BattleTech

by Loren L. Coleman

  Near her she could see that Lyonor was having similar success against a Warhawk. Her short-range missile salvo had made a good hit and the Warhawk was staggering, ready to go down, an event that occurred after Lyonor’s well-placed PPC bursts in the Warhawk’s gyro area.

  On her forward screen, as Joanna quickly traced out the action of the battle, she saw that the Jade Falcons were holding their own against the Ghost Bears. As far as she could tell, each side had about the same number of fallen or clearly disabled ’Mechs. No one for her to challenge. Looking out the cockpit for a visual check of the battle, she found there was too much smoke and fire to the left of her Hellbringer to discern many details. To her right, where Lyonor was now stalking her next target, the view was clearer and Joanna could see all the way to the edge of the plain, where a tall leafy forest seemed to rise up toward a sky which apparently was darkening fast. A storm was coming.

  She hated storms. In fact, she hated any weather condition that distorted the view of a battle. There had been many times when, caught in a sudden heavy downpour or a blizzard of swirling snow, she had raged as the enemy seemed to shape-shift, become larger or smaller, losing all defining outline, fading in and out of sight. Although it might be just a Clan legend, she had heard that Ghost Bears were particularly dangerous in inclement conditions.

  She spotted a Stormcrow trying to blindside Lyonor, heading toward her with its typical quickness. Lyonor herself was bearing her Summoner down on a Mad Dog that had already suffered considerable damage but had managed to down its own opponent. She destroyed the Mad Dog’s right arm pulse laser, which sputtered flame. Nevertheless, it still came toward the Summoner steadily, a bit slowly. The slowness also seemed to suggest that this particular Ghost Bear pilot was in trouble but, with characteristic Clan persistence, would rather die fighting than take a brief and safe retreat.

  This Stormcrow’s mine then, Joanna thought, and started racing her Hellbringer toward the ambushing ’Mech. She pushed the Hellbringer as hard as she could, trying to get every ounce of energy out of it. Instead, the Hellbringer slowed down and became difficult to handle. Something in one the Hellbringer’s leg actuators must have been hit or chosen this stravag time to malfunction. She felt like her ’Mech was heading toward the Stormcrow at half speed, as if sludging through a field of mud. Working her controls frantically, she tried to increase the speed, but the Hellbringer did not respond. Twisting in her seat, she tried to urge the ’Mech forward with her body. If anything, it seemed to slow down more.

  Ahead of her, Lyonor was in more trouble than she realized. Joanna tried to raise her on the commline, but all signals were jamming and all she heard was noise. She shouted a warning to Lyonor, hoping that maybe her abrasive voice would get through all the static.

  Whether Lyonor heard or not, she suddenly shifted position and shot at the Stormcrow. The shot went wide but it diverted the Stormcrow just enough. It raced past Lyonor’s Summoner.

  It had also accomplished its goal in tempting Lyonor—tricking her—into firing on two different targets! By the rituals of battle, she had agreed to a two-against-one battle!

  If the Ghost Bears could play such games—the same tricks that had cost her a Bloodname twice!—Joanna felt no shame in unleashing her full fury against them. A grand melee. So be it. She worked furiously at her controls, trying to get more power and speed out of the Hellbringer. Ahead of her the storm cloud seemed to be racing toward them with the speed of a Stormcrow.

  Edging her Hellbringer toward the Stormcrow’s path, she watched it begin to make a turn, back toward Lyonor’s Summoner. Its medium lasers were already engaged, sending bolts toward the Summoner. They went astray, but Joanna knew that once the Stormcrow got into close range, it could be deadly. The red bolts seemed brighter against the dark oncoming storm. Joanna could see the lines of rain, the storm was that close.

  Lyonor’s concentration seemed to be on the Mad Dog, which was now reeling, ready to fall. In her mind, Joanna urged the fall with the same intensity she urged her Hellbringer onwards. As it fell, the Mad Dog’s pilot managed a strong green burst from its large pulse laser. Hitting Lyonor’s Summoner, it sent pieces of its ferro-fibrous armor flying. The Summoner rocked slightly from side to side at the laser’s impact, but maintained its position as the Mad Dog fell in front of it, its head just missing the Summoner’s feet. Lyonor should be proud of this one. Her combat skill there shows she should earn a Bloodname.

