the controls of the sensor suite, angling their travel down towards a knoll at the intersection of two sandy depressions, upon which stood the burnt out remains of a coms facility.

Once triangulated, Mondo hit the gas and they headed straight for the source of the signal. They were about half a kilometre from the damaged tower, when a strange look came over DW’s face. He’d picked up a set of light amp binoculars, and quickly had them roving across the area into which they were headed. He held his right arm up in a gesture that meant halt, maintain silence, and Mondo planted his foot on the brakes. The big truck slid to a halt in the soft sand, its engines idling quietly in the gloom.

“What is it?” Mondo asked, his tension-laden voice coming out only just louder than a whisper. He glared at DW when his fellow Tor didn’t reply immediately.

“I think...” Deathwing said, not taking his eyes off the area ahead, “that we’ve been beaten to the punch. Now that we’re stationary, I’ll activate the night-vision, long-range camera and see what’s happening.” DW pushed a button on the control panel above him, and a screen that had been recessed into the ceiling of the cab, so as not to effect vision out the front of the vehicle, slid down and activated. The light that it produced was muted, all in tones of green to black, and the range finder running across the top of the screen showed six-hundred metres to... a mech! They could see it clearly now, it was a Raven Battlemech, stalking around the ruins of the burnt out coms station, like a bird looking for a worm. Only thirty-five tons and built for speed and recon, the mech wasn’t that dangerous to other main-line mechs, but to a truck like theirs, and with the speed the Raven could be able to put on – depending on its configuration - it’d be disastrous. Also, it wasn’t putting out an IFF on any allied frequency. Nope, this was an OA mech. This was the enemy.

“Enemy mech, Raven, one-one-eight degrees, six-hundred and fifty metres,” DW read out, his tone clinical.

“And what am I supposed to do with that little gem?” Mondo said, his voice a little higher than usual. “It’s not like we have any weapons that could really hurt that sucker, even if they had the range.”

“Wait, what’s it doing now?” Kurt asked, his eyes glued to the night-vision screen. They all looked, and saw the Raven start poking around near a dark lump, with oddly uneven edges, to the left of the burnt out coms station. A lump that was directly in their path of travel.

“Is that what I think it is?” Mondo said, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I think so,” DW said, “a downed Hellbringer. It’s on our line of travel too... do ya think...” He didn’t finish the sentence because the Raven suddenly turned on its headlight, shining on the ground near the corpse of the downed mech, they could now see detail, and it was clearly a crumpled Hellbringer. The pilot of the Raven played the light over the sand between the downed mech and the burnt out installation, some fifty metres distant. It began to stalk toward the mangled tower and building, as if following something.

“Footprints!” Kurt declared, his eyes going wide. It’s got to be following footprints.” Mondo and Deathwing’s mouths fell open, as the mech stalked closer and closer to the building. Suddenly there was a blight flash on the screen, and the whole visage burned with a bright green glare. Out in the darkness, across six-hundred and fifty metres, an explosive detonated, right at the feet of the Raven. The three men looked away as the bright light momentarily blinded them, and by the time they’d blinked their eyes clear, the Raven was getting up from the ground.

“That sneaky little Mechwarrior!” Deathwing exclaimed. “He, or she, had set up a landmine for any mechs that came snooping. And look,” DW pointed to the right leg of the now slightly limping Raven, “there’s knee actuator damage. That could be useful.”

“Yeah maybe to us, but not him. Look,” Mondo said, and it was his turn to point. On the screen, the Raven was moving over and through the burnt out coms building, kicking up debris and soot, searching for the one that had set the trap for it. The Raven must have scared him out too, because as Deathwing panned the camera and drew out the zoom, they could see the heat signature of a person come scrabbling out the far side of the burned building and go running off through the deep sand, down the side of the embankment on the opposite side to where the mech was kicking around looking for him. Moments later, there was another flare on the camera, as a gout of flame licked out form the Raven, caressing the already burnt girders and remaining walls of the building, and puffing out to nothing as it’s accelerant was spent.

“That bastards got a flamer, and he’s gonna cook that poor Mechwarrior!” Mondo declared, gunning the engine back to life. “One of our Mechwarriors!” Mondo went to slam the RRV into drive, and Deathwing grabbed his arm, catching his gaze and staring into his face.

“And just what are we gonna do about it when we get there?” DW asked his fellow Tor, anger and frustration evident in his tone. “We have a pea shooter on this thing, and that’s it! You’d have us go charging over there just to die?”

“But it was your idea to come over here and rescue any MT or TD downed pilots that we found,” Mondo said, his eyes tearing up. “We have to do something!” DW shook his head, his own eyes dark and moist.

“We will remember him,” Deathwing said, and they turned back to the screen to see the flamer speak again, and the burning shape of a man run out across the sands, to collapse in a heap not dissimilar to his downed mech, a few hundred feet distant.

It was over. The body continued to burn.

To be continued...

“ …Run, run, run.
I’m comin’ t’ get you!
Run, run, run.
I’m runnin’…”

Bill Oddie, ‘Run,’ from ‘The Goodies,’ 1974

Battlezone Epsilon, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
17th February 3070: Early morning

The three young tribesman, two married and the other one due to turn eighteen in two days time, sat shocked by what they had seen. To kill in war to defend your lands, or in their case take your conquered land back, was understandable. To kill when the odds were roughly even, that too was understandable. But to kill an effectively defenceless man - be he a Mechwarrior, Gropo or a Jet Jock - out of his craft, without even a pistol in his hands – it was unthinkable. And to burn him alive, without offer of capture or quarter. It was simply inhumane.

Deathwing was the first to come back to his senses, and to their shared situation. The blood started to drain away from his face. He grabbed Mondo’s arm, shaking it as he tried to form words.

“We’re next,” he managed to get out, and this seemed to break the spell that was holding Mondo captive in shock. “We’ve got to get out of here, quietly as possible, or we’re next.” Mondo nodded, and switching the RRV into low range, gave the engine a little gas and turned the truck slowly, while DW kept an eye on the murderous Raven.

“Ah, I’ve lost him in the darkness,” Kurt said, fiddling with the sensor controls as if he knew how to use them, and maybe he did, but it wasn’t helping. “He moved off to the south, and I think he’s got actuator problems on the left leg.” Mondo had the big rig turned finally, and they started to move off in the direction from whence they’d come. They were moving back across the sandy plain, at about half their possible speed given the vehicle and the terrain. Mondo would have liked to have floored it, but that would have put out too much noise, and increased their radar signature considerably. Still they weren’t out of the woods –figuratively speaking – yet, all it took was one partial radar contact, and...

“Missile launch!” Kurt exclaimed, shattering the tense silence of the RRV’s cab. “Single trace, coming from the badlands to the south west. Brace for...” The huge missile raced overhead, detonating about twenty metres to their left. The fireball that resulted engulfed the RRV, and the combined shockwave and wall of sand that was kicked up threatened to turn the big truck on its side. It suddenly became very hot in the cabin, and as the fire all around them boiled away, the sand wave hit the side of the truck. The big vehicle and it trailer tilted up, but fortunately didn’t reach tipping point thanks to the cone-shaped wheels. With a groan of protesting metal the truck settled back on all its wheels with a thump.

“Jigs up, Mondo,” DW said, shaking his head to try to clear the ringing in his ears. “Floor it! Head directly east.”

“But that’s away from the base!” Mondo complained, but he followed the order anyway.

“I know that,” DW said, working at the controls he had on his side of the cab, “but it’s also away from our attacker.” Mondo nodded, as much as he wished it wasn’t so.

They barrelled along across the sands now, the trailer bouncing and pivoting along behind them. It would have travelled better with some more weight on it, but the whole vehicle would have been slowed, so it was no option, especially in light of their current predicament.

“Kurt,” DW said, “flash the Beagle Active Probe suite and see if we only got the one pursuer.”

“Uh,” Kurt began, trying to understand the information the BAP system was feeding him, “I think we only got the one target perusing us from the badlands ridge.” He paused for a moment, and the Tor brothers relaxed just a little. “No wait,” he said a moment later, “there is some sort of base on the far side of the sandy depression we’re leaving. Looks fairly big. I can see some movement in there... looks like there might be more signatures heading this way from that area.”

“Damn, he squarked already,” Mondo growled. “Kurt, activate the coms jamming device, stop him updating them on our position.”

“We have a coms jamming device?” Kurt asked. “Which control is it?” The young man’s eyes roved back and forth across the mass of controls in front of him. None of them looked particularly jammer-like.

“Orange switches on the right of the screen,” Mondo said, swerving to avoid a sinkhole that had loomed into his night-vision distance suddenly. Kurt flipped some switches and hydraulic noises issued from the roof of the rear part of the cab. Deathwing stood up, opening the hatch above his head as he did. He turned and looked behind them, noticing the sizable sat dish that was unfolding from the storage container built into the roof of the rear cab, and spotted another missile launch from the base of the badlands this time, as the enemy slowly closed the distance on them.

“Incoming,” both DW and Kurt yelled at the same time, as DW grabbed the hatch cover and dragged it down over his head. He was then thrown into the window of his passenger-side door as Mondo jinked madly to the right, not slowing down one iota. The front left tire bit into the sand a he turned sharply, and they lost a lot of momentum in a very short time. The heavy-duty swivel on the towing link was the only thing stopping the trailer from smashing though the back of the big truck.

Deathwing swore, but he was glad a moment later as another of the big missiles slammed into the ground about forty metres in front of them, right about where they would have been if Mondo hadn’t attempted the crazy manoeuvre.

“You want to be careful doing that,” Deathwing said as Mondo floored the big truck again, the twin engines howling through the gears as they got back up to speed, “you might break something in your pretty little truck and then where would we be?”

“Well I thought alive was better than being blown up and dead,” Mondo said, sarcasm colouring his tone, “but that’s just me, I guess.”

“Well thanks,” Deathwing said, and found that he meant it, “nice driving. Let’s just get the hell outa this bowl and over that next rise.”

“You want to skyline?” Mondo said, surprised. “That’ll make us a hella easy target.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt said, breaking into the Tor brother’s exchange, “it’s a short peak on that rise, according to the ground mapping radar on this puppy, so we’ll be outa sight in about five seconds after reaching the top.” Mondo looked at Deathwing – because he couldn’t look at Kurt behind him – turned back to the view out the windshield and nodded once.

“That’ll do me,” he said, and coxed a little more speed out of the already howling engines.

The missile fire was less frequent for the next minute. The Raven – they presumed that’s what it was – firing a big sniper missile, must have been having a rough time getting a lock on them after it came down off the high badlands. But it had to come down, to keep on their track, and the MT boys were determined to do their best to lose the deadly, bird-shaped war machine.

“We’ll hit the summit in twenty seconds,” Mondo said, “Kurt, get ready to activate the IFF jammer.”

“The what now?” Kurt asked. He hadn’t had a chance to read the entire manual.

“The circuit that jams their ability to identify friend and foe. It might be just what we need to make it to the cover of the far side of the hill. Orange button on the right.”

“Ah,” Kurt said, “ready to activate.”

“And if we have an IFF jammer, why haven’t we been using it this whole time?” DW asked, his tone angry.

“Because it puts way to much strain on the power plant,” Mondo replied, “this bus is experimental, remember. I crammed as much good stuff as I could in here, but you can’t just light it all up like a Christmas tree and expect to go fast too.” Mondo sighed. “Ready Kurt?”

“Yep, sure am,” Kurt replied, his finger on the orange switch in question.

“On my mark then, three, two, one, mark.” Kurt activated the IFF Jammer, and the vehicle slowed considerably.

“Damn, I see what you mean,” DW said. Mondo started swerving around the top of the rise, taking longer to cross it, but not making an easy target either.

“Missile launch,” Kurt said, “enemy is only… five hundred metres away now.”

“Cross your fingers,” Mondo growled through clenched teeth as he wound madly on the big steering wheel, rolling the RRV to the left after their big roll to the right. A bright light flared to the right of the driver’s side, as the big missile thundered by, only metres away, it careered on into the night, only detonating once it’s drive fuel had been exhausted.

“Pretty,” DW observed.

“Typical,” Mondo said dryly.

And then they were over the far side of the rise, and heading downhill again towards another small bowl.

“IFF off, Kurt,” Mondo said, “give us our speed back.”

“Aye, Sir,” Kurt said, flicking the appropriate buttons. The RRV picked up appreciable speed.

“What have we got for terrain up ahead?” DW asked next. “Anywhere we can run and hide?”

“Ah yeah, I think there is,” Kurt answered after a moment’s consideration of the radar image, “twenty degrees left of our current course there is a gully, I think it’s an old river bed. It’ll provide us the best cover through the area up ahead, and its winding course will stop any shots coming in from far behind.”

“Excellent, Kurt,” DW said, then turned to Mondo, “see, I told you he’d work out okay.” Mondo took his eyes off the dustbowl in front of him long enough to punch Deathwing in the arm. DW rubbed his arm as Mondo turned the RRV towards the opening in the dirt wall ahead.

“Now we’re out of danger for the moment, you’d better get on the horn and let base know our situation, dumbass,” Mondo said.

“But the jamming,” DW said, looking up from his control bank, “how are we supposed to punch through it? We’re creating it!”

“Easy,” Mondo said, his tone light, “we use a satellite uplink.”

“We got one of those?” DW asked, his mind boggling.

“Of course,” Mondo replied, “what do you think is the main function of that big-arse sat dish on the roof?” DW made a capitulation noise.

“But won’t the enemy be able to pick us up from the signal?” DW asked next.

“Only if they intersect the tight-beam, and what would it matter, they know where we are anyway,” Mondo growled. Time was pressing. DW shrugged.

“Okay, let me see what I can get here,” DW said, working the computer terminal at the shotgun seat as the RRV ploughed on across the sand. He activated a tracking algorithm which locked onto the MT flagship, MTS Insanity within a few seconds, and then returned the signal to the ground base, nearly two-hundred kilometres away.

“Experimental Remote Retrieval Vehicle to Minnesota Tribe LZ Base, come in LZ base,” DW began when the connection was established.

“This is MT LZ Base,” a female voice came over the coms speakers suddenly, so clear that the person on the other end of the connection could have been in the back of the cab with them. “Who am I speaking with?”

“This is Lieutenant Junior Grade Deathwing Tor,” DW said, speaking quickly in case the connection dropped out prematurely. “I have Lieutenant Junior Grade Armondo Tor, and Recruit Kurt Jorgensen with me. We are currently travelling east across the far edge of battle zone Epsilon, grid reference Hotel Four. We are under fire from a Sniper Missile Raven, and are in full retreat as we only have a single heavy machinegun with which to reply.” DW stopped momentarily to frame his next sentence.

“Here, give me that,” the Tribesman in the RRV cab heard in the background of the signal, the voice well known to them. DW swallowed hard as there was sounds of movement around the mic on the other end of the line, and then a gruff, gravelly voice filled the cab.

“DW, is that you?” KB’s voice asked. He sounded a little sleepy, and a lot unimpressed. “Just what the hell are you doing off base, in the middle of the night, in an experimental vehicle, without permission?” DW glanced at Mondo, but Mondo was carefully not looking at the Tor that had got him in trouble... again!

“KB! It’s good to hear your voice. We left base to test this vehicle, the RRV” DW began, “and then I convinced Mondo and Kurt here to go looking for Arizona. After all, that’s what this vehicle is designed for. It’s the perfect test.”

“And now you’re going to get your asses blown off by a Raven,” KB said, more a statement than a question.

“Raven reaching the top of the rise,” Kurt announced, and Mondo started his jinking movements again.

“We’ll, were working on avoiding that,” DW said sheepishly.

“Well I can’t scramble any forces to your area until dawn,” KB said, the slightest hint of regret in his voice. “It’s a brave but dumb thing you’ve done, Deathwing. And you’ve dragged two other Tribesmen into it with you.”

“Yes, I know,” DW said, “but we are running for a dried river bed for cover, and we were successful; we found Arizona, and we’ve stabilised his injuries. He’s alive!”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and DW imagined that KB couldn’t decide if he was pleased or annoyed by the news.

“Great,” KB said at last, frustration and barely contained anger in his tone, “so we’ll put that on your tombstone. I’ll send a real SRT to find your bodies if we ever take that bloody region back.” Then his voice softened appreciatively. “Good luck, Tribesmen. I hope you make it out alive.” DW sighed.

“Thank you, Sir, and I’m sorry. Oh, one other thing; we witnessed the enemy Raven chase down and kill an allied, downed mech pilot. The pilot was defenceless, and now he, or she, is dead." DW's voice was gravelly with emotion. The few seconds of silence on the other end of the line spoke volumes.

