PRIDE ANTHOLOGY 2023

_____________________________

THE UNOFFICIAL BATTLETECH FANZINE

This is a free fanzine with PDF, Epub, and Mobi downloadable from https://prideanthology.itch.io/2023

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 CONTENTS

Word From The Amazing, For You From Established Authors

Masquerade, Robin Briseño

Small, Albert Ross

Test Drive, Allen Nickloy

Dragon Slayer, Milla Koponen

Old Wounds, Old Words, Russell Zimmerman

Credits

Copyright
 WORD FROM THE AMAZING

“BattleTech is a such a broad and diverse universe representing

the future of humanity. It's so great to see stories that reflect that future, both in
the canon and from fans who care so much about seeing themselves in the stories
in collections like this. This is top notch work and I wouldn't be surprised to see
more of the fan authors in these pages in the official pages of Shrapnel sooner
than later. It all serves as a reminder that the future is bright—no matter how war
torn the setting is—for everyone wanting to see themselves represented.”

BRYAN YOUNG

“BattleTech is so engaging because it has a place for all of us.

In the world building and fiction, absolutely, but also in the playing community
and on the production side. It is now and always has been a product of a lot of
people’s dreams that somewhere and some when out there, humanity will find a
place to make its dreams and aspirations come true. We all have the chance to
realize ourselves in BattleTech.”

MICHAEL A. STACKPOLE
 MASQUERADE
ROBIN BRISEÑO
@einherjarvalk

SILESIA DISTRICT
SOLARIS VII
LYRAN COMMONWEALTH
6 JUNE 3129

“Hey John, good show today. The usual?”