  But the Stormcrow still headed steadily toward the Summoner. And the storm reached the area, releasing a downpour whose impact felt just as powerful as a hit from a PPC. And her Hellbringer continued to trudge along, going into the heavy wind. Now it was not too far away from the Stormcrow. And Joanna hoped the enemy had not detected her approach.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the scene in eerie colors. To Joanna, it seemed like a chalk drawing, done by a child. The shadows on the Stormcrow seemed sketched on with no relation to any object throwing them. Further in the distance, Lyonor’s ’Mech was more like a smudge against the landscape, its edges uneven, as if the child wielding the chalk had not stayed within the lines.

  In a moment all three ’Mechs were in close proximity to each other. Joanna could see the silhouette of Lyonor through her darkened cockpit shield.

  Power suddenly surged back into the Hellbringer and it lurched forward. Joanna thought she might lose control, but with quick deft movements she manipulated some switches and levers to steady her ’Mech. She felt the ’Mech gradually picking up speed, as if finally responding to her growled urgings.

  The pilot of the Stormcrow clearly had the Summoner in his sights, as more red bolts hit their targets and further weakened the Summoner’s armor. Joanna could see Lyonor silhouetted in her cockpit, and she could visualize the determination on Lyonor’s face as she responded to the Stormcrow’s assault with her PPCs. Aiming toward the legs of the Stormcrow, her shots caused heavy damage to the left leg, sending the Stormcrow staggering. It slowed down and its feet hit the ground at odd angles, reminding Joanna of the limp of a staggering drunk.

  The storm got worse. The wind whipped the rain around the trio of ’Mechs, making them sway almost as much as a well-placed laser burst might have done.

  Now the Hellbringer was racing along as fast as it had formerly been slow. Joanna struggled with her controls. Something in the Hellbringer’s leg actuators needed adjustment. She vowed that, as soon as the battle was over, she would get her tech on it right away to restore the equilibrium.

  The Hellbringer was now closer than the Summoner to the Stormcrow. She could ambush it and down it before its pilot knew what hit him. Taking aim with her right arm PPC, she trembled slightly with anticipation as she neared the point at which, as her judgment indicated, she could release a barrage that would surely prove fatal to the Stormcrow.

  Just before she took the shot, she felt the left side of her Hellbringer suddenly dip and go sideways. It was a moment before she realized it was falling and her PPC attack, instead of targeting the center of the Stormcrow was merely adding to the damage on the Ghost Bear ’Mech’s leg.

  What happened before and after she crashed, she only sorted out later, when she learned that her Hellbringer had indeed stumbled, and where else? On one of those damned holes left behind by the archaeologists. It was a fairly shallow one that the Hellbringer’s left leg plunged into. Someone told her that the leg came down so hard at the bottom of the hole that it unearthed some strange metal artifacts, but Joanna saw the story was clearly legend and gave no credit to it.

  The Hellbringer staggered in reaction to the stumble. Joanna nearly steadied it but, as she tried to lift the left leg out of the hole, it stumbled again, on the lip of the hole. Frantically working controls, she could not bring the Hellbringer under her control and realized that the ’Mech might go down: savashri! As she attempted to raise the Hellbringer’s arm and target other areas of the Stormcrow, she refused to eject and vowed to stay with her ’Mech all the way to
the ground.

  This last stumble finally threw the leg’s actuators completely offline and an alarm in Joanna’s control panel showed the leg malfunctioning, shutting down. A strong push forward with the ’Mech’s other leg dragged the damaged leg along for a step but the right leg began to slide sideways in the mass of mud caused by the heavy storm. The Hellbringer pitched forward, out of control. Joanna struggled to will the ’Mech upright, but the Hellbringer began to collapse. Rocking the throttle full foward, Joanna got another good push from the right leg, thrusting the ’Mech further ahead.