"We've had other scattered reports of such acts," KB replied. "Do you have a recording of the incident?"

"Yes, but it's all long distance and light enhanced. I doubt it'd stand up in any court," DW replied.

"Well we'll look into it from our end. You keep busy staying alive, and I hope to see you all again, and in one piece," KB concluded.

"Roger that, Sir. DW out.” Deathwing finished, and cut the connection.

“Well that was less than useful,” Mondo said, as they approached the entrance to the dry river bed, “we’re on our own.”

“Not entirely,” Kurt commented from the radar station, “missile launch.” DW decided he was really getting sick of hearing that. Mondo went to swerve, but as they were entering the narrow course cut through the rock that made up this part of the desert floor, all he could do was put on a burst of speed, hoping to beat the missile to the opening. The weapon closed at ridiculous speed, but still just lost the race to the opening. The RRV passed through first, and the missile impacted on the side of the opening, its high explosive warhead throwing up huge chunks of rock and a great storm of smaller debris. It shook the RRV violently, and hammered it with a cascade of rocks that mostly bounced off the back of the main body. More of a problem was the several small boulders that landed on the trailer that was bouncing along in the RRV’s wake. This extra weight slowed the vehicle, but made handling slightly better in the twists and turns of the river course.

“Phew, that was just a little too close,” DW said, shaking his head again after the cacophony of sound that had assaulted his ears finally faded away. “We gotta stop doing that.”

“I’d love to,” Mondo said, his voice tense, “but right now I’m driving a huge, unwieldy recovery vehicle through a narrow, winding river course cut through rather solid rock, in the dark and at high speed. I could really use some help.”

“What you need?” DW asked immediately.

“Kurt, pipe the forward-looking radar to DW’s station. Brother Tor, you are going to be my co-driver for this nightmare rally.” And so it was that Deathwing watched the forward radar, and gave Mondo directions on the approaching turns, and by working closely together, they made their way through the winding course of the old river bed, perhaps even gaining some ground on the Raven pursuing them down the narrow course, either due to its slightly damaged knee actuator, or the terrain, or both. After several minutes Kurt lost the Raven off scan, and it looked like they might just get away.

Then, the river bed being displayed on the look-ahead radar ran out.

“Guys, what’s going on here?” DW asked, unable to see where they had to go next. “I’ve run out of river course.” Kurt examined the plot as they rushed along to where the radar trace ended, not slowing in case their pursuer popped up suddenly with another ‘big gift.’ Then it hit him... ’the Reaga Drift is out this way, perhaps this river used to flow into...’

“STOP!!!” Kurt cried, and Mondo instinctively slammed both his feet on the break pedal. The RRV’s tires locked up, and it rattled and vibrated across the rubble strewn river floor, shooting out from the tight river course and onto what amounted to a ledge, above a deep drop into a much larger canyon.

“Ohhh shiiii...” the three Tribesman cried, as the RRV slowed, the trailer jack-knifing into the back of the man body, and the front wheels of the big truck ran perilously close to the edge of the long drop. There was a crunching noise as the underside of the RRV bit into the rock as the front wheels went over the edge, and this friction was just enough to stop the big rig before it tumbled to the bottom of the chasm. The horrible rattle of the emergency breaking manoeuvre echoed off the walls of the chasm and died away, and the rattle of rock fragments clattering down the cliff wall ceased. The cloud of dust thrown up by the accident floated westward on the breeze running in from the rift valley beyond, and began to float into the dry river course behind them.

Kurt was the first to shake himself back to action when an intermittent contact flashed on his radar screen, moving along the river course behind them at considerable speed for the tight confines of the path.

“That Raven is bearing down on us, Sirs,” Kurt said, and the Tor brothers shook themselves awake, “I estimate we have less than thirty seconds before he gets here.”

“Aw she-it,” Mondo said, wiping his brow with his arm as he turned the engines over again, put the RRV into reverse and delicately tried to get the front wheels back underneath them. DW shook himself, the opened the top hatch, and checked the heavy machine gun pintel mount on the roof of the cab. He was jerked around as the truck inched backwards, until the front tires were resting against the –thankfully solid – cliff edge.

“Hang on,” Mondo said, and gunned the engines. The big truck hauled itself back onto all its wheels, and once the task was complete, DW discovered they were turned sideways across the precipice.

“What’ll we do now?” Kurt asked, his mind blank, totally blown away by the tension of the last few minutes.

“I...” DW said through the hatch, and then it struck him. “I’ve got an idea. Mondo, get us straightened up, parallel to the cliff edge. Kurt, shut down the radar when the Raven reaches three hundred metres, and activate the IFF.”

“What are you planning,” Mondo said, not sure he wanted to be part of yet another one of Deathwing’s crazy schemes.

“Oh, maybe just saving our asses,” DW said, and cocked the heavy machinegun.

Thirty seconds later they were in position and ready, although Mondo and Kurt didn’t exactly know what it was they were going to do. There was no time to explain.

“Be ready to gun it,” DW told Mondo, “in reverse,” he added. Mondo put the RRV into reverse gear and poised his foot above the gas pedal. DW prayed that with the ravine walls, the dust cloud floating languidly up the river bed a bit, and the fact that the truck wasn’t a mech might give them just enough cover for this to work. If it didn’t... well it was a rock and a hard place anyway.

DW watched, his pulse racing, his hands tensed around the handles of the big machine gun. His finger was over the firing stud. It would be any second now.

The Raven carved through the dust cloud not thirty metres away; the night, the dust, the IFF and the canyon all doing their jobs to hide them from the mech’s headlong pursuit. The pilot must have seen them almost immediately, and tried to slam on the brakes, if slowing a mechs running speed could even be called that. This reduction in the leg speed was what DW had been banking on, and he opened fire – right at the damaged knee actuator that the now dead Mech pilot had caused with his home-made mine.

Time seemed to shift into slow motion. DW saw the tracer rounds from the big machinegun reaching out, tracing across the wall of the river opening and intersecting with the still-sparking knee joint. DW tracked the damaged component, willing enough rounds to hit it to finish the job. Then the Raven pilot must have seen the cliff. He yanked his control stick hard to the right, trying to get the mech, which clearly wasn’t going to stop in time, to turn a sharp corner and not tumble over the precipice. This action was the last straw for the damaged knee joint, and it completely failed, the lower half of the ‘chicken leg’ coming away from the mech.

“Full reverse, now!” DW screamed over the chatter of the machinegun, but Mondo had already reacted, and the RRV moved ponderously back, out of the line of travel of the now stumbling Raven.

The main body of the mech slammed into the ground only ten metres from the cliff and bounced, clearing the edge and sailing gracefully away and down, trailing smoke and dust, followed by a few loose stones and pieces of rock. At the same time, the lower leg section that had come loose hit the ground at an odd angle, bit in and flung back up again, moving in the opposite direction, straight toward DW sticking out the top of the RRV. The Tor knight, his eyes wide, let go of the machine gun handles and dropped straight down back into the cabin, not even having time to pull the hatch closed behind him this time. The leg section clipped the corner of the armoured cab just above Mondo’s head with a screech of protesting metal, bounced up and over the RRV and sailed off down into the chasm trailing metal debris in its wake.

The three Tribesman sat in silence after Mondo had slammed on the brakes again and turned off the RRV’s engines. They all took deep breaths and looked at each other for a few moments, processing the fact that they were all still alive, and mostly in one piece. Mondo opened the drivers-side door an leapt out, taking the short step to the cliff edge and peering over.

“Don’t see any sign of an escape pod,” he began, then stopped as an intense flash of light made him look away to preserve his night vision, and a far off ‘crump’ echoed off the valley walls. “And there goes the fusion core,” Mondo added. “Nothing left now.”

“Good,” DW said through clenched teeth. “Got what he deserved. The burned MT pilot is avenged.” DW didn’t like killing… deliberately killing other people, but in self defence, it was often necessary, and in this case… richly deserved. He nodded, and closed his eyes for a moment.

As Mondo climbed back into the cab, DW opend his eyes and looked down at the medical readouts, his eyebrows suddenly shooting up.

“I’d better go check on our patient,” he said, and climbed through the back of the cab into the medical area. “Lucky we strapped him down,” DW said through the gap after a moment. He woulda been like a bean in a tin can with a wild ride like that otherwise.”

Kurt had been silent since the final close call with the Raven, and he looked around now, wiping both his hands across his face. He took a deep breath, and started to laugh. Mondo and DW looked at him askance for a few moments, and then they too had to laugh, the craziness of their narrow escape not lost on them.

“I don’t think we should be laughing too hard,” Mondo said, checking his readouts. “We’ve probably got a bunch of mechs between us and our base, it’s well past time for us to have left to get back to the base before dawn, enemy will probably be drawn here by the fusion core blast, and...” he paused for a moment, “we’ve lost the sat array.”

“What?” DW said, climbing out the big medical bay door to check the roof. Sure enough, the whole sat dish was torn off, gone... missing. “Must have been hit by the Raven’s leg,” he said as he climbed back into the shotgun seat. “Better it than me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Mondo said. “Without it, we can’t sneak back though the enemy mechs that are probably crawling all over the dustbowls back there, and we can’t radio for help over anything but a short distance. And,” he paused for effect, “it’s a bloody long way back via the scenic route.” He gestured towards the rift valley below.

“Well we’d better get about it,” DW said, “or the reason we’re all here, one Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona of the House Jurai, wouldn’t survive the trip back to be rescued. And no one wants that.”

They all sighed, and made to find a path down to the valley floor.

To be continued...

Post IX

“…A lost battle is a battle one thinks one has lost…”

Ferdinand Foch, “Principles de Guerre,” 1851 - 1929

Battlezone Alpha-Three, High Solomish Desert, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
17th February 3070: Morning

Killer Bee deVega’s Cyclops battlemech stood on a low rise, overlooking the seemingly endless, crushed-glass wastes of this part of the Solomish desert. The assault class IS mech’s tall, linebacker shape, with the boxy head sporting one large, red, sensor node shimmered in the morning glare of this hellish stretch of the desert belt of The Stepps. To his right, a clan Demos stood, a squat shape with two huge tri-barrel arms, and to big missile pods mounted over the main fuselage. The pilot, Nailor Grey, overall commander of the invasion himself, surveyed the same scene that KB did. A large force of enemy mechs were out there somewhere, among the glass dunes and the volcanic cones, standing between Nailor’s invasion force and the OA forward base.

"Deep Strike Lead to Deep Strike Ops, come in," KB spoke into his neuro-helmet mic after keying the Ops channel.

"Deep Strike Ops reads, go ahead," Christi's voice came back moments later.

"State of 'go condition' for Deep Strike?" KB asked.

"Battlezone operations are fully underway in all other engagement theatres," Christi announced. "Contact has been made, and all backup forces appear to have been mobilised away from your target. Only the inner base defence and the force hunting your group are left. Battlezone Alpha-Three is a wide open as it is going to get."

"That's what I wanted to hear, Ops," KB said, his tone lighter. "Deep Strike Lead announces Deep Strike Force is Go Op, I repeat GO Op."

"Roger that, Deep Strike Lead," Christi said. "Good luck and good hunting."

"Thank you, Deep Strike Lead out." KB cut the connection. "We're on," he told Nailor across command coms a moment later, and after receiving acknowledgement from Nailor and the other lance leaders, then went back to considering the situation they were facing.

The transport units had pushed hard through the dark of the previous night to get the mechs and their support vehicles up to this area before dawn, and the Mechwarriors had been flown in as the Stepps system star began to peak over the horizon. Now that day star was rising high in the sky as Deep Strike force pushed on through this hell pit that pilots were starting to call the Solar Desert, because of the extra glare and heat that was reflected up from the glass pebbles that crunched under the mech’s feet with every step. All that heat made long range ballistic cannon and low heat missiles the weapons of choice, and likewise, ablative armour and LAMS had been fitted to the two lances of mechs under KB’s direct command in expectation of the same weapon choices on the enemy mechs.

KB thought about the pilots he had in this attack group. Good pilots all they were, but he’d wanted Deathwing in on this one, and the young lad’s AWOL trip to save Ari... well it would have been far worse if they hadn’t found him, but now they’d been out of contact for six hours, and KB was fearing the worst. Teralitha had regained consciousness, and on hearing his Family Patriarch was injured and being pursued by enemy mechs, demanded to be put in charge of the next push to take battle zone Epsilon back from OA. He would not be swayed, by the doctors nor command, and the stubborn Tokomi was out there now, head still bandaged, at the head of a column of fresh mechs in another Atlas, fighting to crush OA in that region and recover Arizona and the Tor boys, if he could. KB would have liked Rhino to have arrived before this battle; the head of the Tor Knighthood House, Rhino was an expert in the use of mech mounted artillery, especially the Long Tom artillery piece, and Rhino’s skill could have been put to good use in this situation.

“I could really use Rhino here right now to scare me up some enemy,” KB said, more to himself than to anyone else. However, his command coms were open, so it was shared with the lead elements of his lances.

“Well I told ya I could have mounted one on a Thunderbolt and given them some stick for ya,” Rogue said, cutting into KB’s thoughts from his position at the head of a mixed lance flanking far out to the east.

“Yes but I need you out there, making for their base,” KB said, glad these were encrypted coms. “Remember the plan; we engage them here, then you hit the defenders at their base. Punch through and destroy their command centre and coms buildings if they have such, and disable any dropships before they can escape. If this all goes to plan, and Teralitha can pull off a win in Epsilon, we’ll have the southern half of the desert all but sown up, and we can start pushing them back toward the steppes themselves.”

“Oh yeah, no worries, Sir” Rogue said, “and would you like me to bring you a salad back with me while I’m at it?” KB knew he was asking a lot of the Mandaka Knight, so he let the insubordination slide.

“I know it’s a big ask,” KB said, his tone understanding, “so just do what you can, and then pull back if you start taking heavy losses. We don’t want to thrash out all our mechs for little gain, and I’ll move my lances up to assist if we get though dealing with the enemy here.”

“Understood,” Rogue said, his tone once again serious.

“Good luck, good hunting,” KB said.

“Truth and honour,” Rogue replied, and bowed out of the coms circuit.

KB rubbed his chin, and his mech took what looked like an impatient step forward. It was going to be a close thing, this battle, he considered. More because of the weapon types he was forced to use, and their limited ammo, than anything else. If they came up against a far more appreciable force than expected... he just couldn’t know until Happy found them, and by then it might be too late.

“Happy deVega, brother Knight, got anything out there in all that heat and glass?” KB asked across the lance coms. There was a crackle of digital noise, and KB thought for a moment that Happy might have been digitally jammed from the base off to the north east. Then a weak signal broke through.

“This is Happy to Deep Strike Lead, come in,” Happy’s far-away sounding voice replied.

“Go ahead Deep Strike Scout,” KB said, using the operation term for Happy’s role.

“Seems kinda quiet, if hot and bright out here,” Happy said, as he moved his Shadowcat up onto a shoulder next to a smoking volcanic chimney. “No contacts all along the ‘four’ row. I am in alpha-four now, moving up to the two row and will head east.”

“Roger that, Deep Strike Scout,” KB said. “Just be careful around Echo-Golf one-two. That’s the reported location of the enemy forward base. They’ll have plenty of fixed emplacements and probably close support mechs up that way.”

“Heh,” Happy said as he pushed his throttle forward triggered his jump jets. “If I get all the way over there without contact, I might just join up with Rogue and go harass the base!”

“Well be careful,” KB suggested, “they’ve gotta be out there someplace.”

“Will do,” Happy said, Deep Strike Scout...” He was going to say out, but Happy suddenly became too busy swearing and turning his centre torso away from light gauss and uac2 fire that poured in on him from out of the haze down in a gully near a lava flow. Luckily, most it went wide of his small, jumping form at long range.

“What, what is it?” KB demanded, concerned that his scout was down and he’d not get any more reports on the enemy, not to mention he didn’t want to lose – or even misplace – any more pilots after recent losses.

“S’okay,” Happy replied moments later, a strain in his tone that wasn’t there in his last report. “Their main body is down in a depression in Beta three, surprised me. I wouldn’t have expected them to go down there with the lava flow and all, but there they are. Didn’t see any chassis, just took some fire from light gauss and uac2s. I’m going to circle around as see if I can’t get a look-see at ‘em.”

“Roger that, Happy,” KB said, flicking some controls on his dash and pushing his throttle forward. “And remember...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t get killed,” Happy finished for him. “Happy out.” The line cleared.