John Matsumoto’s gaze was fixated on the wall-mounted flatscreen as he
planted his lithe frame atop a weathered stool. The angular silhouette of his Raptor
II seemed ready to march through the screen and directly into the bar. His entrance
music blared from the flatscreen’s tinny speakers, a near-inversion of the rumbling
bass he’d heard in his cockpit when he’d marched into the Steiner Colosseum
earlier that day. Thankfully, his seat at The Gauntlet wasn’t nearly as hot as his
command couch, nor as harshly lit.
“Yeah. Thanks, Sammi,” he muttered.
John saw the young waitress nod an acknowledgement from the corner of his
eye, her black bobbed hair gently dancing to and fro as she did. It reminded him of
the miniskirts his fans would wear in an attempt to woo him, the ones he’d always
eyeballed from behind mirrored sunglasses for all the wrong reasons. He ran a
hand through his own short, stiff hair as if to demonstrate the contrast to himself.
 As Sammi went to work on his drink, John picked apart his replayed
performance with the same hypercritical eye he viewed all his actions through,
now with the added wrinkle of hindsight. The only thing he hated more than his
performance was his ’Mech.
His Raptor II was special. For starters, it didn’t belong to him. It belonged to
the company—Luchadores Interestelar. He hadn’t asked how they’d acquired one
after the Jihad, but he also wasn’t in a position to ask questions. Beggars couldn’t
be choosers, nor could the Dispossessed. The brief moment of excitement he’d felt
upon discovering his new ride was one of the few Raptor IIs that hadn’t been
scrapped or folded into the Republic Armed Forces during Devlin Stone’s
disarmament program had been sapped away almost instantly when he saw what
had been done to it.
The advanced Void Signature System had been torn out, as had one of its
Streak SRM launchers. In its right arm, a Victory Blast Furnace plasma rifle had
been mounted instead. The ’Mech had then been painted with a gaudy
red-and-black camouflage scheme, with the words “Malignant Fire” painted on the
plasma rifle’s housing. The text looked less like a personal flourish and more like
graffiti, with letters scrawled on haphazardly as if etched into the ’Mech with a
giant awl.
The ’Mech he’d been assigned had come with what felt like an endless stack
of contracts, non-disclosure agreements, and conduct forms, all of which he’d
signed dutifully for the sake of employment. He’d signed away his likeness, his
personality, even his name. It all belonged to the company and their writers, to be
changed and tweaked as they saw fit. “Ian” may as well have ceased to exist.
“John” was a stage name, but he was no longer allowed to use anything else in
public. A boring, generic name, for a boring, generic heel.
Not that he’d felt any differently about his old one.
“Here you go, John.” Sammi’s husky voice broke John’s focus as she placed
his cocktail on a napkin, tapping the side of the rocks glass with a black-painted
fingernail. He smiled, nodded again to the bartender, and threw back the chipotle
powder-rimmed drink in a single go. His eyes were fixed to the flatscreen as
tequila, beer, and bitters flooded his stomach and dulled his senses.
John watched himself attempt to sweep his Raptor II’s leg beneath an
opposing Templar III, only to come up short. That had been intentional. His
subsequent fall and negligent discharge of his plasma rifle hadn’t been.
“Bah gawd, this malfin’ fool ain’t hittin’ a damn thing today!” the announcer
boomed without missing a beat.
Nothing except the bottle, John thought. The crowd might have eaten it up, as
they always did when “Big John Matsu” failed to deliver the killing blow, but the
chairman was going to have his head. He had already been on probation for not
pulling the same viewership he had previously, but having a potentially lethal
plasma rifle discharge, unscripted, would cost him at least a hundred thousand
C-Bills in fines, if not his job.
Then again, it wasn’t as if he’d be missed. Vaguely Kuritan villains weren’t
exactly in vogue these days. Maybe it was time to move on.
“Sammi, hit me with another.”
“You got it, boss.”
John watched Sammi pull another glass from beneath the bar, garnishing the
rim before adding the ingredients to her mixer. Her movements were precise,
calculated, confident. She was every bit the professional he was, just a different
kind. Except she smiled while she worked.
“Hey, mind if I ask a personal Q?” John said.
“C’mon John, you’ve been coming here for months. You know I’m an open
book.”
John chewed his lip. There was no easy way to ask what he wanted to, so he
settled for something else. “How do you like your job?”
 Sammi shrugged before shaking the mixer vigorously. “Can’t complain.
Always felt life was too short to view it through one set of eyes, and being here
means I get to see it through a lot more, even if they’ve got their beer goggles on
half the time. Lots of different kindsa people come through The Gauntlet, and the
stories make it worth it even if the tips don’t.”
She poured the contents of the mixer into the prepared glass and slid it across
the bar. “Course, there’s some people who I can’t pry good stories out of, no matter
how drunk they are. Certain celebrities and grizzled mercs and…’Mech
luchadores.” A coy smile crept up along the corners of her mouth. “One of these
days though? I’ll crack ya, John.”
Are you kidding me? he thought. I can’t even crack myself.
“Maybe another night. By the way, you got another customer.” John nodded
to a man and his companion as they entered the bar, sending Sammi scurrying to
the other end of the counter.
His attention returned to the flatscreen broadcast. The Templar III was cutting