  As she was told later, Joanna’s barrage as her ’Mech fell, both her shots to the leg and those on the Stormcrow torso, set the Ghost Bear ’Mech up for Lyonor’s final attack, which sent the Stormcrow reeling forward. It should have landed on top of the downed Mad Dog, at the Summoner’s feet, again reenacting the traditional heroic picture of one ’Mech defeating another.

  But it did not work out that way.

  The Hellbringer, in spite of its collapsing legs, had been advancing at a stunning speed, and now hurtled onward, even as it fell. One Jade Falcon pilot, who observed it, told Joanna that her ’Mech seemed to turn into a missile as it shot forward, its arc propelling it ahead on its own flight, a flight that sent it crashing into the Summoner.

  Lyonor should not have died. It was just two ’Mechs crashing into each other, something that happened often enough in BattleMech combat. It was just a desperate final burst from the Stormcrow’s lasers that penetrated Lyonor’s already damaged cockpit as the two ’Mechs fell. It was just a damned combination of chance events that sent the red laser burst through Lyonor’s chest and then, if she had any life left in her, crushed her as the pair of machines fell into a shattering and shattered pile.

  Lyonor should not have died. It was not logical. Joanna’s Hellbringer should not have stumbled. It should not have even touched the Stormcrow. The Stormcrow should just have fallen into the traditional warrior tableau of battle. The Summoner, by all the rules of chance, should not have been in the falling Stormcrow’s path.

  But it happened. It all happened. And Lyonor would never fight for the Bloodname she craved.

  • • •

  Afterward, the storm over, Joanna oversaw Lyonor’s body being extracted from her Summoner. She knew from the onset that Lyonor was dead. Her face was peaceful, as if satisfied she had died bravely. The scar on her cheek was so faint now, Joanna could barely discern it.

  Joanna watched the body being carried away. My mistake, she thought, if I had been late to the fight, Lyonor would be alive. Then she seemed to hear Lyonor’s voice in her mind, saying, Not your mistake. We fight, we die. Is that not what is meant by the Way of the Clans?

  Every muscle of Joanna’s body ached from being bounced around her cockpit as the Hellbringer crashed. Her head was on fire with shooting pains, but she did not want to rejoin her unit just yet.

  Joanna stared at the remains of the Summoner and saw that it was now scrap, parts of it usable for other ’Mechs. She remembered the last sight she had of Lyonor’s falling Summoner, as her own ’Mech crashed. Pieces of the Summoner’s aligned crystal steel armor had fallen all around as if part of the storm.

  Next to the Summoner now, she noticed that slivers and chunks of the armor were strewn around the fallen ’Mech. Walking a few steps, she noticed a flash of light, a sparkle, coming from one of the armor pieces. The piece’s radiance made no sense. There was scarcely any light in the dark sky to cause the flash.

  She leaned down and picked up the armor fragment. It was still warm from the battle. There was nothing interesting in its shape or in the battle scars on its surface, but it was from Lyonor’s ’Mech, so she put it in her jacket pocket and trudged on through the mud.

  • • •

  Now she stared at the armor piece and considered tossing it. There seemed no reason to keep it. She really did not want to remember Lyonor anymore, not now or in the future. She held it up, as if measuring it for destruction. She held it for a long while, then shook her head, and placed it instead in the lock-box. She flipped the lock-box cover down and shoved the box under the cot. It clattered on the uneven floor.

  She considered taking a nap, but knew she could not get to sleep.

  Glancing around the decrepit room, her home for who knew how long, she pulled on her gloves, strode through the doorway and slammed the door shut behind her. Outside the air was fresh and a strong breeze hit her. She felt it rumple her long dark hair. Strands of hair brushed against her neck and sent a pleasant shudder through her.

  In the distance she saw what she had hoped for, a group of trainees to kick around. Breaking into a run, breathing in the welcome fresh air, closing her hands into fists, watching rays of light rising off her gloves’ metal studs, she zeroed in on them.