“Deep Strike Force, move out, north by north west, set your speed to forty-five kph,” KB told his remaining Mechwarriors, and the group of seven mechs, ranging from medium to assault chassis, moved to follow the command.

Several minutes later, KB had his attack group set up behind a rise, near the co-ordinates that Happy had given him in the last transmission.

“Buck, take your fast response lance clockwise around this hill. Keep low. My lance will step up on this low ridge, with the volcanic cone behind us so we don’t skyline, and see if we can’t lay down some fire on the enemy,” KB said, outline the plan as it stood.

“Roger that,” Buck said over the coms channel, and his little Hellspawn, which he favoured so much, spun around and tripped off down the glass dune and around the far side of the ridge. Hellfire’s Nemesis, looking like an aircraft with legs, Rebekka’s Maddog, and Eon’s Avatar headed off in his wake. That left KB’s Cyclops, Nailor’s Demos, and Farslayer’s Cyclops to mount the rise and drops some fire on any enemy mechs that might show their heads.

Half way up the slope to the top of the ridge, their pace slow due to the extreme tonnage they were driving, a radar trace popped up on KB and Farslayer’s BAP suites. Also equipped with ECM, Cyclops were a favourite command mech in the assault class.

“Got something,” KB and Far said almost in unison, and as the heavy hitters reached the top of the grade, they looked out across an expanse of glassy plain to the slowly flowing volcanic river in the gully that Happy described, some nine-hundred metres away.

“Where’d he go?” Nailor asked, scanning the area but finding nothing mech-like.

“Dropped off the radar just as we crested,” Far said, “went outside BAP range for an ECM’d mech, I’d say. Was moving pretty fast. I’d expect it’d be a Scat or other ECM’d scout.”

“Ah sh*t,” KB said, his cockpit filled with beeping as he swung the centre torso of his ponderous mech away from their view direction and toward the hill to his right, “missile launch, bearing 170, on the side of that volcanic cone.” Two volleys of LRM’s arced across the gap between the cover nine-hundred metres away, and the assault mech's position. Some hit the hill that KB had turned towards, but slightly less than half pattered across the Cyclops’ left arm and torso.

Nailor and Farslayer replied, sending a steady stream of lbxac2, rac2 and missile fire at the offending enemy mech. At the extreme range, and with cover close, only a few of the ballistic rounds hit the target, the missiles slammed into the side of the volcanic cone, detonating on impact.

“Did you hit it? What was it?” KB asked as he rejoined his fellows.

“I think it was a Scat,” Nailor said. “It sure moved like one, likely it's their scout. So if the main bodies’ moved on, where...”

A ragged voice broke in across the coms channel. “This is Happy, I’ve circled round and have the main body. They are north west of you, Delta Three. I count four assaults, three heavies.” Over the coms the rest of Deep Strike could hear a missile warning alarm, and the sound of shells landing around, and hitting the armour of a mech. “I’ve got their attention," Happy announced a moment later, "but watch out Buck. Heavy metal coming your way.”

“Oh hell,” Buck’s voice came back over the channel moments later. “He’s not kidding. Put fire on that IS Marauder II if you can find it, otherwise targets of opertun... ow ow ow!” The sounds of rapid fire autocannon rounds drowned out whatever else Buck might have said.

“Hrm, they must out-ton us a bit,” Nailor commented, “but we have the advantage of being Tribesmen!” KB chuckled, but his heart wasn't really in it.

“I’ll be sure to mention that to them. Okay Heavy Hitters, let’s get around this cone to our east and give Fast Attack a hand with...” KB’s order was interrupted by multiple sources of ballistics’ fire coming in from the west! RAC2 and UAC2 rounds splattered around the three assaults, and drew tracks across the arms of Far’s Cyclops and Nailor’s Demos.

“Okay, they out-ton us by a lot,” Nailor said, turning and laying into a pair of Avatars that were foolishly standing on the top of a hill. Far joined him moments later, slamming multiple light gauss slugs into the right torso of a Thanatos that had crested the ridge, only to discover he was targeted by a mech sporting the same light gauss rifles he carried.

“Far, go help the other lance, they could use your sensors too I’d bet,” KB said, firing RAC2’s and missiles down range as the four heavy mechs that had surprised them on their left flank backed away. “Rogue, you there?” KB said after flipping channels.

“Sure am, Bossman, is it time?” Rogue asked, his tone eager.

“You have a go, hit them with everything you’ve got,” KB said, striding his Cyclops forward after the retreating heavies.

“Count on it,” Rouge said, and led his lance forward, down off a rise and toward the enemy base, seven hundred metres away and around a volcanic plume.

Minutes can seem like hours in the frenetic, sensorial overload of a ‘mech battle. Only ninety seconds had actually passed, but to KB deVega, it had seemed like hours. His Cyclops was down a RAC when his left arm had been blown off by a well placed alpha of gauss and lasers from an Argus XMT. The mech had then attempted to gain cover, a cloud of flushed coolant in its wake, but it was slowed by the massive heat build-up, and KB had replied by hammering it with the two RAC2’s and missiles he had left. Then Nailor’s seven lbxac2’s had joined the party, slamming into the same right torso that KB had been working on. Smoke and flame belched from the mech, and the chassis popped and crackled from internal ammo explosions. With a heaving sigh of tortured metal, the Argus Battlemech toppled over, splaying out flat on the ground to move no more.

“Splash one Argus,” KB said across the Deep Strike coms channel. “How are things coming down there, Buck?”

“We’re pinned down, Sir,” Bucks voice came back, laced with an edge of concern, and the furrows on KB’s already troubled brow deepened. “I’ve taken heavy damage, but am still mobile. All the rest of my lace has taken moderate damage, except for Eon, who’s down to one RAC2 after having half his mech shot away when the enemy flanked us suddenly.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Eon’s voice followed up.

“Can’t be helped,” said KB, moving up fast with Nailor to a better vantage point as the enemy on their sector backed away.

“Keep them busy, but don’t get to shot up,” KB ordered, “we are facing three heavies, one of which, a Thanatos, has a smoking leg and is falling behind. It looks like they are manoeuvring to join up with the mechs facing you, so we’ll move that way too and hopefully give you some support in a minute or two.”

“Splash one enemy Marauder,” Hellfire said languidly over the coms, as from the area where Buck’s lance were fighting an escape pod rocketed skywards. “That’ll teach him to stick his nose up.” Hellfire moved quickly off the side of the volcanic cone as return fire slammed into the spot he’d fired from moments earlier.

“Good work,” KB said, then fired his RAC2’s at the retreating form of an Avatar. The enemy mech turned towards cover, returning RAC2 fire as it went. KB added a volley of missiles to the mix, and then Nailor arrived to add his full support to the engagement. The enemy Avatar made cover, however it was smoking from the right arm, and had many pockmarks in the armour across its whole torso. “Happy,” KB said into his mic, “what’s your situation?”

“I’m dancing with their scout,” Happy said, his voice hard with concentration, “and the bastard’s good. He keeps evading my missiles, but he has LRM’s and a gauss, and that gauss is causing me no end of trouble.”

“Hrm,” KB said, trying to advise while facing his own trial of combat. “Well work your way back toward the main group, if you can. Hopefully they can support you.”

“Yes Sir, I will try.” The sound of gauss rifle fire howled across the coms. “Damnit, Happy out.”

KB and Nailor continued cautious pursuit of the OA heavies. The OA mechs had the advantage of speed, so they had time to set up in cover by the time the MT assaults cleared obstacles. Nailor’s Demos stepped around a corner first, just as KB went to warn him about three radar traces that had just popped up on his scope. The Demos was rocked back by the weight of gauss slugs and RAC fire that was coming in on it, the onboard computer complaining repeatedly about gyro load. Nailor reacted quickly, spinning the mech right and away, spreading as much of the damage across torso, arm and back armour. The big clan assault looked battered, but was yet to be fully holed.

KB stepped up in the Cyclops and hammered the enemy Thanatos again, watching as it spun and ran, taking a fully volley of LRM’s to the back, its torso’s smoking from several rents in the armour.

“KB, pull into cover and go passive; let them wonder where we are,” Nailor suggested, “then we’ll step out and finish that Thanie, and maybe get an Avatar too for our troubles.”

“You’re on,” KB said, then flipping channels; “Rogue, situation update.”

“Got some hefty defence at the base,” Rogue replied. Sounds of heavy combat were coming though the coms behind Rogue’s reply. “Lance of mechs, assault, two heavies and a medium I think. We’re giving better than they are, but ammo will be our biggest problem. Once we can’t keep them pinned, they’ll come out and slap us silly.”

“Roger that, Rogue,” KB replied, “conserve your ammo, make the shots count and keep me updated.”

“Yeehaaa!” a bellow broke over the coms. “Take that ya dirty Outworlder.”

“Nasty has just slammed the defending Hunchback,” Rogue said in way of explanation, and KB smiled to himself. “It’s disabled and lying face down on the tarmac of the base.”

“Uh, keep up the good work,” KB said, “command out.”

“You ready, Killer?” Nailor asked, set just below the ridge of a hill which they’d been hiding behind during the conversation.

“Oh yeah, let me go first,” KB replied. “They won’t see me so easy down lower.”

de Vega's Cyclops came round the hill, immediately picking up the slowly approaching OA heavies on reactivated radar. Picking the still slightly smoking Thanatos back and left of the twin Avatars, KB let fly with as long a stream of RAC fire as he dared without locking them up. The Avatar’s replied with RAC fire of their own, and KB was forced to dodge after his missiles were away. He broke for cover, spreading the incoming damage, but only the Avatars fired back. The Thanatos pilot had too much to worry about at that point to fight back, his mech belching smoke and flame from the right arm and left torso. Suddenly more fire was pouring into the savaged mech as Nailor’s Demos opened up on it, and, as expected, an escape pod was rocketing skywards within seconds.

The abandoned chassis, aflame and rocked by even more fire, sagged backwards and fell, its chest armour rented, its core containment fractured. Unaware of the danger building behind them, the OA Avatar’s dropped back past the shattered Thanie, being driven off by steady streams of fire from Nailor. They were nearly out of the blast radius before battle damage became too much for the fusion reactor of the stricken Thanie. The core detonated, the blinding white fireball expanding across the glassy dunes, splashing the retreating OA Avatar’s with nuclear fire.

“Woh, we got a firecracker Thanny here,” Nailor said, lifting an arm to shield his eyes as the nuclear flash expanded in front of his retreating targets. “And it’s gone and shut down the retreating Avatars. What a shame!” Nailor and KB linked up at the bottom of the hill, and moved out of cover to close on the Avatars before they cooled sufficiently to restart.

“Let’s move up and finish these two,” KB said, his blood up, “and then we’ll go help the main body. We should have this lot finished off in no time.” Nailor gave an affirmative and they moved forward at the best stately assault pace they could manage. Moments later they were nearly in a good firing position to finish off the shutdown Avatars, across the red, glowing hole where the Thanatos had met its thermonuclear end, when a mass of RAC2 and PPC fire came lancing in from the left. KB swore, dragging his mechs good arm around to take the fire, while Nailor also went defensive, swerving as they both made for the nearest cover from the east.

“Enemy Cyclops and Marauder II MAD-4S on the ridge, nine hundred metres east,” Nailor said, as his left tri-barrel arm took a PPC blast and a hail of RAC2 fire. The rotation joint, long suffering from enemy fire, gave out, and the weight of the massive gun cluster tore it away from the body of the mech. Sparks flew an ammo littered the shiny sand as the Demos stumbled sideways as a result of the change in its equilibrium, before the superior clan gyro compensated and the mech staggered into cover.

“Damn, there goes a third of my armament,” Nailor complained. “How bad are you shot up, KB?”

“Right leg armour shredded, left arm gone, missile launcher inoperative. Torso’s in varying states of sanded off,” KB said. “I don’t think she’s up for battle against two fresh assaults. You?”

“If they are fresh, no way,” Nailor agreed, “frontal assault is out. Guess we try to be sneaky.”

“Against two assaults and two heavies?” KB sounded incredulous, “I’m good, but I’m not crazy. Let’s sneak back to the main body, and see if we can’t get a lucky shot or two in on the way.” They’d just started moving when a cry erupted over coms.

“Ejecting!” came Eon’s voice as an escape pod flew off into the southern sky, it’s unusual trajectory suggesting it was launched while the mech was less than vertical.

“Eon,” Buck said, “what the hell happened?”

“Was taking shots of opportunity, keeping my head down as ordered, and all-of-a-sudden a radar signature jumped up about six-hundred metres to the east,” Eon said, his tone strained due to the g-forces he was pulling in the escape pod. “Before I could react, incoming missile beeps, and my mech went down with a shattered arm and torso. I was still functional, so I set to getting the mech to its feet, when more missile warning beeps filled the cockpit, and I took discretion as that next lot would have blown me into the middle of next week. Sorry.”

“Can’t be helped,” Buck said, “I... oh shi...” Beeps could be heard through Buck’s mic as whatever had happened to Eon’s Avatar now turned it’s attentions to Buck’s Hellspawn. Thunderous booms fed back through the coms moments later, and then silence.

“Buck,” KB asked, “you still with us? Buck?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Just,” Bucks drawl, sounding a little groggy, returned. “Took one hell of a hit, was running away at the time. Knocked down and slid behind a hill. From what I saw, it was a mass of straight flying missiles, my bet would be MRM’s. I’m next to useless now though, lost my sniper missile launcher.”

“Damn,” KB said, moving his Cyclops carefully between two ridges. “Well see if you can’t play spotter for whatever did that, and...” Demented laughter filled the coms channel.

“Happy?” Nailor asked experimentally.

“Yes SIR!” Happy said, his tone ecstatic. “Splash one Scat scout. Bastard. Can’t dodge my missiles when I fire them from out of the top of a volcanic cone, and then jump on your sneaky head, can ya?”

“What’s your condition?” KB asked.

“Oh shot up all over, lost my empty arm, legs rather mangled but still moving, for now. Ammo down to thirty-percent. But I’m still here, and he’s outa here.” More chuckling followed.

“Okay, move back toward our main body, and try to find the enemy MRM mech that’s doing all the damage from the west,” KB said.

“Stalker,” Hellfire announced. “Mech to the west is a Stalker, MRM boat. I’ve slugged him in the right leg, seems a little soft there, his return fire hit the ridge I just landed behind. Kinda glad it did, was looking bad there for a second.”

“Far, what have you been up to?” KB asked next. “Can you put some fire on that Stalker?”

“Me?” Far asked, “I’ve just been trading shots with a Zeus and a Marauder. Tricky buggers too. I’d say they are slightly worse off than I am damage wise, but ammo will be a problem sooner rather than later.”

“Roger that,” KB said, knowing that ammo had to be a problem with ballistic-based mechs in extended engagements. “Keep up the good work, we’re nearly...” movement to KB’s left caught his eye. “Nailor, nine o’clock relative, around the tip of the ridge, hit it with everything you got left!”

Both KB and Nailor’s mechs turned, and laid down RAC2 and LBXAC2 fire on the side of the MAD-4s. Ballistic rounds hammered into the mechs heavy right arm, and before it could adjust to return fire, the ammo in that arm caught, and detonated, taking off the arm, but causing little other damage. The sudden adjustment of weight overwhelmed the big mech’s gyro, and it tumbled gracelessly to its left, onto the glassy sands.

“Finish it, finish it,” KB shouted, but his two remaining RAC2’s locked up, and then the Avatars and Cyclops stepped to the top of the ridge, and fire began to rain down on KB and Nailor’s position. The two MT commanders were forced to retreat to cover under the withering fire, despite putting some shots into the mechs that drove them off. The price, as always, was a little more of the all important armour, and the ever scarcer ammo.

“Rogue, what’s your status?” KB asked across the command channel moments later.

“Not as good as I’d like,” Rogue replied. We’re all rather shot up, and Zy’s Maddog is face down in the sand after a lucky shot from a defending Templar destroyed his gyro. He ejected safely, but I really could use his firepower now.” There was a moment of heavy breathing over the coms, which all listening knew meant Rogue was fighting hard; probably for his life. “Right, that’s their Nemesis down. So it’s three of us versus two of them currently. Their coms unit is down, so now they can’t call for reinforcements, and dropship charge units are destroyed so what they got left isn’t going anywhere in a hurry. We are gonna draw the last two defenders out and deal with them, the hopefully mop up the base and take it over. What’s the deal on your end?”