away his fallen Raptor II’s faux armor piece by piece with powered down
weapons, like an animal toying with its prey. It was all part of the act, a necessary
sacrifice of dignity for the sake of a job. The Templar III’s armor was real, but his
was only a facade, an inexpensive, consumable mask meant to be broken.
Just one more reason to just bail before this kills me. Or maybe I deserve this.
An all-too-familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
“The hell is this, bitch? I ordered a Steiner PPC! Why did you put bourbon in
my goddamned drink?”
Oh hell. Don’t get involved. You’ve put on enough performances today.
John turned slightly towards the entrance as he sipped his drink, doing his
best to keep an eye on the brewing storm while still distancing himself. Victor
Smithson’s massive frame towered over the bar top, a look of indignant rage lining
his weathered face.
 “Sorry, my mistake,” Sammi began. “Our house special, the Steiner-Davion
PPC, includes bo—”
“Nah nah nah, you’re not ‘sorry’-ing your way outta this one. Nobody
disrespects the King like that. I know how you can make it up to me though.
Lemme get a little peek at those ti—”
Sammi raised her hand in anger, only for Victor to reach out and grab her
wrist mid-slap. She yelped as she struggled against his grip, suddenly realizing the
danger her reflexes had put her in. Victor pulled her arm with a violent jerk,
yanking her halfway over the counter. She continued to struggle as Victor’s free
hand reached for her shirt.
“You either give, or I take. One way or another, I get what I want,” he
sneered.
John slammed back the rest of his drink. Screw it. Gotta play my part.
“Lay another goddamned finger on her and the only thing you’ll be taking is a
ride to the hospital, Vic.”
Vic released Sammi’s wrist, sending her back over the bar top and down to the
floor. “Hoooooly shit. If it ain’t the White Knight himself. Thought you woulda
offed yourself after you left Sanglamore.”
“Nah, still kickin’. I see you’re still Vic the Prick. Thought you hated
women?”
“My unit calls me ‘King’ these days, because the RAF knows a
MechWarrior’s place. And no, don’t hate women, just pussies. Right, babe?” The
stocky, tattooed woman who had followed Victor into the bar nodded approvingly.
John’s face curled in disgust.
Victor gestured at John. “Oh man, this dude! This dude got bounced outta
Sanglamore before he could even finish his MechWarrior training. Got caught one
too many times hanging out at the women’s dorm!” He laughed. “Dunno what they
saw in him, but he was their little knight in shining armor until he flunked out.
Now he’s here pissing away his life in some back-alley bar.”
“And you? What are you doing now, aside from sexually assaulting women in
back-alley bars?” John’s voice rose as he stood. “You should go, Vic. Ain’t your
scene.”
“No no, Johnny boy. That’s what your masters call you now, right? Not Ian
anymore? My scene’s wherever I damn well please.” A predatory grin crept onto
his face as he stalked across the room. His hand dragged along the countertop,
scooping up an empty bottle of Timbiqui Dark before smashing it against the
granite. Victor stopped his advance just over arm’s length from John, wagging the
improvised weapon at his throat.
“You planning to settle old scores tonight, Ian? Or did you turn over your man
card with your contract?”
“I’ll do what I gotta. Or you could just leave. No fighting, no bloodshed, no
harm, no foul.”
Victor threw his head back dramatically and cackled. “Oh, you know that
ain’t my scene neither, buddy. Let’s see if you still know how to throw a real
punch!”
The broken bottle swung through the air in what felt like slow motion. John
dipped low and felt a searing pain as the jagged glass sliced through his flannel
shirt and into his left shoulder. He took a step forward as he weaved through the
follow-up swing and threw a weak jab at Victor’s head.
Victor reared back, letting the punch slip past him. John’s left hand rose from
the other direction, and Victor leaned back further. John’s fist caught nothing but
air, just as his right had.
Just as he intended.
As Victor recoiled to avoid the hook, John twisted his waist and brought his
foot up along the back of Victor’s calf, sweeping his leg out from under him. Victor
stumbled backwards, crashing against the countertop and sliding down against the
panel. Stunned, he braced himself against a barstool as he attempted to stand. It
was the only opening John needed.
John reached down and grabbed Victor by the unkempt tuft of sandy hair that
sat upon his head, then slammed his face into the floor. Blood spattered across the
tile from Victor’s broken nose as he coughed and sputtered incredulously.
“All that? For that fucking Canopian frea-”
John brought his leg back and swung it as hard as he could into the side of
Victor’s ribcage. Victor screamed in agony, his breath now ragged as blood
continued to flow from his face. His groupie wailed as she ran to his side, tears in
her eyes.
Sammi leaned over the bar in shock. “John, what the hell did you do?”
“What I had to! Son of a bitch had it coming!”
Sammi muttered a string of expletives as she leapt over the bar. John stepped
aside, the consequences of his actions beginning to set in. There was no going back
now.
Goddamnit. Goddamnit! “Sammi, I didn’t mean to-”
“Just shut up! Here,” she said, scribbling furiously on a cocktail napkin before
pushing it into his chest. “My apartment. Door code’s 1003. I will handle this, just
get the hell out of here before the cops show up.”
“Sammi…”
“John! For God’s sake, just go! You’ve done enough.”
The words felt like daggers, catching his rebuttal in his throat as he turned to
leave. Sirens echoed through the streets as he slipped into the darkness.