  FOR WANT OF A NAIL

  by Dan C. Duval

  Ramora

  Outworlds Alliance

  March 3067

  Defoe eased the truck to a stop and set the brake. An early spring storm filled the sky with black clouds and thunder rumbled back and forth between the hills and mountains surrounding the site.

  The roadway ran straight up the side of the hill, from the Regimental Base at Danforth, and straight down the other, toward the next stop of his circuit. The Pegasus Scout Hover Tank was grounded into a cut made into the side of the hill, just below the crest where he had parked the truck.

  He jumped down, walked to the back of the truck, and pulled his handcart from behind the cover that shrouded the bed of the truck. He loaded the two big containers of spare components onto the cart and rolled it down the paved path to where the Pegasus sat.

  The old scout tank had survived several battles, as evidenced by the streaks of rust that ran down from the weapon scorings on its armored side. Its engines had not been replaced at the last refit. To fund military expansion, President Avellar exported everything that would generate hard cash or needed goods, such as replacement engines. So now the old hover tank had become a picket outpost, its engine compartment converted to hold tiny living quarters for its crew, and for the additional cabinets of electronics and optics that controlled the sensors scattered across the valley hilltops.

  Active hover tanks smelled of lubricants, half-burnt fuel, and the stale air from under the skirts; this unit smelled of grass, old earth, and maybe a malfunctioning sewage collection unit.

  Defoe placed his access key on the pad next to the scout’s hatch and typed in his clearance code. The hatch sank back into the hull with a hiss and swung inwards. He stepped through the opening and dragged his heavy cart into the darkness within.

  As he turned, a voice said, “Jump, rook.”

  Defoe automatically caught the object tossed at him and it took him a moment to notice that it was a grenade.

  He flung it way from him and it rattled around on the floor of the scout’s cabin, banged unseen into one component cabinet after another.

  Benny, the senior sergeant assigned this week, said, “Don’t be such an ass, Hutchins.”

  “It was just a dummy. Not about to toss a live one to this rook. He might camp on it and try to hatch it.” Neither of the two crewmen could be seen through the backs of their command chairs, but Defoe knew them both, had seen them every other day, every other week, for months now. Benny big, graying, and going to fat; Hutchins tiny, skinny, and seemingly putting more and more of his mass into the long, hooked nose that gave him a rat-face.

  Nothing Defoe could do about it. It was bad enough that, despite the desires that sent him to enlist in the Alliance Borderers Regiment, he had ended up in the Third Battalion, the sole infantry unit in the armored regiment. Even worse, his performance in his early training had relegated him to support functions, rather than the line units.

  The first time he had handled a live grenade, he had activated the grenade and then fumbled the live round onto the ground. When the Drill Instructor shouted at him, he bent over, picked up the arming lever, and threw it
over the safety wall.

  If it had ended there, it might have been alright, but then Defoe had ducked, squatting right over the hissing, smoking grenade, and the DI practically had to throw him out of the way to flip the weapon over the wall before it detonated.

  And the next time they gave him a grenade, he just froze.

  The result was no Line, no armor, just spare parts and supply runs. Pure, boring grunt work.

  The cab of the scout consisted of the two command chairs forward, behind a wide belt of thick, armored ferroglass, both seats surrounded by consoles for movement, armament, and the many sensors. Immediately behind them, a small section of the decking had an engineering panel on one side and a fold-down jumpseat on the other, into which the outer hatch swung when it opened.

  Aft of that, where Defoe stood, was the combination bunkroom-kitchen-commode-dining hall—this entire section would fit into his locker back at Danforth. Defoe had never liked this arrangement, where the commode acted as the base of the fold-down dining table. It would all be stripped out when—and if—the tank received a new engine sometime in the future.

  The two operators spent a five-day tour in this box, never leaving it until relieved by the next crew.

  Defoe flipped down the jumpseat and entered his clearance code on the engineering panel opposite. After the readouts lit up, he started a basic diagnostic of the sensor systems. One module lit up as requiring replacement and he powered down the sensor system, the consoles in the fore-cabin going blank.