“Not going as well as I’d like. We are outtonned, outgunned, short on ammo and getting shorter on mechs. You can’t spare anyone to help here, I take it?” KB asked, shaking his head as he did so.

“Well I could probably spare Lego, but he’s in the Scat, so it’ll be a long day before he’ll knock any of those assaults down for ya,” Rogue said, his goading tone evident.

“Well I could probably take them all out, if my ammo held up,” Lego retorted, his English accent slipping into the conversation, “but I suspect KB wants it done before all his other mechs are dead.”

“Yes, actually,” KB said, as he and Nailor formed up with the main group. "This is KB to Deep Strike Ops," KB said after switching to the Ops channel. "Do we have any forces available and local to battlezone Alpha-Three to support. Deep Strike Force is facing heavy resistance, and anything would help at this point."

"Deep Strike Ops to Lead," Christi's voice came back a moment later, laced with static. "There are no unassigned ground forces currently available and local to your theatre. Tracked armour has been destroyed in Beta-Two, and only two mechs remain to hold that combat zone. Aerospace assets are engaged driving off conventional fighters and dropships that were attempting their own deep strike. I'm sorry Sir, there is nothing that I know of that I could send your way that would get there in time." Christi sounded deeply frustrated that she couldn't do anything to help.

"That's okay, Christi," KB said, breaking protocol to use the lieutenant's name. "We'll just have to make it through..." 'Somehow,' KB added to himself. "Deep Strike out."

KB shut off the Ops coms and sighed. His choices were to either pull back and let OA reinforce this position, or push on and risk the total destruction of his forces. de Vega could have really used some help falling from the sky at that point, but how likely was that?

To be continued...

Post X

[rpOFF]A cliffhanger, just for you, Tiny.[rpON]

“…It's hard to lead a cavalry charge if you think you look funny on a horse…”

Adlai E. Stevenson, 1835 - 1914

High above the Solomish Desert, hot dropping on Battlezone Alpha Three, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
17th February 3070: Late Morning

Jurai Maxtac adjusted his combat gloves, then gripped his mech controls again and waited. The final stages of re-entry during a hot drop action were always the least interesting and most inconvenient of times, as there was nothing productive to do, and waiting was the only option. The small aerodyne dropship Whippet was the only aerodyne that the JNS Long Lance was equipped with, and according to the technical readout, it only had space for five mechs, four up to the heavy category in size, and a medium or light squeezed in the gap in the middle. Despite the assertions on paper, Maxtac felt that he was pressing his luck squeezing an Avatar in the tight confines of the mechbay, along with three other heavies.

Rhino’s transport had docked with the Long Lance only fifty-five minutes previously, in low orbit of the ‘safe’ orbit-zone over southern Valgardis. Rhino had received reports of heavy actions all across the war front from the MTS Insanity, during the transport's deceleration burn to orbit. There was a major push on, and from the snippets of command coms channel chatter that had made it out through the jamming, the Insanity Ops Officer had surmised that reinforcements could really be used at the front. The LZ base had all the mechs they could field already deployed, committed for the ‘big push,’ but the Long Lance had several available dropships, and some highly experienced pilots that could be put down in support as soon as the pilots in question were aboard. This had been passed on to Tokomi Jessica, and she had requested loadouts and mechs in dropships by the time the transport docked. They were in the small aerodyne dropship within ten minutes, and headed for the main battle in Battlezone Alpha-Three, where the MT-TD forces were having the hardest time, while other dropships were headed into other zones to shore up the battle damaged allied forces therein.

Rhino was headed for Alpha-Three, mainly because that’s where KB and Nailor were, and as Rhino put it 'wherever those two degenerates are I need to be too, because trouble follows them like a magnet, and I get the job of digging them out of it!' Rhino had requested a Thunderbolt fitted with a Long Tom artillery piece. It had taken some doing, but the Ozora techs had made it happen in the short timeframe available. Max was regularly impressed with their work. His own Avatar was in the bay next to Rhino's, with the standard three RAC2’s and an ERPPC. He didn’t plan on using the PPC in this fight unless he absolutely had too. The mech was too hot already without it in the harshness of the deep Solomish desert, and with the techs so busy adjusting Rhino’s mech to suit – gotta keep the new allies happy, after all – they didn’t have time to adjust Max’s mech too.

Jessica had also insisted that she get dirtside as soon as possible, and Max didn't have to wonder why. It was why she was in this dropship, and not one of the others. Max had convinced her that the best way to find Ari was to start at the top, and the top were currently in heavy combat with the enemy. They'd get down there, he’d told her, tip the balance in MT-TD's favour, find out all they could about Ari’s whereabouts, and then strike out to find him. She’d liked that plan, it being simple and involving shooting things; a great way to distract a troubled Tokomi. Jess was sitting in a Marauder 9S, one of her preferred mechs, armed with two light gauss and a pair of ERPPCs. Amanda was going too – there was no Punch without Judy after all. She had her reasons to be down there as well, and Amanda knew that when Jess’s father was found, the next target on the hunting list would be their wayward husbands. Max didn’t envy those two lads. Poor choice, what they’d done, but he could understand it, even if he would have at least tried to find another way around it himself. Amada was piloting a Rifleman, set for mid range, armed with 2 Hyper-Velocity AutoCannon 10’s, with a medium pulse laser for backup, and lots of ammo for the primary weapons. She was as keen as her CO to find her missing man, with a similar feeling about what she wanted to do with him once located... and hog tied!

"One minute to hotdrop," the Whippet's drop officer announced across the battle channel. Max checked his systems for about the thirtieth time, and expected the other pilots would be doing the same. A big, red, rotating lamp began to flash it's warning as the side door to the mech bay started to whine open on heavy hinges. Heat and dust washed into the bay, infecting it with the planet's detritus; an early hint of what awaited them below.

"This is your stop, ladies and gents," the dropship captain's voice told them over the coms. "We are dropping you high; it seems there is a bit of a furball going on down there between allied aerospace fighters and enemy fighters and dropships. Not something I want my poor little ship getting mixed up in, so you'll have a fairly long drop to the deck. But your HDJ's are rated to handle it. Good luck, good hunting."

"Thanks for the lift," Max replied. "Safe journey yourself." The captain thanked his Warlord for the well-wishes, and then another voice came over the battle channel.

"Okay, I'm on the ready line first. Follow me up quick as you can," Rhino said as his Thuderbolt started up, rising to its full height as the locking clamps disengaged and telescoped up to the ceiling. Freed to move, the mech turned on the spot until it was facing the door, and took a step toward it, the mechanical feet lining up with a thick yellow line painted on the deck plating - the fabled Ready Line. Then a pair of robotic arms moved across to clamp what amounted to a big backpack onto the Thunderbolt's back. This was a Hotdrop Deceleration Jetpack; a one-use device that prevented a mech falling from a high dropship from being crushed to pulp when it reached the ground.

"Over target in ten, nine, eight..." the drop officer began counting down. Rhino's mech took another step forward, testing the weight of the pack and its effect on the Thunderbolt's gyro. The remaining heavy mech pilots, Max, Jess and Amanda were watching Rhino's prep to jump, and didn't notice the little Hellspawn, that had spent the journey thus far locked down between the bigger mechs, start up and turn toward the dropship's mechbay door.

"Two, one, drop," the countdown ended, and Rhino's Thunderbolt took two steps forward and dropped over the edge and away. As the T'bolt cleared the edge, Asmudius' Hellspawn, lacking any sort of added deceleration assistance, ran at the opening and followed the MT Battalion Leader out the door.

There was a moment of shock smattered across the coms, from Jess and Amanda, but Max just shook his head, used to craziness from Heng Samurai. Knowing the circumstances of your own death ahead of time did tend to lend a pilot a wilful disregard for safety.

"He'll be fine, lades. If you'll follow me," Max said in as much of an elegant tone as he could muster while about to drop into battle. He stepped his Avatar forward, and after receiving his HDJ, skipped out the hatch to follow the mechs already airborne.

**********

"Just what do you think you're doing, Juraian?" Rhino asked into the coms, his tone icy, as the Hellspawn came gently to rest on the top of his mech's missile shoulder. Rhino was giving his HDJ small bursts to keep his decent slow, to allow the others to catch up. He just hadn't expected just how much catching up the next mech would be doing.

"Following you as quickly as I could, as requested," Asmu replied, his tone sly. "Oh don't worry," he continued, anticipating the Tribesman's next statement, "these are Juraian HDJ's. They have more thrust capacity than you might be expecting. More than enough for the both of us."

"You'd better be right, Juraian," Rhino said, his voice still conveying his displeasure. "And if your added weight throws my first shot off, the second one is coming your way."

Asmu swallowed. Even he knew of Rhino's deadly accuracy with his favoured weapon, and he didn't want to give the man reason to miss.

**********

Three kilometres below, KB found his command's situation becoming more desperate by the minute. His remaining mechs were grouped up, seven in all, although two were nearly useless, and while MT had managed to splash four of the enemy, they still had eight mechs that were in better condition than KB's were, and the Deep Strike group was running desperately low on ammo.

"We could retreat," Nailor suggested, "get back and rearm, maybe even get some armour or fresh mechs, and come back?"

"Won't work," KB said, his tone grim, his voice gravely. "If we leave now, by the time we get back here, the enemy will have the place reinforced to the eyeballs, and Rogue's group will be slaughtered by this lot if we pull out now."

"Yes but they out-ton and out-gun us still," Nailor added, "and if they choose to push..."

"They're pushing!" Farslayer cut in, turning his Cyclops from a higher vantage point after slamming an alpha into the first mech to show itself, a Rifleman. Gauss, UAC and RAC fire followed him, stitching all across his mech's torsos, and slamming into the mech's 'head,' causing it to stumble as it came down the glassy slope.

"Damn, they got my sensor suite," Far complained, the mechs one 'red eye' now a smouldering wreck, "now how am I..." He didn't get to finish the sentence. A swarm of MRM's came arcing in from the west, splattering their fiery embrace across the Cyclops' whole left side. Armour and internals shattered and bent from the force of the explosions, and Far's escape pod rocketed skywards as the big mech fell down the glassy dune, fire and electrical shorts still playing over its exposed left torso internals.

"Pull back, full speed to the next range of volcanic cones to the south, and spread out," KB ordered. "On my order, turn and fire as the enemy show themselves. They'll be cocky as hell after that 'kill,' and if we can catch them together...." Everyone knew the deal, everyone knew it was a slim chance, but in this heat, a power core detonation might just save them. It was about all they could hope for.

RAC, UAC and gauss fire started in on the retreating mechs all too soon, from the position they'd previously held. As ordered they turned, knowing that they'd all most likely be sailing skywards in escape pods in short order, or worse. Surprisingly, the first two mechs through the gap were the Marauder II MAD-4S and a Zeus. 'They must be leading with the big stuff,' KB thought, [/i]'hoping that they can 'kill' one or two of our mechs before taking too much damage.'[/i]

"All pilots, hit the MADII-4S on the torso next to the missing arm, everything you have, make 'em count, Tribesman," KB said, his teeth gritted, his mech's RAC2's chattering for all they were worth. The other mechs fired, some finding the called panel, others not. However it didn't really matter, as the weight of fire wasn't enough against a monster like that. The two enemy assaults took bead on KB's command mech, and he knew what was coming.

A hail of ballistic round hammered across the gap and into KB's Cyclops, shredding almost every panel and armour plate on the big IS assault. As the other mechs in the enemy force cleared cover, they too joined in. On KB's Cyclops, internals sparked and systems took damage. Inside his cockpit, KB was assaulted first by the vibration and noise from the mass of ballistic fire, and then from the computer warnings of system failures - sensors, gyro, ejection pod, containment.

It looked as though MT would have the core breach, not OA. In a few short seconds, the volume of fire coming in on the staggering Cyclops would breach the core containment entirely, and with a damaged ejection system, KB would become one with the inner power of a star...

To be continued...

Post XI

“…Look up, look up, look up, The sky is falling!
Look up, there's something that you have to do.
Before you try to go outside, to take in the view,
Look up because the sky could fall on you!”

"(Look up) The Sky Is Falling," by Bradley Michael, from Robotech "The Invid Invasion."

Battlezone Alpha-Three, High Solomish Desert, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
17th February 3070: Late Morning


The IS Thunderbolt battlemech and its hitch-hiker Hellspawn fell quickly and quietly through the baking air above the battlefield of the Solomish Desert. Rhino had scanned the fight playing out below and decided that his gentle ministrations were needed, forthwith. He ceased the short bursts of retro-thrust he was using to slow their fall, and as a result the pair of mechs were falling at near terminal velocity to get quickly within range, and to add a little K.E. to Rhino's first 'gift.'

"Hold on, Juraian, or you might end up slipping to your death," Rhino said over the coms, smirking as he lined up his shot on the enemy rapidly approaching below.

"Not going to happen," Asmudius said confidently, but squatted down on the HDJ and hung on tight, just to be on the safe side. Rhino lined up on a pair of OA assaults, fired his Longtom with unerring precision, and then hit the full retro-thrust on the HDJ. Part way through the hard decel burn, Asmu's Hellspawn shook loose and tumbled away. Rhino watched it go, a frown creasing his forehead, but there was nothing he could do.

**********

"Get clear of me, get..." KB began, shouting into his mic as his mech was falling apart around him, when a resounding boom echoed across the glassy dunes and off the walls of the volcanic cones, and the hail of fire threatening to breach his Cyclops' core containment died away. Something had fallen between the two OA assaults from almost directly above, detonated, and washed over them with a rather impressive fireball. The assault mechs were rocked from their firing solutions, their aim going wild as their fire abated. Both OA pilots fought to regain control of their mechs, flushing coolant madly to avoid a shutdown, and it gave KB enough time to stager fitfully into cover behind the next rise in the rolling, glassy dunes.

"What the hell was that?" KB asked across the coms, checking his remaining systems, amazed that the mech was still standing. de Vega was well versed in the weapons of the IS and the Clans, and if he didn't know better, he would have said that a Long Tom Artillery shell had just landed on the enemy that were doing their best to blast him to kingdom come. But that wasn't possible, was it?

"Just what you required, I would have thought," Rhino's calm voice replied as his mech dropped down at the east end of the range of volcanic ridges that the OA forces were crossing. Once grounded, he had his mech quickly shrug out of the now spent HDJ, and he set off jogging west, extending the range between himself and the enemy forces. The Thunderbolt flushed coolant to maintain speed while the big cannon mounted on the arm of the mech cooled and reloaded.

"Rhino, is that you?" Nailor's voice cut over coms. "Damn good to have you finally show up. We're in a tight spot here. You by yourself, or did you bring some more help?" Nailor and the remaining MT-TD mechs that had weapons were still firing sporadically at the disarray in the OA lines, however the enemy were recovering quickly. A pair of Avatars, a Rifleman and a Marauder were laying down fire from the eastern flank onto Hellfire's Nemesis and Rebekka's Maddog.

"He brought the rest of the cavalry, naturally," Jurai Maxtac's unruffled tone interjected on the coms channel as his Avatar led a Marauder and Rifleman, holding formation on his rear quarters, forward towards the concentration of OA heavies on the eastern ridges. The sight of the fresh mechs and pilots, firing without concern for limited ammo, and hitting called panels on already damaged OA mechs, caused the enemy heavies to turn to flee. But they weren't quick enough. Alpha's from the Marauder were followed up by rapid fire from the Avatar and Rifleman into the damaged segments of the OA mechs, and with the occasional Long Tom round for good measure, soon had four OA escape pods blasting skywards and off to the north in quick succession.

"Warlord Maxtac?" Nailor asked in the next lull in the action. "Last I'd heard you were comatose on board the MTS Strider. I'm glad to have your assistance here, but I'm rather surprised by it. Explanations will have to wait, however, until the field is ours. Hellfire, Reb, with me. Buck, KB, save what's left of your mechs. Be careful, there are still four enemy assaults out there." Nailor formed up with the remaining effective mechs in Deep Strike and moved forwards.

"You don't have to tell me," KB said, still putting out fires in his cockpit with a small extinguisher, "this Cyclops is a single step away from a meltdown. I'm not going anywhere!"

"Okay, Deep Strike, and friends," Nailor added, the first smile in quite a few hours playing across his lips, "let's get in there and finish this."

**********

The battle was over several minutes later. Damaged enemy assaults, pressed and forced to fight, were still dangerous, as Reb attested to after he was recovered from his downed escape pod some time later. The last surviving mech, an enemy Cyclops, that had been keeping to the back of the fight since taking damage from KB and Nailor early on in the proceedings, had been run down by the heavies, and finished off by a well placed Long Tom round. The mech's escape pod, either fired by the pilot or the automatic ejection system, had launched out of the fireball that had engulfed the beleaguered mech, and headed skywards, to arc north and away from the battlezone like so many others.