John stared into nothingness as minutes stretched into hours. Sammi’s tiny studio
apartment was well away from The Gauntlet, in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of
Silesia. The silence gnawed at his nerves. Every new noise felt as if it presaged a
Solaris Police Department assault, but it never came.
He had tried to calm his nerves with a hot shower, only to find himself
increasingly agitated when he looked in the mirror. The bright crimson laceration
that now ran down his shoulder felt like it should’ve been more distressing than it
was. Instead, he found himself picking at the rough black stubble beginning to
show along his jaw.
His reflection felt as if it belonged to someone else, someone he wasn’t,
someone he didn’t want to be but had to live as anyway. A man with a presence he
despised, and a persona he’d willingly signed away out of apathy. A man he could
barely stand to be anymore.
John gingerly sat at the foot of Sammi’s bed, trying to disturb the tightly
tucked sheets as little as possible. The window in front of him faced down into the
bustling Solaris streets, but he couldn’t focus on the view. Instead, his eyes drifted
around the room. It was clean, organized, well-decorated. A person lived here, a
person who still had hopes and dreams and love for herself. Personal mementos
adorned the walls, and soft light emanated from the string lights hung from the
ceiling. There was a warmth here, one he’d never felt he deserved in his own
residence, whether it’d been in his dormitory at Sanglamore or his studio in the
International Zone.
It felt different than any room he’d ever had to himself. It felt like a home.
He startled at the sound of the apartment door unlocking, instinctively raising
his hands in surrender as it creaked open. Light spilled in from the doorway,
silhouetting a young woman against the night sky.
“John, it’s okay. It’s just me,” Sammi said softly. “It’s gonna be okay.”
John exhaled slowly as his arms fell back down. “I’m sorry. I…I don’t know
what got into me.”
 Sammi hung her purse on the door handle before settling next to him. “Well,
for what it’s worth, I appreciate it. Vic isn’t pressing charges; I don’t think his ego
is going to let him admit he got his ass beat by a drunk,” she said with a smile. “It’s
all gonna be okay.”
“Is it, Sammi?”
Her expression turned to a worried pout. “John, what’s going on? What was
that all about? I’ve never seen you like that before. Did something happen?”
He nodded. “Long time ago, yeah. Vic’s always been a bully. Like I said, he
had that coming to him. I’m sorry I got you dragged into it. Guy walked in at the
worst possible time, said the worst possible things, did the worst possible things,
and now we’re both paying for it.”
Sammi placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I get the feeling this is
about more than just Vic. You’re a MechWarrior, for god’s sake; I’m sure you’ve
dealt with worse. Look, if you’re holding something back, you can tell me. This
isn’t going to get better until you get it out. Trust me.”
John took a deep breath. It wasn’t going to get any better until he got it out,
but it was never going to be easy. He’d dwelled on it for half a decade, expecting it
to get easier. It had only gotten harder.
Hard times called for tough questions.
“Sammi, earlier I asked you about your job. I actually wanted to know about
something else. Are you happy? Like, with your life?”
Sammi started at John’s sudden earnestness. “I mean, I guess? It was tough,
but I did what I had to so I could just be myself, living life on my own terms, and
now I can’t imagine living any other way. I don’t see what that has to do with you
though.”
“What’s that like?” John asked, his focus now locked on a family photo
perched on Sammi’s dresser.
“Because I don’t know. My whole life, I’ve been whatever someone else
wanted me to be. When I was a kid, I was told I was gonna be a MechWarrior like
my dad and Abuela Luz before him. When I didn’t meet expectations, my parents
shoved me into military school to ‘toughen me up,’ to ‘make a man out of me,’ and
I cocked that up too. Then I ended up here, playing a walking stereotype in some
two-bit MechWarrior soap opera for grown-ass men, being told what to call
myself, what to wear, how to act, and I can’t even do that right. Now I beat the shit
out of some cocky dickhead from my old school, I’m going to lose my job, and I’m
not sure who I’m gonna be without it. I don’t know why I can’t just do what I’m
told, be who I’m told to be, and not malf it all up every damn time!”
John buried his head in his hands. “All I know is I want to feel satisfied, free.
When I watch you work at the bar, you always look like you’re having the time of
your damn life, mixing drinks and changing lives. All I can do is ruin mine,
because I can’t have what I want out of it no matter what I do. The Gauntlet’s not
my favorite bar because of the ambiance or anything, it’s because I get to see you
there. There’s something…special about you, and I wish I could figure out what
the hell it is so I could capture that for myself.”
Sammi sat in stunned silence for a moment, listening to John’s anxious
breathing. She caressed his back gently. “Why can’t you have what you want out of
your life?”
John’s head rose, tears now shining in his eyes under the soft amber lights.
“Because I don’t know how I can be who I want to be.”
“And who is that?”
“Someone like you.”
“Oh, come on John, bartending isn’t JumpShip sci-”
“A fucking woman, okay? I look at you and I see what I want to be, what I’m
not, what I’ve tried to be happy not being, what nobody will accept me as, and I
just…I just…fuck!” He buried his head in his hands again. “And now I gotta sit in
here, while my life burns down around my ears because I did the manly thing, and
look at that fucking photo on your dresser and be reminded that you had what I
can’t!”
Sammi’s attention snapped towards the photo in question. The smiling faces
of her mother and father stared back. As did their two sons.
“Oh. Fuck.” She collapsed backwards into her bed.
“Yeah.” John dropped back beside her.
Minutes passed as they stared into the ceiling by each other’s side, the
twinkling string lights bathing them in their warm glow.
“What if I told you it’s not too late, John?”
“It’s very much too late. I pissed away my career in your bar, and now I’ve
pissed away my dignity.”
Sammi rolled over to face him and ran her hand down the side of his face,
wiping away his tears. “No, it’s really not. It’s not the end of your life, just the end
of a chapter. I’ve been where you were before, thought my life was over the same
way, for a lot of the same reasons. Parents disowned me when I told them about
me, about what I wanted. Went from the top of my class in flight school to dead
last because I ran myself ragged just trying to keep my head above water. Felt like
my whole damn life was over, like I’d done all the things society expected from me
except one and that was what took it all away.”
“But you bounced back, obviously.”
“Mhm.” Sammi smiled. “I got back on my feet because I had nothing left to
lose. If I was going down in flames, it was gonna be on my own terms. Found
some people like me, people who’d transitioned here on Solaris. People I could
relate to and rely on. And I built my life back up from square one, as the woman I
wanted to be.”
John sighed dejectedly. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Because it is. But it’s worth it in the end. It sounds hokey, but being able to
wake up in the morning, see the person I always wanted to see in the mirror, see a
face and smile I want to see more of? Can’t put a price on that, honestly.”
“This is a lot to think about.”
“Don’t lie. You’ve thought about it a lot.”
John flinched. The verbal slap hit as hard as a physical one. “Yeah. Guess I
have. It’s just…scary. I don’t have the resources, the network you do. Hell, I
probably won’t even have a job tomorrow morning.”
“Maybe.” Sammi wrapped her arms around John and pulled him tight to her
bosom. “But you do have me. And now? You have you, too.”
John opened his mouth to argue, but the words refused to come. Instead, he
could only smile. His arms curled tight around Sammi’s waist, shielding himself
from the world in her quiet, tender embrace.
For the first time in her life, Vivian Matsumoto knew what it was like to feel
safe.
 SMALL
ALBERT ROSS
@blundertross