Buck's Hellspawn and KB's Cyclops were technically survivors, but they would not fight again without major refit and reconstruction work. Happy was found, unconscious and bleeding, in the shattered remains of his Shadowcat, another victim of the Stalker MRM boat that had so expertly hunted Deep Strike Force from the west. However Happy's wounds were thankfully minor, and he would be back on the ready line a few days later. The local enemy base was taken by Rogues lance, battered and ammo depleted as they were. Zymoses had been the only downed pilot in that sector of the conflict.

Yet the strangest sight on battlezone Alpha Three greeted Hellfire when he finally found Asmudius' Hellspawn in a series of dips near a heavily smoking volcanic cone to the west of the final battle line. The medium mech was face down in the glassy sand, it's legs shattered and broken, with the Heng Samurai, still unconscious, hanging from the restraints of his mech's command couch. Following a trail of divots in the hard packed surface of the undulating hillocks, Hellfire walked his Nemesis over a rise to discover the OA Stalker, escape pod launched, nose pushed deep into the glassy sand, and legs crumpled beneath it. On closer examination, the assault chassis showed signs of taking a heavy impact from above, just forward of the cockpit, with a pair of mech foot imprints being clearly visible in the caved-in ballistic armour.

As Asmudius would verify when he came too, after being shaken free of Rhino's Thunderbolt and HDJ, he'd free-fallen until he noticed the Stalker below. Lacking a friendly IFF, Asmu steered for the mech, knowing that his own jumpjets couldn't slow his mech enough for a soft landing, so a high velocity DFA would have to do. His only regret was missing the enemy cockpit 'by that much.'

Once the missing pilots were accounted for, Jurai Maxtac and his entourage were in need of information about other pressing matters.

"...so I had a vision of a battle in which Tokomi Arizona's mech was blown off a cliff. This is what shocked me back to consciousness," Max was telling Nailor and KB on the command channel. "So that prompts me to ask, have you had any contact with Ari?"

"Yes, we have," Nailor responded quickly, deliberately keeping his voice calm and level, knowing that the pilot of the Marauder that dropped in on the recent battle was none other than Arizona's daughter, Tokomi 'Wasp' Jessica, who was included in this conversation. "He's been picked up by one of our... well not an SRT exactly, but close enough. The problem is that rescue team has been driven away from our LZ base into a distant sector of the continent, away from our invasion corridor. We also haven't had contact with them for about nine hours now."

"So he's alive?" Jess cut in, unable to follow protocol when her father's life was in danger.

"He was, at last report," KB said. "Problem is there's a contested battlezone between us and the SRT vehicle. Tokomi Teralitha is over there right now trying to clear a path to get them back."

"Well I have navigational data from the Insanity on the surrounding area, so Nightstalker, Wasp and myself will head back to your DZ for this Op, grab some minor repairs, supplies and ammo, and head straight to Epsilon to see if we can help Tera win the day," Maxtac said, more a statement than a request. "Then we'll head out after Arizona and this rescue team that have blown so far off course."

"We've had a significant amount of pilot fatigue in the opening theatres of this conflict," Nailor said, his voice hardening up a notch. "The alliance could really use you and your pilots at the front. Obviously, we'll send SRT's after the wayward rescuers once battlezone Epsilon is taken."

"Unacceptable," Maxtac and Jessica said in unison. "We have arrived on planet via TD drop ship," Maxtac continued, in what was a far more affable tone than Jessica could have managed at that point, "we currently occupy TD mechs, and have not signed up to fight under MT command. We respect the alliance, but we have a greater need to assure the safety of one of our greatest leaders. KB," Max's voice took on a personal tone, "if Nailor was injured and in that rescue vehicle, wouldn't you, and many others in your unit, drop everything to march across the planet and try to save him?"

There was silence over the coms for a few moments.

"Yes, I suppose you are right," KB said, his tone a might sullen, "just you make sure you get them back to the LZ pronto. We'll need all the able bodied pilots we can get on the ready line once we near the far side of the desert, sandstorms notwithstanding. That's where the fun... or pain if you prefer, will really start."

"Just as soon as we can," Maxtac assured them, already turning his mech south and punching it up to full speed. Jess and Amanda followed suit. "You'll have ready access to the other TD pilots that hot-dropped into the other contested battlezones along the front, including Tokomi Tyr. You'll find his particular skills very useful, if you allow him to use them to your best advantage," Max continued, his voice holding a edge of wry amusement.

KB chuckled. He'd heard plenty about the exploits of the wayward Tokomi over tankards of ale on Pirate's Haven.

"So what about that ammo?" Max asked, his tone hopeful.

"Yes, yes," Nailor said, acquiescing, "you can have your rearm before you go. You sure you wouldn't prefer a dropship to take you over there after Epsilon is taken?"

"No way," Maxtac said as the three mechs moved away from the remains of Deep Strike Force. "If we get refitted quickly, I can probably be in Epsilon by midnight or a little before. Perhaps we'll get to play cavalry twice in one day."

"Hopefully it'll all be over by then," Nailor said, shaking his head at the allied Warlord's jibe, "and for the better this time."

"Just so," Max agreed. "Take care of Asmudius, would you, while we're gone. He's a bit crazy, but he does get the job done."

"So we've seen," KB noted. "Depending on what's left of Teralitha this time round, we'll put them all together at the front."

"Oh Gods," Max said, sham horror in his tone, "I'm not sure who that'll be worse for, the enemy... or you."

"Get out of here," Nailor said, in way of a farewell, adding a small text message to the signal, specifically to Maxtac's coms screen. "Good luck and good hunting, Warlord Jurai Maxtac."

"Same to you, Colonel Nailor Grey."

Nailor, KB and the rest of Deep Strike still standing headed for the newly captured base, leaving the long suffering SRT's to finish extract Happy and Asmu from their mechs, see to their wounds, and pick up the other downed allied pilots from their scattered escape pods.

To be continued...

Youre writting faster then i can read

[rpOFF]Hopefully that's enough time for you to catch up, Tyr. On with the story![rpON]

Post XII

“…From nowhere to somewhere else…”

"Description of roads in the Simpson Desert, Australia, Terra, mid-20th C."

Battlezone Epsilon, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
17th February 3070: Near Midnight


The atmosphere during the transfer between battlezone Alpha Three and battlezone Epsilon was somewhat strained to say the least. Max considered it a good idea to keep the ladies busy, and they were during the repair, loading of supplies and rearming of the mechs back at the A3 DZ, but once the small TD attack group was on the move again, a brooding silence settled across the lance coms. Max presumed the young women were in their own headspaces, and where Amanda - or Nightstakler as she was known during battle - felt she was closing in on her wayward husband, Jess - Wasp in battle dress - had the double weights of her errant spouse and her injured and missing father. As the women contemplated their near futures, and decisions they needed to make on what they would do when each of their personal situations came to a head, Max was also quiet. He read and re-read the short text message that Nailor had passed to him, and contemplating exactly what he would do about the information therein when the time came.

While Jess was concerned for her father's safety, and his health after being blown out of a mech in battle, Max was less concerned about his fellow Warlord in the short term, as long as they could locate Tokomi Prime fairly quickly. That meant hunting down this experimental RRV that had been forced out beyond a rift valley to the east. Another concern was approaching sandstorms - rife this time of year - and the contested airspace, which meant that dropship recovery of the RRV and the mechs sent after it was dubious at best. No, most likely they'd have to walk out, far south and then west back to the LZ. It could take quite a while, if they were bogged down in bad weather, and Max just hoped there would be an LZ base to return too by the time they got back.

Max shook himself. He had a lot of things to sort out before they got that far, the first of which was discovering the situation in Epsilon, and helping turn things in MT-TD's favour, if needed. Jamming and counter jamming was heavy in this area. Only snippets of signals and quick flashes of radar traces were getting out, and it was dark, really dark. Light amp didn't help out to any useful range, and Max only wished he could see in the dark.

"Okay, ladies," the Juraian Warlord said into the short range lance coms channel, the only one not totally crippled with digital noise. "We are entering Epsilon. Eyes out, as much as you are able. Nightstalker, keep trying to contact any allied personnel on coms channel Seven-One. I believe that was the last-active, allied combat channel for this battlefield today. Wasp, move two hundred metres south and then turn east. Eyes sweeping south from forward to back. I'll do the same to the north. Keep it to fifty-five klicks. Call immediately if you spot something. Clear?"

Max received two 'rogers,' and the mechs under his command moved to their assigned duties. Crawling across these dustbowls in the dark of night wasn't Max's idea of fun, but it had to be done, at least until the ownership of battlezone Epsilon was established.

"I have a small fire, bearing one-o-five, about nine hundred and fifty metres," Wasp said suddenly about ten minutes later. Max was concentrating on the horizon through his zoomed optics so hard he nearly jumped.

"Roger that," he replied, spinning his mech to join up with Wasp's Marauder. "Form up, and we'll head over there. Set speed to sixty five klicks. Be ready. Weapons hot if you get a enemy IFF or take fire." The three mechs closed up ranks and moved toward the only source of light they'd spotted on the entire battlezone since they'd arrived.

"I think it's coming from a burning mech," Nightstalker said when they were about five hundred metres out.

'No wonder they call her Nightstalker,' Max thought, 'I can see squat all detail as yet.'

"Spread out, circle and scan," Max said, turning on his light amp to give him some hope of making out detail. "Try to work out if it is a friendly or enemy mech. I want to know if the escape pods activated, or if there is a pilot in there needing assistance."

"With all due respect, Tai-shu," Wasp cut in, right on the heels of Max’s last comment, "we haven't got time for this. My father is..."

"Your father is safe enough for the moment," Max said, cutting her off, his practice voice of authority halting the worried woman's outburst, "and we need intel. It won't help your father if we get ourselves blown out of our own mechs, now will it?"

"No... Sir," Wasp replied, her tone still defiant but Max could tell logic had won out over emotion... this time. They moved on, circling the still lightly burning wreck. Max made out the shape of a Crusader, face down in the sand. The flames were licking out of its S1 panel.

"Likely an ammo explosion," Nightstalker said, slowing her mech to get a better look at the prostrate form of the downed mech. "I think I see..." Small arms fire came rattling out of a divot near the feet of the downed mech. "I'm taking fire, weapons hot!" The rifleman turned its heavy ballistics towards the source of the fire.

"No!" Max nearly shouted over coms. "Weapons HOLD! Repeat, weapons HOLD!" As Nightstalker pointed her mechs long, paired-barrel weapon arms toward the sky, Max saw a figure leap up from the foxhole near the feet of the downed Champion, then run off to the north east, down a slope and into the large depression that fanned out in that direction. Wasp's Marauder went to pursue. "Wasp, hold position. I'm going to try to talk to them."

"Roger, Tai-shu," she replied, bringing her mech to a halt some thirty metres from the slope. Max flipped his external mic and speaker up, and considered what to say.

"Downed pilot," he began, "we are elements of the MT-TD force currently assaulting this world. As a downed pilot, you are no longer a direct participant in mechanised combat, and are welcome to come with us, as a rescued ally or political prisoner, dependant on your allegiance. Whichever, it's got to be better than staying out here in the cold desert night. What say you?" Max turned up the gain on his external mic and waited for a reply. Moments later, a sheepish looking pilot trudged back up the sandy slope out of the large depression, his hands waving above his head.

"I'm a Tribesman, call-sign Rez of the Knighthood House Sharrette," the man, of what Max could just make out was Asiatic appearance, said. "And I'd recommend that your Marauder pilot doesn't take another step forward, or they might just set off the makeshift mine I've got planted there."

********Several minutes later*********

"No, there have been a number of downed pilots turning up dead," Rez related to the group as the set off again in their earlier formation, toward a base that the mechless pilot noted was in the north-east quadrant of Epsilon, a target that Tokomi Teralitha should have taken, presuming he was successful in securing the battlezone for the invasion forces. "So I set up a mine, in hopes of damaging the leg of any enemy mech that stumbled upon me badly enough that I might get to fight the pilot mano-a-mano outside his mech, rather than just have them kill me where I stand. Forlorn hope I know, but..."

"Better than nothing," Wasp said, her tone steely. Tokomi's didn't take kindly to dishonourable behaviour, in any way, shape or form. Rez was riding up near the dorsal gun mount on her mech, with a portable coms unit on his back, the idea being that if they had to fight for it, he could drop off the back of the mech and go to ground. The sand was usually soft enough for a break fall from that height, he'd explained. It was all they could do and still be combat ready. Max didn't like it, but Rez understood; they were driving mechs made for combat, not passenger buses.

Progress was slow, due to the delicacy of the situation, the lack of good radar and coms intel, and the dark night. They moved across what must have been a dry lake bed, heading toward the rise on which Rez assured them the base sat. As the moved closer to the base, they passed more downed mechs. Max insisted they check, but no other live pilots were discovered. Max considered that these 'kills' were close enough to the base to have been checked over by the victors, whoever they might be, and these mechs would likely be salvaged as soon as dawn started lightening the sky to the east.

They moved on, into a valley that led up toward the base. More dead mechs littered the now cold sands, and a wind coming in from the east has started whipping up flurries of sand off the loose slopes. The sand grains were light and wispy, and hung in the air far longer than the Juraian's, at least, were used to. The effect was almost like a thickening fog, and it made the spotting of targets that much harder.

"This is getting ridiculous," Wasp said, voicing aloud what they were all feeling, as the neared the top of the ravine. "I can't see three-hundred metres ahead of me, no radar, no long range coms. We could stumble on anything out here, from friendlies to an enemy assault lance. It think..."

"Contact!" Nightstalker cut in, slightly ahead of the other two mechs, inching up towards the lip of the ravine. "I got a flash contact through the jamming snow. Up ahead, oh-three-oh degrees, not sure how far out. Likely to be a mech, and an active one."

"Roger that," Max replied. "Rez, you might want to go to ground so we don't accidently step on you if we get surprised. Ladies, let's inch our way up to the lip and peak over. See if we can't scare ourselves up a reticule fix. Thank goodness IFF isn't affected by all this crap." Rez descended to the ground and found himself a safe spot in a shallow cave, and the TD mechs moved up towards the lip.

"The base looks powered-down," Nightstalker commented as they stepped up to the lip, each scanning left and right like nervous birds. "Not getting anything powered, on sentry towers, or Calliopes, and all this damn jamming..."

"Wait, I've got movement," Wasp said, stepping to the left, scanning on zoom through the ghostly shapes of the buildings. She stepped forward, across the trampled fencing and towards a cluster of tall sheds and storage buildings.

"Don't chase it alone," Max said, stepping his Avatar up and over the edge to try to cover her advance, "and don't get too far from the cover of the lip."

"I can handle it," Wasp said, moving further away from the other two mechs, disappearing into the swirling sand and the darkness, "Tokomi, remember."

'Yes, and I've known far too many Tokomi's for whom those were famous last words. Get your arse back here, that's an..." But Max didn't get to finish.

"Aggh. Assault mech! Assault mech right..." Wasps harried voice smattered across the coms as a shape loomed out from behind a building only a short distance away. Wasp spun her Marauder's heavy torso around, desperately trying to get a bead on the huge shape that was looming out of the haze and darkness to her right. The assault barrelled into her, knocking her first alpha off target, and continued on into the surprised Juraian's mech. The huge, man-shaped combat vehicle had run hunched down into the side of Wasp's Marauder, and then it stood to its full height suddenly, lifting and tipping the Marauder from inside it's guard. Wasp made a cry of protest, much like her computer was doing in regards to the gyro, as the bigger mech knocked the Tokomi on her side with a groan of metal and an almighty thud. Max and Nightstalker moved up quickly, but the intruder was quicker, lifting the mech's massive right foot, ready to bring it down on the cockpit of the marauder, and either kill or at least incapacitate the pilot.

"No!" Wasp cried, anguish from her recent emotional turmoil, and the worry that she wouldn't be there for her father adding depth to her protest. Max and Nightstalker took a bead on the assault, but didn't fire, and the big metal boot never feel.

"Friendlies, freindlies, we are friendlies," Nightstalker bellowed over wide band, hoping to catch the channel that the Atlas pilot was using. The assault mech, that Max could now see was badly damaged - left arm missing, rents and gashes in many armour panels, and part of the head hanging open - returned it's foot gently to the ground, and took several delicate steps back.

"Well it's about time you showed up," Tokomi Teralitha's voice faded in and out over the coms channel in a hail of static, "but next time, don't sneak up on a fella, okay?"

********Several minutes later*********

"So Tyr is in the coms centre, trying to deactivate the mother of all jammers linked into a system lockout that was activated before the OA goons skipped out, while I patrolled," Tera said as he, Max and Jessica sat around a space heater in the somewhat trashed interior of the shutdown base command centre, mugs of warm drinks of several varieties in their hands, to stave off the chill of the desert night. "He said it was loaded with booby traps and kill switches, but he took it as a personal challenge, so..." Tera shrugged, then sipped his steaming coffee.

"So why isn't one of the other pilots out patrolling in Tyr's mech?" Max asked, conversationally. He stole a glance at Wasp, who was staring, glassy-eyed, into the glow of the space heater, her hot chocolate cupped in her hands, forgotten.

"He wouldn't let any of them near it," Tera said, shrugging again. "He's very protective about his mech, as am I." Tera beamed broadly.

"Yes but he'd surely allow you to drive his Summoner?" Max asked, his eyebrows coming together in consternation. Tera shook his head, his eyes rolling.

"Nope," Tera replied, "and I wouldn't really want to." Tera leaned in, dropping his voice to a near whisper. "Between you and me, it smells a little funny in there." It was Max's turn to shake his head and roll his eyes.

"But Tyr's Summoner is barely damaged," Max stated. "You would have been much better off patrolling in that, rather than what's left of your Atlas."

"Well, you might think so, but actually..." Tera leaned in again, "Tyr burnt through all his ammo taking out three defenders to liberate the base. My Atlas can do more damage that that Clan hunk of junk at the moment." Tera leaned back. "And anyway, I prefer Betsy, and she prefers me." Tera nodded, more to himself than anyone else. "Don't worry," he continued, "I sent a light mech out to the edge of the jamming to relay a message back to the LZ not long before you arrived. By eight am local we should have armaments, repair crews, SRT's to ship out the wounded, and recovery crews for the mechs littering the deserts here arounds." Tera leaned back and gestured with his arm out, palm up. "Soon as we're reinforced, I'll consider Epsilon in the right hands." Max nodded. Finally this was something he could agree with.

"Well Rez is busy helping with the wounded," Max said, taking over lead in the conversation. "It's lucky he's well trained in triage, and Nightstalker is patrolling the perimeter until we need to take a sleep rotation before continuing our journey." It was Tera's turn to draw his eyebrows down and together.

"So where exactly are you going, anyway?" Tera asked, showing a little less deference to a Warlord and commanding officer here than he would have at some strategic bunker or parade ground. "Last thing we'd heard about your condition you were still out cold after the..."

"Yes, yes," Max cut in, "I'm trying not to think too hard about that." The Warlord shifted in his seat until he found a comfortable position again. Tera took a sip of his drink and waited. Wasp continued to stare into the heating coils. "We're travelling at best speed to catch up with a Remote Rescue Vehicle that has picked up Tokomi Arizona, and guide it safely back to the LZ so he can receive proper treatment." Tera was on his feet before Max had finished his sentence, and Wasp even looked up from her 'naval contemplation.'

"Sir," he began, and Max immediately knew he wanted something, "I formally request to accompany you on this mission, and I expect when Tyr finds out, wild horses won't stop him wanting to go either."

"Sit down, sit down," Max replied, reaching up to grab the Chu-sa by the shoulder and drag him down to his seat again. "I'm afraid I can't let you come with us." Tokomi Teralitha was heading back up to his feet again, his mouth opening in protest just as quickly as the last time round. Max stood to face the taller man, and the look the Tai-shu gave to Chu-sa was more than sufficient to leave the Tokomi samurai's next comment stillborn in his throat.

"Chu-sa, walk with me," Max said in the steely tone of command, "Wasp, bunk down after you finish those rations, we'll be heading out at dawn, in six hours." Jess went to speak but Max cut her off. He was doing way to much of this, he noted. "I'll have Amanda relieved of patrol duty within the next hour, so don't worry about her. Get some sleep. That's and order." Max took hold of Tera by the stitching on the shoulder of his coolant vest and lead him to the door that hung slightly off its hinges.

Once they were outside, Max lead Tera away from the less-than-whole command centre, out into the clearing sand-fog. Once the Warlord felt they were far enough out of earshot that Wasp wouldn't overhear them, he turned on the taller, younger Tokomi.

"Look," he began, still marshalling his thoughts, "there are a hundred good reasons for you and Tyr to come with us, and about a hundred and fifty better reasons why I need you to stay with the main attack force." Tera went to speak again, and Max raised a single index finger. It was enough to keep the bigger Tokomi from cutting off his senior officer. Max sighed. "I'll tell you the main reasons why you can't come. First, the push needs pilots of your and Tyr’s calibre to help this planetary assault succeed. There have been an uncommon number of pilot deaths on our side, and we need as many excellent allied pilots on the ready line as we can get, or we'll be over-run and forced back to the LZ. If that happens before we can get Ari back..." Max left that hanging. The look on Tera's face started to soften a bit. No Tokomi liked defeat... in anything.

"Next, I've already got Ari's daughter in there, worried sick, so I'll have a Tokomi along for good measure," Max said next.

"Well let's hope she does better than tonight, when it matters," Tera replied, rubbing his chin as he remembered the near miss that might have had him kill his Patriarch's daughter.

"She is terribly distracted, for more reasons than you know," Max added. He drew in closer to Tera and the volume of his voice dropped to a near whisper. "What I am about to tell you goes no further, understood?" Tera nodded once. "You may have heard that Tokomi Jessica and also Amanda, were married, under somewhat dubious circumstances, while they were holidaying on Pirates Haven?" Tera nodded again. "Well what you may not know is that the new husbands skipped out on the ladies not long after the wedding, taking personal items of the girl’s to fund their ordered return to active duty..." Max let that hang for a moment. "With the Minnesota Tribe," he finished. Tera looked incredulous for a moment, and then the penny dropped. He whistled long and low.

"So the guys that cut out on a Tokomi samurai and her close friend and second are hidden somewhere within our allies in this invasion force?" Terra asked, in a similarly low tone. Max began walking again and Tera followed, a shocked grin beginning to split his features.

"Yes," Max finally admitted when Tera caught him up, "but it's worse than that." Tera's face fell slack, and his eyes went wide. Max could almost see the cogs whirring in his head.

"The two Tribesman," Tera began, trying not to laugh, "who've rescued Ari," he took a deep breath to stifle a guffaw, "are their HUSBANDS?"

"Keepyervoice down," Max demanded, and Tera put a big hand over his mouth to stifle his mirth. "And yes, that is the situation. So you don't tell anyone, and you convince Tyr not to try to come with us when we go, without filling him in. Understand?"

"Oh hai, Tai-shu, I'll do it," Tera replied, laughter dancing in his eyes still, "just as long as you fill me in on what happened when we meet again. I need to know how it finishes up. This is amazing!"

"And you can see why I can't have two more Tokomi's there?" Max asked, to be sure.

"Oh yes," Tera replied, trying to get himself back under control. "If Tyr and I were there we'd probably have to near kill those two fools. But I'm sure the ladies will do a perfectly fine job without our help. Say do you think you could holotape..."

"NO," Max stated. Tera looked chagrined.

"Okay," Max said, changing the subject to one of more immediacy, "I want you to take over patrol from Nightstaker, use my mech or Wasp's Marauder, I don't care which, just don't waste the ammo. I get the feeling we're going to need it. Send Amanda in to get some rack time. We leave at dawn."

"Hai," Tera said, with the slightest of bows.

"Oh and you and Tyr do your best to make this PA a success. Jurai needs this alliance to be strong and to last. No bar room brawling with the Tribesmen and beating the tar out of them, okay?" Max gave Tera a serious look.

"Hai, Tai-shu," Tera said, his tone reticent. "We'll do everything we can to make it happen. For the ROYALTY!" Tera quoted the Tokomi motto.

"And for the MT-TD alliance," Max added, then he turned and walked back to the one functional barracks. Tera headed for the parked mechs, while a Juraian Rifleman strode past, along the near perimeter on patrol.

To be continued...

Post XIII

“…It is great to be great; greater still to be human…”

"W.G.P. (Walnut Grove Press), attributed to Dr Criswell Freeman (1953-2028)."

Forward Base Sanddune XI, verge of the Northern Steppes, Northern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
18th February 3070: Morning


Sanddune XI, situated on the only rocky outcrop in miles and miles of sand dunes, was the main OA base on the northern side of the Solomish desert, and being smack-bang in the middle of the MT-TD invasion corridor, was extremely busy. A major withdrawal from the southern combat zones had been ordered, and transports from the south had been arriving with evacuating personnel and supplies off and on since sundown. SRT's had also been in and out all night, bringing back pilots rescued from their escape pods after unsuccessful battles. Turrets tracked the skies, while mechs and vehicles patrolled the perimeter of this major base, and all this traffic was kicking up a lot of dust and sand into a stiff morning breeze, which was taking the cloud of particles off to the west in a rising plume. Chairman AC, a passenger on yet another SRT that was making final approach to Sanddune XI, noted that the winds were picking up out of the eastern desert. That was good, and fitted well with his plans.

The SRT VTOL touched down on the pads closest to the command centre, as requested by the Chairman. He was out before the skids of the craft had properly settled, favouring his right leg slightly - the escape pod from his doomed Cyclops 11-G had suffered a rather heavy landing - and headed straight into the command bunker. When the guards at the double, reinforced doors realised who the bedraggled looking pilot in the torn coolant vest was, they snapped to a crisp attention. Ignoring the salute, AC stalked into the building, and to the command centre itself, surprising the busy staff within.

"I want a full situation update transferred to my personal station in my office in the next two minutes," the Chairman snapped as he unceremoniously crossed the room, shrugging out of his coolant vest as he went, "and get Supervisor Deatmeat in here as soon as his SRT arrives."

"Yessir!" the duty officer replied, but was unable to reply fully as the Chairman continued on, quickly moving away from the surprised officer. AC strode past the empty secretaries station and threw open the door to the CO's office of Sanddune XI to discover the lights on, and Deadmeat, changed from coolant vest and fatigues into his security chief's uniform, standing in a relaxed pose at the side of the CO's desk, reading from a data pad in his hand.

With a wry grin and a small shake of his head, AC closed the door, and strode across the office, rounding the sizable desk on the side that Deadmeat wasn't occupying, and flopped down in the large high-backed command chair, plonking his dusty combat boots up on the previously clean desktop. Once comfortable - the first time in almost a day - AC turned to look up at his friend and subordinate.

"Room's clean, and surveillance baffles are engaged," Deadmeat said, not looking up from the data pad, "we are free to talk."

"Good," AC said, "but what the hell happened to your Stalker out there? You were taking those MT schlubs apart, and then you disappeared."

"Well that's what happens when your mech gets hit by a bloody Hellspawn dropped from a great height," Deadmeat said, giving his CO a significant look. "Though why they'd be dropping one on me rather than setting down and fighting is..." He shrugged.

"Good tactical thinking, I'd say," AC said, screwing up his lip. "They knew they couldn't get you the regular way, so they had to do something desperate."

"Maybe," Deadmeat said, shrugging, but before he could say or do anything else, there was the sound of an argument at the entrance to the office. Both men looked up to see the door partially open, and the heated conversation that was going on outside became more audible.

"... I don't think you should just go barging in there, Sir," a exasperated voice was saying. "The Chairman and Supervisor have just begun a conference, and..."

"Yes," a familiar voice cut the man off in mid explanation, "and as an allied commander on world, I should be involved in any such command conferences!" And with that, Commander Okami, leader of the Circinus Federation Military, stepped into the room and strode toward the Chairman's desk. Okami was also still dressed for mech battle, replete with dust and sweat trails on his face and neck. From behind the clearly aggravated CF leader, the security officer gave AC a questioning look, hand on his sidearm, ready to draw if necessary. AC caught the guard's eyes and shook his head slightly, then motioned the man out with two short waves of his hand. The guard had backed out and closed the door by the time Okami was standing across the desk from the still reclined OA Chairman.

Okami opened his mouth to speak, but AC held up a finger to bid the CF commander hold his tongue, which surprisingly he did, perhaps realising that he was about to start into a tirade at an allied commander in his own office on his own military base. AC smirked slightly, reaching into a draw of the desk to produce a bottle of local hooch and three glasses. He dumped the glasses on the table with a clatter of glass on glass, and pulling the cork out of the bottle with his teeth to spit it on the floor, poured three slightly sloppy glasses. He then swapped the bottle for a glass, and leaned back in his chair.

"Have a drink," AC said when neither of the other two men made a move to take up the offered glasses.

"I don't think now is the time to..." Okami began, as Deadmeat reached down with his free hand and took up one of the two remaining glasses.

"Have a drink with me," AC repeated, in a tone that brokered no argument. Okami knew that tone, and after a moment's consideration, lifted the final glass from the dusty and slightly liquid stained surface.

"What shall we drink to?" Okami asked, his tone light, but clearly cautious.

"Why success, of course," AC replied with a glint in his eye, and downed the contents of his glass.

"Um, to success then," Okami replied, sculling his own drink as Deadmeat did the same. To his dry, dusty throat, the alcohol was as much of a blessing as it was a curse, and it was all Okami could do not to cough as he put the glass down on the table. When he realised the two OA leaders were now giving him their full attention, he cleared his throat and continued.

"What, exactly, would you be calling success at this point?" Okami asked, his ire suddenly dulled by the warm feeling spreading out from his mid-section as the alcohol went to work.

"Why the success of my plan thus far, of course," AC said, leaning back after putting his now empty glass back on the desk and folding his hands behind his head.

"And exactly what was so successful about the thumping three of us just personally took in zone Charlie-one?" Okami asked, his aggravation returning with a rush. "If it wasn't for those damn Juraian mechs dropping in, we would have had that..."

"Yes, yes," AC cut in, rolling his eyes. "We lost a battle, but the war is, in fact, going far better than I think you comprehend at this point, my dear ally."

"Clearly," Okami replied, a little stymied by AC's take on the current situation, "and exactly how would a full retreat from the southern sectors equate to the war going well?"

"You're clearly not seeing the big picture," Deadmeat cut in, as the console built into the desktop beeped and came on, showing the sitrep that AC had requested before he'd entered the office.

"Ah, good timing," AC commented, dropping his feet to the floor and manipulating the touch screen keyboard to bring up a map of the equatorial region of the Valgardis continent. It showed the southern battle areas that were now in the hands of the invaders, and the northern outposts of the defensive line that would be the enemies' next targets once they had fortified their newly won territories and moved their next wave of mechs up.

"By midday, we will have the bulk of our forces on the northern side of the desert," AC said calmly, ignoring Okami's fluster, "and the enemy should be pushing across the desert within the next seventy-two hours, if our intel on their force deployment capabilities holds up."

"Still not seeing success here," Okami said, his tone petulant.

"Ah, but what about if I overlay a weather prediction model over the enemies' predicted movement for the next four days?" AC asked, adjusting the controls until the scenario he'd just described played itself out, over and over on the screen below the surface of the desk. Okami watched, as the enemy force markers moved out into the deep desert and were engulfed with numerous sandstorms that began criss-crossing the region.

"Storm season," Okami said, and the OA commanders could almost see the light bulb go on over the CF commander's head. "I've read about it. You were just delaying them long enough to get them caught up in the sandstorms that were due any time now." Okami nodded.

"Well if we'd managed to push them straight back to their LZ and off planet, that would also have been just fine," AC said, "but the chances of that were low, seeing they had a concentration of their forces, and we were working from half way across the planet. But yes, we held on to the southern desert bases just long enough to allow the storm season to hit. With any luck, MT-TD will be buoyed by their successes in the south, and may head straight out into the deep desert to keep pushing us back toward the citadel, and they will be up to their mech's armpits in sand so quick it'll make their head's spin." AC chuckled at this. Okami was less impressed, rubbing some sand out of his eye with one index finger.

"Well I suppose this makes up somewhat for being blown out of my Avatar by those damn Juraians," Okami said, rubbing his hand across the fine layer of sand encrusted stubble on his chin.

"Look, Okami," Deadmeat began, his tone understanding, "you're tired, dirty, and, I'd expect, pretty darn hungry by now. Head out to the commander's billet, get cleaned up and fed, and catch some rack time. There won't be much fighting for a while now, so we'll call you for the next strategy meeting at 0800 tomorrow morning." Deadmeat reached up to put a hand on the CF leader's shoulder. "Is that suitable?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Okami agreed after a moment, "I'm still coming down off combat nerves. I'll go clean up." He turned and walked half way toward the door before turning back. "But you'll call me if anything comes up?"