CHISHOLM SQUARE
SOCHALLADAN
ELGIN II
03 MARCH 3029

“Marry me,” she said.

I could see the sparks of fireworks reflecting in her brown eyes when she said
it, as drunk on elation, cheap booze, and new-found patriotism as the rest of us.
She was shining and beautiful in one perfect moment of hope and promise that
both whispered and shouted the future was ours if we just reached out and grasped
it.
It was the day on which the Tikonov Commonality found itself a glorious
Free Republic – the Grand Union reborn – and you should have seen the
celebrations! The weight of the Confederation’s yoke had been lifted and a people
who had lived in fear for generations finally found themselves free. The tyrants
were cast out, the old power structures toppled, and the propaganda reels’ most
hated enemy suddenly became our new best friend. There was dancing in the
streets, riotous and vibrant, even as elsewhere people were imprisoned or put to the
sword for being the wrong kind of loyal.
 But we didn’t think about that at the time. There were other, better things to
occupy us.
I took her in my arms, Elena, my love, my future, and kissed her with as much
intensity as I could. Her scent drifted around me, fresh lavender, her taste lingered
on my tongue and, as my heart leapt, I wished that one perfect moment would
never end.
Of course I said yes, there was no way it could have been anything else. I
meant it then and I never stopped meaning it every day after. The only problem
was what else I said yes to.
When the soldiers came round in their crisp new uniforms – red and black and
gold – bellowing fervently about the need to “defend our homeland” and “finish
casting out the oppressors” I and many others were so swept along by the rhetoric
that, when a stack of recruitment papers was thrust under my nose, I jumped at the
chance to do my part.
Which is how, four months later, I found myself in a town I had never heard
of on a planet I had never visited, bruised and bleeding, hunted by a monster.