"For sure," AC replied, but his sincere tone was not as rock-solid as Deadmeat's. Okami gave the OA Chairman a suspicious look, but decided he didn't have the energy to pursue it, and turning, headed out the door.

"God, I thought he'd never leave," Deadmeat said after the door had been closed a few moments. AC nodded agreement.

"A useful fellow, but he forgets who's planet he's on," AC said, his look taking on a hard edge. "But now he's gone, I need a word with you, Supervisor Deadmeat." The OA second-in-command resisted the urge to swallow nervously. "Just what is this I hear about sanctioned enemy pilot-killing, outside their mechs? MT have put in a formal complaint, and seeing they now control the battlefields that we were recently fighting over, I suspect they have at least some evidence to back it up. If one of the major Houses picks up on this, we could lose supply lines..."

"It was never officially sanctioned," Deadmeat replied, his tone strong, although he was choosing his words carefully. "It just wasn't discouraged." AC gave the Supervisor a curious look. "We have some new pilots in the ranks, absorbed from a pirate group called the 'Red Devils,' who don't tend to fight with the expected 'honourable treatment of ex-combatant's' that we as governmental bodies do. Some of them got it into their heads that the war would go better for us if the enemy had less pilots to put in mechs, which is true..."

"But!" AC said, cutting in. "If we start killing their pilots instead of capturing and exchanging them for our captured Mechwarriors, they will have every right to do the same to us, and condemn us to all our allies. We can't afford that sort of bad rep, no matter how much we might gain in the short term from the practice."

"True enough," Deadmeat said, making some notes on his data pad. "I'll have the offending pilots taken into custody - there are only two of them left - turned over to MT for a judicial hearing, and have a proclamation circulated condemning the practice. The third offender was killed two nights ago east of Giddion Base."

"Killed, at night?" AC asked, pouring himself another glass of hooch. He held the bottle over Deadmeat's glass, and gave the Supervisor a questioning look, to which Deadmeat shook his head.

"Yes," Deadmeat said, calling up a report on his pad, "the ex-pirate was piloting a Raven on night patrol, when he reported that he was chasing down some sort of wheeled enemy vehicle fleeing east towards the dry river course that leads into the Darius Rift." AC nodded, he knew the area in question at least in passing. "Well bits of the Raven were found at the bottom of the Rift the next day by an SRT, but it had suffered a core breach, and there was no sign of an escape pod launch, so he's now down as an ex, ex-pirate." AC sniffed at the joke.

"So this enemy vehicle got away?" AC asked, curiosity tugging his brows together.

"It has evaded destruction or capture so far, yes," Deadmeat replied after checking his notes. "It's continued north and then further east, away from the enemy LZ. We did send some mechs out after it very early the other morning, but they were recalled when Giddion Base was hit the last time before it fell to the enemy."

"Curious," AC commented, rubbing the stubble and sand on his own chin. "God I need a shower," he said, standing. "Send a demi-lance of mediums out to run it down, use one of the smaller dropships to get them there, but don't risk the hardware if the enemy have air superiority or a sandstorm is coming in. No point in wasting resources at this point." AC walked toward the door, put his hand on the door handle, and then turned back before opening it. "I'm going to get cleaned up and fed," he told Deadmeat. "Tell the pilots assigned to this mission to try to bring at least one of the crew of that vehicle in for questioning. I want to know what they are doing way out there."

"Yessir," Deadmeat replied, as his CO opened the door and strode through.


Deep eastern Salomish desert, Southern Valgardis, planet The Stepps.
18th February 3070: Afternoon

The rescue of Tokomi Arizona was not going the way Deathwing Tor had envisaged when he and his two co-conspirators had set out two days before. If getting down the side of a rift valley hadn't been hard enough, with the RRV almost tumbling to their collective doom several times, they'd had to shelter under a rock outcrop during a aerial battle over the area the following day. Deciding that it would be safest to travel at night and hole up where they could during the daylight hours, they waited until dark to move the RRV again. They'd filled in the time taking turns at sleep, and using the ICB dirt bike that Mondo said was added to the RRV's payload for 'scouting purposes' for just that; scouting a path north, out of the rift valley and back into the desert propper.

That had not been Deathwing's original plan, until Kurt had pointed out that the rift valley was one huge box canyon in the side of a mountain range, one running east to west between the desert and the more arable lands to the south. There was a good reason why few of the locals came out this way; all you got was desert and rocky valleys that went nowhere, and it was damn hard to get to from anywhere worth being - a fact to which DW had been made well aware. So they were back on the sand dunes by the second night of their travel east, hoping to either find a pass across the rocky mountains, or to run out of mountain range altogether, whichever came first. The RRV was kitted out for this sort of surface, not the rocks of the night before, and they made much better time, but still, it hadn't helped. There was nowhere to hole up when the sun came up on the second day; just mile after mile of desert dunes and open sky. And then late in the morning, as they hunted fruitlessly for a shady spot to hide, Kurt had picked up the radar trace that had put them all on edge. Well not Ari; he spent most of his time in a healing meditative state. DW didn't know if this was helping, but at least he wasn't getting any worse.

The trace turned out to be a small aerodyne dropship, and their hearts leapt in the hope that it was allied craft sent to rescue them, until it dropped three medium mechs on their track. When Kurt had announced this, Mondo, who was taking a turn at driving, had put his foot as far to the floor as he dared. It had then become a race, one which the heat, and the rolling dunes, seemed determined to have them loose. The mechs continued to gain on them with frightening ease.

"Clear, line-of-sight radar contact, twelve hundred metres out and closing," Kurt called out from the radar station, his tone tense after their last scrap with enemy mechs. "Should I activate IFF?"

"No," Mondo said, winding the steering wheel to better scale the top of a particularly large dune. "They know who we are, and we don't have the dark to hide us. They can just follow our tracks and it'd only slow us down." While Mondo replied, Deathwing had activated the rear-facing cameras, and zoomed in on the enemy mechs chasing them. As they reached the zenith of the current dune they were climbing, the screens above the driver and passenger seats showed a Shadowcat, a Strider and a Chimera weaving across the dunes behind them, closing steadily, their images wavering in the heat haze coming off the scorching sands.

"At their present rate of closure, we're going to start taking fire in about two minutes, give or take for line of sight and possible rough ground ahead," DW said, reading the results of his calculations from the terminal in front of him.

"Well then, we'd better find some good cover, and soon," Mondo said, gritting his teeth as the RRV tilted over the top of the dune and raced down the other side, thankfully out of sight of their pursuers for a short time. "This is not a race we are going to win. The engines are only barely dealing with the heat of this little sprint, and with the day still heating up, we may overheat before it's over. Damn but I need to add a real heat sink to this bus. It's not a mech, you know," he added as DW fixed him with a reproachful glare.

"Kurt, you see anything hopeful on the radar?" DW asked the recruit as he prepared to spot the perusing mechs when they started to climb the next dune.

"Not so far, Sir," Kurt replied, his tone apologetic. "All I'm getting is sporadic radar contacts from behind us, and nothing back from ahead but dune after dune after... waitaminute."

"WHAT?" Mondo demanded, his tension evident.

"Um, I'm not sure. I'm getting a large, but weak radar reflection out ahead, and the dunes seem to be thinning. There's a salt pan ahead... we'll be out in the open for about nine hundred metres!" Kurt finished.

"Crap," DW and Mondo said in unison, glanced at each other, and then went back to their duties. It was no time to be amused. They travelled on in silence for another minute, before Kurt's shrill tone broke the tense silence.

"Radar traces firming up behind us again, ranging to nine hundred and fifty metres," Kurt declared.

"Line of sight to enemy," DW added moments later. "INCOMING FIRE!" he added. "EVADE, EVADE!" Mondo didn't need to be told. He was already throwing the RRV into a winding course up the side of the current dune. Long range AC fire and a PPC blast smashed into the dune behind them, throwing up gouts of sand, and molten glass in the case of the PPC impact.

"Sh*t!" DW said, having almost ducked when he watched the fire come in on them. "Mondo, what sort of damage can this bus take and keep going?"

"Depends," Mondo said, hauling on the steering wheel, sending them back the other way. "we can take a few glancing rounds from light autocannon. A direct hit from a PPC will probably melt the back off us, though. Of course if they hit any of the wheel's or drive train, we're finished. We can take a hit to the trailer without issue, as long as it doesn't end up acting as an anchor if it's axel gets snapped."

"Well then," DW said, his tone a lot lighter than he felt, "you'd better just keep dodging then."

"Yes, SIR!" Mondo replied, hauling on the wheel again, poking his tongue out at his long time friend.

Mondo's jinking was slowing their pace across the desert, but the incoming fire was also slowing the two firing mechs due to the need for heat dissipation. Luck, or what little they had of it, was working for the beleaguered RRV crew, as Mondo had managed to steer them out of the path of the incoming fire, but the enemy mechs were still closing. Then their luck ran out.

"Clear area ahead," Kurt announced. "Salt pan. Radar says it's eight hundred metres across."

"Floor it," DW said, his teeth clenched. Mondo didn't need prompting. As soon as the RRV's wheels hit sand after topping the final dune before the large, open area, his foot went right to the floor. "Good news is they shouldn't have LOS on us again until the hit the peak of that last dune," DW said after a few moments of their headlong flight across the salt pan, "bad news is we probably won't quite be back into the dunes on the far side by the time they reach it."

"Damnit," Kurt exclaimed, real despair in his tone, and DW was taken aback for a moment that the quiet, ex-farm boy had finally become more vocal. DW didn't blame the kid, though. It was a rough initiation to the Cadre.

"Well make it, somehow," DW said, not really sure he believed it himself.

"Yeah, we're not done for, yet," Mondo chimed in. "I've got an idea that might get us out of the pan in one piece, but you're going to have to concentrate. That Chimera, the mech with the big missile pod on its shoulder, is likely armed with a gauss cannon and missiles, and is ahead of his buddies by several hundred metres now due to lack of a clear firing solution. We've not presented it with much of a missile lock-on chance so far, and we've been out of range of that big-arse cannon to this point, but when he reaches the lip of the salt pan, all bets are off, and this bus surely can't take a gauss slug and keep going. So be ready on the IFF control, and that big red switch on the right hand side."

"What's that for?" Kurt asked, quite rightly.

"LAMS," Mondo said, a grin spreading across his features, "Laser Anti-Missile System," he added moments later for Kurt's benefit. DW looked at him askance.

"So what's that gonna cost us to activate, along with the IFF," DW asked.

"Oh about half our straight-line speed," Mondo said, but it's better than being dead.

"Just get up that first dune on the far side before they are activated," DW demanded.

"Not going to happen," Mondo said, "but by that time we will be travelling almost at right angles to his fire, I hope."

"And I hope it works," DW said, still unsure of what Mondo hoped to achieve.

All too soon Kurt called out that the closest enemy radar trace was traversing the last dune, and Mondo hauled over on the big steering wheel, turning the RRV to a three-quarter horizontal trajectory to their pursuit.

"He's crested, firing," DW announced, and a huge gauss slug pounded into the dune they were about to start an oblique climb up. The impact hammered into the loose sand, flinging a cloud of grains across the fleeing RRV.

"IFF now!" Mondo said to Kurt, and the recruit threw the switch. "And LAMS after the..." A loud beeping noise filled the cabin, one that the two Mechwarriors in the RRV crew recognised all too well. Kurt must have too, because he activated the LAMS control and the RRV slowed noticeably. The screens in the cabin were trained on the incoming missiles, and DW watched, powerless, as they tracked and homed in on the rescue vehicle.

"C'mon," DW pleaded with the RRV's systems, as the whine of the now deployed point defence lasers on the front and back of the vehicle filled the cabin. DW watched as missiles from the flight, probably and lrm20, were picked out of the sky. Their number was whittled down considerably, but it wasn't going to be enough.

"Brace for..." was all that DW managed to get out before the remaining missiles seemed to veer slightly to the right of the visual feed. Behind them, orange blossoms of detonating warheads flashed into existence, pock-marking the dune like small meteors. The concussion from the detonations threw the RRV around like a cork on a windswept sea.

"Kurt!" Mondo yelled over the rumble of exploding ordinance and the shaking of the vehicle, "cut both systems. His weapons are recycling and we need the power back to climb this dune." Kurt dutifully obeyed, and Mondo turned the RRV more steeply into the dune's face, giving the large vehicle everything he could to make the crest before the enemy could fire again. Seconds crept by, and they all held their breaths.

Another gauss slug slammed into the dune, this time in front of the RRV, and Mondo had to fight the controls to maintain any forward momentum at all in the face of a wave of sand. He expertly climbed the RRV over the shifting sands, and poured on the power toward the dune lip as more loud beeps echoed around the cabin.

"We've only got one laser facing the right direction this time, and we can't afford the IFF," Mondo said, clenching his teeth. "Brace for impact!" All three men hung on to whatever was convenient, and the whine of the rear LAMS system informed them that death was coming to call. The RRV reached the lip of the dune, and slipped across it just as the missiles arrived. The top of the dune was obliterated by the orange fireballs, and out of the conflagration the RRV was blown down the far side of the dune. It slid down the shifting sands, fortunately not rolling due to the width of the sand tyres, and came to rest in the shallow valley between their half-obliterated dune and the next.

Inside the rattled cabin, the three Tribesman shook their heads and blinked furiously in an attempt to ease their shell shock. Mondo tried the ignition, but the engines had overheated, and refused to start.

"Sh*t, we've been cooked," Mondo nearly shouted, "we've got to let the engines cool down before we can move again."

"That's..." DW groped for the right words, "not good." It was a lame finish, but it was all he had.

"Sirs," Kurt said, as their ears started to work again, "I think the enemy are trying to contact us, local channel thirty-one, no encryption." DW flicked the coms over to the proffered settings, and a cold voice issued from the cabin speakers.

"MT pirate scum, this is your last chance. Surrender now, leave your vehicle and await incarceration by OA forces, or we will destroy you." DW and Mondo looked at each other meaningfully. "What is your answer?" the enemy voice finished.

"Get this thing moving," DW growled to Mondo, and then picked up the freehand mic from the coms unit. "OA Mechwarrior, we have received your kind greetings and recognise your magnanimous invitation, but we are disinclined to acquiesce to your request at this juncture." There was an almost ten second silence on the coms channel. The confusion and delay was all DW could hope for. Then there was a beep from Kurt's station.

"Enemy contact, five hundred metres and closing," Kurt reported. "He's bearing down on us. We need to go!"

"I know, guys," Mondo said, working the drivers controls furiously, "working on it."

"MT scum, surrender now or die," the enemy voice said, putting it as simply as possible. "Yes or no is the only acceptable response. Do you comply?"

"Damn shame you didn't put a coolant flush in this thing, either," DW muttered, and Mondo started. They looked at each other.

"But I did," Mondo said, triumphant, and hit a switch on his side of the centre console. A green haze of gas flooded out from the RRV's bonnet. "I've just been so busy, I'd forgotten about it."

"Go you," DW said, rolling his eyes. Mondo smiled as the twin engines of the RRV roared to life.

"OA Mechwarrior," DW said into the mic as Mondo hauled on the big steering wheel yet again, and sent them accelerating up the next dune. "We've seen what you do to captured pilots, so in response to your generous offer, I have one thing to say. You go to hell. You go to hell and you die."

"It is you who will be dying," the cold voice replied. Mondo poured on the speed, but they all had the feeling it wouldn't be enough.

"Oh crap!" Kurt exclaimed, moments later, "he's just lit off jump jets. He'll have line of sight on us any second." The two Tor Knight's looked at each other, eyes wide. They knew they'd likely go down to a third volley of missiles, no time for tactics, no time for tricks. "Wait, I've got another radar trace, this one in the air, closing fast," Kurt added.

DW flicked the chase camera skywards, and picked up a black dot in the sky, getting larger as the seconds ticked slowly past. Then his high-mag view of the UFO was blocked by the dark shape of a jumping Chimera, jump jets aflame, pushing towards the zenith of his flight.

"Jink, Mondo, fer the love of the Cadre, jink!" DW yelled, and Mondo threw the RRV hard to the left. A gauss slug slammed into the sand right where the big truck would have been if they'd stayed their course, and Mondo again fought the controls to keep them moving.