2nd REPUBLICAN GUARDS LANDING ZONE

SOUTH OF VACOR BRIDGE
PROCYON
JULY 3029

I remember it was that July, as far as these things matter, but for the life of me I
couldn’t tell you the day. I’m not even sure I knew it at the time, so turned around
was I with the pace of things. I’d shipped off to basic, been given barely enough
training to know which end of a rifle was dangerous, stuck on a DropShip, then
sent to war against the Free Worlds League of all things. It took around a month to
get there and during that time I threw up twice – once for each jump – and nearly
managed a third on the way back down. Kind of sours the excitement, you know?
I was part of Squad Four, Third Platoon, Foxtrot Company, in Ridzik’s own
2nd Republican Guards. All of us were damn proud of the fact, even if we were just
there to make up numbers – we were lean, mean, and so very green. Our job was to
hold ground in the wake of the Colonel’s advance, guards the logistics chain while
the experienced soldiers were doing real work, maybe fly the flag a bit if any
civilians had stuck around.
“You keeping it in, Utkina? I’m not having you stink out the transport with
puke!” Bellowed my Subcommander, Zima, much to the amusement of the rest of
the platoon. He was a great bear of a man who looked like he’d been built on a
’Mech production line rather than born to a woman. One of the few in the company
who had been in the CCAF before restructuring, he knew his stuff but he wasn’t
what you would call... likeable.
“Yessir, all good!” I assured him, trying to look hale, confident, and not at all
nauseous. He was already bored, clambering into the back of a Sherpa that had
long since rumbled off of the decrepit Fury that brought us here – it and seven
identical, hastily-repainted vehicles.
I hated the things. Crammed into a metal box on half-tracks with fifty-five
unwashed soldiers and all of their stuff… the magnificent Free Republican Army at
its best. Resources were tight and the “real” soldiers got first dibs on the “real”
transports… Nevertheless, I squashed in with the good people of the Third and
Fourth Platoons, gripped the rail, and tried my best to be stoic when the hatch
closed and the vehicle rumbled into motion. It was the middle of three – two
infantry, one our supplies – and the other five would move through when we
secured the route.
“You aren’t going to throw up are you, little duck?” whispered Benny across
the half-inch of foetid air between us. Benedict Popov was a good man and my best
– read “only” – friend in the company. Of mild manner and middle age, I think he
was an administrator before the formation of the Republic. Where Zima was being
cruel or thoughtless, Benny was asking out of genuine concern for my welfare.
“No, I’m fine, promise,” I managed a wry smile. “Good to be ground-side,
even if the gravity doesn’t feel quite right.”
“You get used to it,” he nodded sagely, prompting a twitch of curiosity in
myself. He had never really spoken about his life in great detail and I’d just
assumed that, like myself, he had never left Elgin before now.
“Listen up, worms!” Zima roared before I could ask. “We are ten minutes out
from our destination! Commander Shvets wants us to unload and occupy the south
end of this shit-heap settlement while First and Second take the north! I want all
Corporals to get your people in order or I’ll shoot you myself!”
We did out best to straighten up and look like proper soldiers. Hey, we tried
our best. The rest of the journey was tense and fidgety. There’s a saying in every
military in the Sphere: “hurry up and wait”. It means a soldier needs to be ready to
go at a moment’s notice but that moment rarely comes any time soon. It was a
special kind of boredom that I’m not sure I ever felt outside of the service. Maybe
when my father had surgery, though even then not quite the same.
There was an almost-noticeable change of air pressure in the transport bay
when we ground to a halt, over half a hundred people concealing sighs of weary
relief.

“Alright, fuckers! Ge-” Zima began. He would never finish the sentence. It was
taken from him in an explosion of fire, light, pain, and deafening sound when the
front half of the compartment turned into a tangled mess of metal and flesh. Those
of us not dead were knocked back by the force of it, and I hit my head so hard
against the hull my brain rattled inside its casing, saved from a cracked skull only
by my helmet.
My ears were ringing, muffled sounds percolating their way through. I could
feel heat and pain, taste blood in my mouth and the smell – oh god the smell – was
like a burning slaughterhouse.
Someone was shouting, someone was shoving, and someone else was
dragging me through the hatch, dark metal giving way to a bright sky suddenly
occluded by Benny’s concerned, bloodied face. He was saying something, shaking
me by the front of my tunic, panic welling in his grey eyes until enough of my
faculties returned enough for me to roll over and break my promise to him, hot,
bitter liquid spewing from my mouth..
“Glad you’re with us, little duck.” He still sounded so far away, even though
he was right next to me. “We need to get moving.”
“Wha-?” I croaked dumbly, wiping my mouth and looking around. We were
stopped in a wide street hemmed in with buildings and the Sherpa was a mess, the
front half crumpled and burning, slewn at an angle by the impact of whatever had
hit us, blocking half the road and the view onwards. By the plume of smoke rising
just past ours, the lead Sherpa was in just as bad a state. The supply truck behind us
was still intact, frantically trying to get into reverse gear. As I watched, its turret
fired at something out of sight, a brief burst of rattling defiance before that same
something put a single heavy round through the cab and killed the crew outright.
I stared aghast, flinching at the impact. Someone was screaming. Was it me?
No, it was a scream of pain, I think. I’m not sure I could have made another sound
in that moment, no matter how hard I tried.
More shouting, short and clipped, the tone they hard-wired us in basic to pay
attention to by standing everyone in a line and making us do the same thing over
and over and over and…
 I digress.
It was Babin, Subcommander of Fourth Platoon. He’d managed to survive
and was taking charge in the absence of literally anyone else.
“We need to move, get in cover and call for reinforcements,” he ordered,
jabbing a finger at a building across the street and the other end of a wide concrete
staging area. It was big and sturdy, a warehouse or factory or some such, perhaps
twenty metres away. “Leave the wounded and go on my mark!”
“But sir-” a trooper I didn’t recognise – probably one of Babin’s – spoke up.
The Commander grabbed his arm, wild-eyed.
“If we don’t go now then we are all dead!” he hissed, spit frothing at his lips.
“MOVE!”
“I’m with you, little duck,” Benny patted me on the shoulder as our terrified
gaggle of barely-trained soldiers broke into an uncoordinated run. I tried to ignore
the panicked, desperate shouts of the wounded as we left them behind. Tried.
Failed. Ran regardless.
We broke cover and vaulted the concrete reservation in a disorganised mess,
becoming quickly strung out as the faster among us pulled ahead. I had done
twenty metres a hundred times in basic, back and forth across a gym, but now, with
my head pounding and my breath coming in ragged gasps then it felt like two
hundred.
I was almost at the chain-link surrounding the staging area when a noise – like
a regular, heavy drumbeat – drew my attention, causing me to look up the street. It
was like part of a building two stories high had detached and started moving and,
when I realised what I was looking, at I nearly froze in horror, only Benny’s hand
against my back pushing me onwards.
It was a ’Mech. A god damn BattleMech.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one up close, but they’re bigger than the
vid-reels make them out to be, and when they’re bearing down on you then they’re
absolutely monstrous. It stomped past the burning wreckage of the lead Sherpa,
perhaps only a hundred metres away, firing as it came from a laser in one arm and
the maw of an autocannon in its chest.
Something that size, something so ungainly, had no right to move with such
speed and agility. I was nothing before that titan, like an insect before a cruel child.
I had never felt so small.
A thumping shot tore through one of the troopers ahead of me, turning them
from a living, breathing human into a welter of blood and shrapnel. Something
sharp cut a violent line across my cheek even as hot viscera splashed over my
front. A beam of searing green light passed me by, close enough to feel the scald of
it on the back of my neck.
I staggered the last few metres then stumbled through the doorway, falling to
the floor, twisting in confusion as the nearest soldiers helped me to my feet. I
couldn’t see Benny. He was right behind me.