"Here comes the lock, and we're screwed," Mondo said, hauling on the steering wheel anyway, trying to keep that lock off them for as long as possible. But it wasn't to be. The beeps of a missile launch on them echoed like a death knell through the cabin. Mondo swallowed hard, and DW zoomed the chase camera view back to watch their death's come calling. It was all he could think to do. And then he noticed that the black dot was much bigger now. He made it out to be a Visigoth Omni Aerospace Fighter, and it fired on the now falling Chimera.

The OA pilot was either too busy killing an virtually unarmed rescue vehicle, or just didn't figure on the eleventh hour rescue, but the MT Aerospace Fighter put everything he had into the falling OA mech. The ordinance struck home on the back of the enemy mech, shredding the weak back armour and blowing out through the large missile shoulder of the Chimera, and reaching deep into the falling mech's internals. One of the systems destroyed by this critical hit was the radar and tracking suite.

With the feedback from their tracking system's destruction, the missiles lost all sense of direction, spraying off to all points of the compass. DW had his teeth clenched and his eyes closed when he felt and heard the detonating missiles, far more distant than he could have possibly hoped. He checked the screen, to see the smoking wreck of the Chimera falling out of the sky, to disappear behind the last dune as they crested and rolled down the far side of their current one. Then the Visigoth howled overhead, pulling up to gain altitude after it's desperate combat dive.

"Damn," Kurt said, almost in awe, "are all your battles as close a shave as this one?"

"Unfortunately, most are," Mondo had to admit. DW just nodded. Then the coms crackled to life.

"This is Plunderer One Nine to allied RRV, do you copy?" a far more friendly voice came from the cabin speakers this time round. It was all the Tribesman in the cabin could do not to cheer. The Aerospace fighter was circling overhead, and even at that close range, the signal was fading in and out.

"Splash one pursuing mech," the voice said, and this time the boys did cheer. "What is the condition of the allied Warlord?" the voice asked next. DW checked Arizona's readouts. The Warlord looked a little shaken, but the patient transport cacoon seemed to have kept Ari from bouncing around too much. He didn't appear to be in any immediate danger.

"He's holding up well, under the circumstances," DW replied.

"Roger that," the allied pilot said. "The other two enemy mechs are holding back after the destruction of their demi-lance mate, but I don't think it's entirely because of my actions. Have you looked at your lead sensors recently?" Mondo and DW glanced at each other.

"Kurt?" DW asked.

"Checking," Kurt said.

"Don't bother," Mondo said as they reached the top of the next big dune, "It's pretty obvious." Laid out before them was a sea of smaller dunes, which were being inexorably swallowed by a gigantic wall of billowing sand reaching high into the sky, striated by the flashes of mammoth static discharges, that was being blown rapidly toward them.

"I have to leave the area," the MT pilot said, "or be downed by the storm. Good luck, out." And before the RRV could reply, the Visigoth took off directly west, gaining altitude to avoid fire from the OA mechs, now fleeing in the same direction.

Mondo sighed, and tensed to laboriously turn the RRV to run with the rest, when Kurt put a hand on his shoulder, giving the driver pause as he turned to face the recruit.

"Don't," Kurt said, and Mondo could see a steely resolve in the young cadet's eyes. "You can't outrun it, and trying will only keep you in it longer. Head straight on in until the engines choke. These storms are fierce, but shallow. We'll be on the other side much quicker if we go straight on, and further away from pursuing mechs that might not be 'killed' by friendly fighters next time." Kurt nodded at Mondo, and the superior officer finally decided to take the locals advice. He looked over at Deathwing, who nodded too, seeing the wisdom in the younger man's assessment.

Without another word they accelerated, plunging headlong into the base of the mile-high sand storm.

To be continued...

Post XIV

“…Don't count your chickens before they’re hatched…”

Old farming proverb.

Dropship Hammerfall, MT/TD Dropzone Base, Jergenson Ranch, Outer Solomish, Southern Valgardis, Planet The Stepps.
18th February 3070: Early Evening


The raucous sounds of celebrating Mechwarriors, and those from the support crews who weren’t on duty, echoed down the corridors to Nailor’s office from the main deck of the dropship Hammerfall. The Brigadier General looked up from his paperwork, over the edge of his gold-rimmed spectacles, to consider the doorway and the sounds floating through it. A moment later he glanced down, closing his eyes and shaking his head, before returning his notice to the large data pad in his hands. He scrolled to the bottom of the entry, as happy as he could be with its contents - and knowing the man chosen for the very secret and very important mission, Rogue Mandaka, wouldn't be - signed on the dotted line with the pad stylus. As he put the stylus down, there was a knock at the partially open hatch, and placing his spectacles in their mother-of-pearl case, Nailor waved KB deVega in. The Colonel entered, looking sharp - if a little out of place - in his dress uniform, as he always did when he was required to turn it out.

"I'm not happy with this... celebration," KB said, voicing Nailor's own concerns as he strode up to the CO's desk to lean against it. "It's not right to be getting a liquored up when all we've done is pushed the enemy back across the desert."

"I know, Killer," Nailor agreed, switching off the pad and getting to his feet, reflexively straightening his own dress uniform by pulling the sides of the coat down, "but the troops need something to celebrate, and after all that time sitting on our collective posteriors at the northern nadir, and the hard-won battles in the southern desert, they need to blow off a little steam, if nothing else. After all, it's only a few drinks. They'll be back at it tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," KB said, his agreement less than sincere, "but it just doesn't seem right. All the worst fighting is still ahead of us. We've got to fight out of the desert and up those damn steppes, and then there's the citadel at the end. It's going to be up hill all the way, both figuratively and literally. Not to mention that other little job I saw you signing off on when I walked in. Best we could come up with on that one without tipping our hand, I'm afraid." KB gave a little shrug, and Nailor nodded agreement as he led them out of his office and down the corridor, toward the sounds of revelry.

"But they still need to feel like they've achieved something, and they have," Nailor replied, going back to the previous topic. "And now we just have to keep achieving, in more ways than one... oh here we are." A grey-clad guard opened a hatch, and they stepped out of an upper-deck door onto the main hanger gantry. As the two commanders moved across towards the main observation platform, which was decked out with bunting for the celebration, a search light was focused on them, the music died away, and some members of the crowd cheered as the general conversations died away. As they stepped onto the platform, a chant of "MT, MT, MT" was taken up, and it took Nailor waving his outstretched hands downward quite a few times to get the rabble to quieten down. He gave them a few moments before he addressed a microphone placed there for this very purpose.

"Tribesman, Juraians, members of the new MT-TD alliance all," Nailor began, his strong voice echoing slightly off the metallic walls. He glanced around, noting a few of the purple and black uniforms of the Juraians among his own men's red, blue and muted orange. "Welcome to the main hanger deck of the MTDS Hammerfall, or as it is tonight, the main bar!" There was a smattering of laughter at this. "My fellow warriors and support crews, we have done a mighty thing here over the last few days. We have driven a well prepared and provisioned enemy back across the desert, and I can now officially announce that we control the southern desert regions of the invasion corridor." A cheer went up, and laughter and conversation broke out for a few moments. "However!" Nailor said, and waited for silence to return. "However," he repeated when he could be heard again, "our job here is far from finished. As such, the bar will close at twenty-two hundred hours..." there were some groans and general unimpressed noises, "... and there is a maximum of five drinks per person for the night." There were pleading calls, shouts and hollers, as some of the more inebriated individuals voiced their disagreement at these limits.

"And it looks like some have already reached that limit," KB added, as a few of the naysayers staggered around on the deck below, much to the amusement of the other revellers.

"Regardless," Nailor said in a tone intended to regain attention, which it did, "Colonel deVega will now make a short statement, and then we'll join you for a drink!" A cheer went up again - more for the drink than the coming speech.

"Pilots and support crews of the MT-TD alliance," KB began, "I am very proud of you all!" This got a round of cheering and applause. "We have completed phase one of the campaign, and with a reasonable rate of both equipment and personnel loss." The cheers here were a little less enthusiastic, as officers and enlisted alike remembered their fallen comrades. "We will remembered our fallen brethren, and have a drink to their sacrifice!" Another cheer, and much swilling of drinks. "But I ask of you, don't get too drunk tonight," KB halted as a derisive tone rose from the revellers, "for we still have much more fighting to do." There were a few more cheers, mainly from the Mechwarriors at this. "Enjoy tonight, gentlemen and ladies, because tomorrow all but the LZ defence forces - left behind to deal with any raids from enemy forces further south - will strike out across the deep desert to take on the OA military, one step closer to our goal; retaking the capital!" A wild cheer went up from the gathered crowd; after all, it was what they were all there to do.

KB nodded and stepped away from the microphone, back to where Nailor was waiting. The spotlight faded and the music came back up, and a thoughtful waiter put foaming glass tankards of beer in both commander's hands. They both took a long chug, and then leant back on the wall, relaxing a bit. They managed all of five minutes of conversation with the other officers on the gantry - and most of the contents of their glasses - before a grey-clad guard came up and spoke into the Brigadier General's ear. Nailor grimaced slightly, then nodded to the guard who hurried away. Emptying his glass with one last big swallow, Nailor put it on a passing waiter's tray, and motioned KB to do the same, then follow him. KB had to chug a good few mouth-fulls, then dumped his glass - a little harder than he'd intended - down on the same tray before hurrying after his quickly disappearing CO. deVega caught up with Grey just as the Invasion CO deposited himself in his command chair behind his desk.

"What now?" KB asked, seeming rather flustered from the sudden departure from the party. "You know when I said we shouldn't be celebrating, I didn't mean I didn't wanna go to the bash, seeing it was happening anyway."

"I realise that, KB," Nailor said, his tone all business, "but I was just now informed that the owner of the land we are on, Conrad Jergenson, wants to speak to us," KB's face darkened at the repercussions this conversation could generate, "and seeing his son is MIA after contact with Plunderer One-Nine, three enemy mechs and a sand storm, I thought we ought to speak with him."

"Fair enough," KB said, and shook himself. He had just enough time to run a hand through his hair, straighten his uniform, and take up his usual relaxed pose at the side of Nailor's desk before there was a rap on the hatchway.

"A Conrad Jergenson to see you, Sirs," the grey-clad guard at the hatchway said through the opening, and Nailor nodded to him.

"Send him in." The guard's head retreated and the farmer, still wearing his field clothes, stepped through the hatch and walked up to the far side of the CO's desk.

"Brigadier General Grey, Colonel deVega," Conrad said, nodding to each man in turn.

"Please, take a seat," Nailor said, waving his hand toward a chair on the opposite side of his desk, facing him.

"Thank you, but I'd rather stand," the farmer said, "old legs like to be kept moving." Nailor nodded understanding.

"So what can we do for you?" Nailor asked, not wanting to pre-empt the man's reason for visiting.

"Well, it's more what we can do for each other," Jergenson said, fixing first Nailor, and then KB, with a serious look.

"Please, do tell," Nailor said, waving a small, open handed gesture.

"Well first off, I've not seen my boy, Kurt, for a few days, and I was hoping to get some news of his whereabouts, and if he was in good health, for his mother, you know?" Conrad said, his tone suggesting that the worried party was in fact his wife, however both Nailor and KB noted the furrow in the farmers brow, and the tense set of the man's shoulders.

"Ah," Nailor said, throwing a glance at KB. KB was nodding almost imperceptibly. "Well I can't tell you exactly where your son is, but I can tell you he's on a secret mission for the Alliance. It involves the rescue of a very highly ranked allied officer, and presuming he and his party are successful, his actions, if found to be forthright, will help greatly in his admission to the Cadre."

"So what your saying is he's off helping rescue some big-wig, and if he doesn't balls it up, it'll look good on his record," the farmer rephrased Grey's statement.

"Um, yes, more or less," KB said, to fill a gap in the exchange. "He went along to provide local area knowledge." The farmer nodded.

"Sounds like Kurt," he said, his tone slightly bitter, "ready to help, no matter how much danger it puts him in." It was the MT commanders' turn to nod.

"Well from the last report we got, earlier today, he's well, and not in immediate danger," KB said, stretching the truth on that last bit as far as he felt it would go before it snapped.

"At least that gives me something to tell his mother," Conrad said, rubbing his chin with his hand. "You know he didn't discuss this decision to join your forces with his family. Just up and did it. He figured the planet needed liberating, and he was going to be forced to join the OA Planetary Defence Force shortly after his eighteenth birthday anyway, so..." KB and Nailor nodded again. "Now don't get me wrong," the farmer continued, "I don't got nothing against MT or yer allies, it's just when you landed smack bang in the middle of my farm... well it was a bit of a shock." Nailor and KB looked at each other, then back at Jergenson. "Well I got over that surprise, and I've come to see you guys as about as fair and even-handed a military junta as we could hope to have out here in the periphery, so if my son finds you worth supporting with his life, I'd like to pass on some information, and some advice, that might just save you some lives and equipment, if yer willing to listen?"

Nailor and KB looked at each other again, and then Nailor spoke.

"We happy to consider any intel or suggestions provided to us by reputable sources, which we consider you are, being a relative to a recruit in the Tribe's service," Nailor said. "Of course, we can't discuss any details of operations with you..."

"Of course," Conrad said, and actually sat down in the previously offered seat for the first time. He leant forward, his tone becoming quite conspiratorial. "I understand you plan to strike out across the desert in the morning, to attack the OA forces that fled north earlier today?"

"Yes," KB said, crossing his arms, and Conrad turned to the man perched on the edge of the table. "That's the general thrust of the next phase of our attack. I can't give out any more detail, however, and..."

"Well I'm telling you," the farmer cut the Colonel off, to the military man's great surprise, "that striking out in force across the desert would be the worst thing you could do." Both Nailor and KB's eyebrows shot up.

"We've got them on the run," KB said, righteous zeal sneaking into his tone, "and you're suggesting that we should just let them settle in and fortify to the north..." Nailor held up his hand to KB in a 'stop' gesture, and KB's steam petered out.

"How so?" Nailor asked, his tone carefully neutral. Conrad dragged his gaze away from deVega to look squarely in Grey's eyes.

"Because in about six hours we'll see a dissipation the temperature inversion that's kept the dust storms in the eastern deep desert, and off the higher sand plain of the main north-south corridor - the area you are calling the Invasion Corridor, if I'm not mistaken. Any force you send through there tomorrow will be hit with multiple, force seven, high-static-discharge dust storms, by oh, about ten am local. You'll either be sand-bound or worse, and easy pickings for aerial, or hot drop attack." Both Nailor and KB were dumbstruck. "Check your weather data from when you previously controlled the planet, if you want conformation," Conrad continued. "Day temperatures break sixty degrees C in the deep desert, night temps down to four degrees C or less, night sand fog, and then whamo, twenty-four hours later, dust storm breakout. Happens the same way every time."

"So how do you know about military matters?" KB asked the farmer as Nailor called up the data files from old weather records, his fingers flying across the keys and he ran some simulations with the new information.

"You think I've always been a farmer?" Conrad said, winking at the surprised Colonel. "I was young and yearning for adventure in my youth, just like all men. I just grew out of it." The bright blue eyes of the farmer fixed KB with a knowing look. "But all farmers know the weather, we have to. And I'm telling you, crossing the desert tomorrow will be bad for you."

"Ah," Nailor said finally, nodding as he looked up at the farmer, and then to KB. "Mr Jergenson here may have just saved us a lot of woe. It all checks out. I can't believe we didn't notice this before."

"Likely you just didn't see the pattern," Conrad said, getting up and brushing the seat of the chair he'd just vacated with his hand. "Well I'm sure you'll need to make new plans, and you don't need me here to get in the way, so I'll just be going." Nailor got up, and rounded his desk quickly.

"Well thank you so very much for you timely assistance," Nailor said, shaking the farmers hand, "and if you have any other important intel to pass our way, my door is always open when I'm on board."

"Yer very welcome," Conrad said, "but I expect you won't be getting much sleep."

"Why, because my door is always open?" Nailor asked, a good-humoured smile on his face.

"No, because you'll be up most of the night remaking your plans," the farmer retorted, deadpan. Nailor dropped the man's hand, and the farmer left without another word.

"You think AC knew about this, and pulled back to try to sucker us into dust storm alley?" KB asked, stepping up next to his CO as the farmer walked away.

"Oh undoubtedly," Nailor replied, watching Jergenson Senior go. "And if the son is anything like the father, we've got a good recruit on our hands." KB nodded agreement, and after Nailor grabbed a few pads from his desk, they headed out to the War Room for a planning update session.

The farmer was right again; they got little sleep that night.

To be continued...