“Bu-,” I croaked, seeing the greasy, ashen smear near the doorway and
knowing in my heart what had happened. Gone. Just like that.
I retched again but nothing would come.
“Get into cover!” Babin snapped, and I allowed myself to be numbly led
along by the soldiers who had helped me up. We stopped for a moment, looking
back through the door in impotent terror as the thumping of gigantic footfalls grew
closer, culminating in an awful metallic crunch when the ’Mech kicked the remains
of our Sherpa across the street.
As we double-timed it further into the building, I dimly realised my original
assessment had been right. Behind the bank of windows out front, past a sort of
reception area, the space opened up into one filled with heavy machinery designed
with unfathomable purpose, any clear spaces stacked high with crates full of
who-knows-what.
We hunkered down behind one of the larger metal edifices and I slumped
there, breath running ragged and tears cutting channels through the filth on my
face, stinging where they met my wound. Benny was dead, Zima was dead, and I
doubted it was long before I joined them. One survivor was outright sobbing and
another was groaning as he desperately tried to patch a bloody gash in his leg,
gained on the way over.
There were fourteen of us here. Out of eight squads we could barely muster
enough for two. Babin seemed to be doing a heroic job of holding himself together,
though by the sweat on his brow it was probably only just. He was doing better
than me anyway...
“Command, this is Foxtrot Four, I repeat this is Foxtrot Four, we are pinned
down grid co-ordinates… fuck, we are pinned down en route to Vacor Bridge,
heavy casualties, all transports destroyed, League ’Mech Hermes II is aggressor, I
repeat, we are pinned down by a Hermes II and request immediate armoured
support, please respond!” he barked into his comm piece, waiting for a moment.
“Command, this is Foxtrot Four, please respond!”
He waited another second, before swearing violently and thumping the side of
the machine.
“FUCK!” He took a breath. “Our squad comms are routed through the
vehicles and of course they’re now too busted to relay...”
“What do we do?” a dark-skinned trooper asked shakily. I didn’t recognise
her, or anyone else but Babin.
I was the last of my platoon.
We flatted ourselves as green light blasted a hole in the front of the building,
thermal shock blowing debris inwards. I and a few others peeked cautiously past
our hiding place, the damage now giving a clear view of the street. I saw stout
metal legs bend as the ’Mech squatted down, not quite managing to give a view of
the cockpit. Foiled, it rose back to standing and began to move out of sight.
“Has it gone?” a soldier whispered, quickly shushed by Babin. We all waited,
listening. The drumbeat of its passage had receded but not completely faded.
“It’s circling the building,” the Subcommander said.
“Why?” I managed hoarsely. I could still taste blood in my mouth, underneath
the vomit. Pretty sure it wasn’t all mine.
“I thought this route was secure!” the earlier woman hissed.
“It was supposed to be, Kovala!” Babin snapped back. “It’s either a straggler
from the main combat or a deliberate attempt to, well, do this – disrupt our supply
line.”
“S’working,” slurred the trooper with the bleeding leg. He was looking far too
pale, a red puddle spreading around him.
“Someone get a tourniquet on Rudenko!” Babin ordered tersely.
Another beam cut through the building, this time from the opposite side,
turning machinery into molten slag.
“It’s going to bring the building down!” a trooper cried.
Babin nodded grimly. “Either wants to bury us or flush us out.”
“Why’s it bothering with us?!”
“Because of what I just tried to do! If we call for help then it can’t continue its
raids.”
I covered my head as more green light passed over us, bringing part of the
ceiling down with it, far too close for comfort.
“Fuck!” I squeaked.
Babin turned to me as if just noticing I was there.
“What’s your name, trooper?” he asked.
“U-Utkina. Katja. Th-third Platoon,” I stammered.
“Welcome to the Fourth, lass, such as it is,” he smiled tightly. “Got anyone
back home?”
“Fiancée,” I managed, squashing back more tears at the thought of Elena’s
smiling face, the lavender scent of her hair, certain I would never see her again.
 “Good, hold on to her,” he replied. “I’m determined to get back to my wife
and children, so... let it give you strength.”
I nodded, swallowed, and looked around, noticing the other troopers had gone
silent, tilting their heads as they tried to listen for something they could no longer
hear.
The footsteps had stopped.
“What’s that?” Kovala whispered, wrinkling her nose.
“Smoke!” another hissed.
“Fuck,” Babin swore. ‘Bastard got impatient and is using his flamer to smoke
us out.’
My hands started shaking. Burning to death was not how I wanted to go. Not
that I wanted to die at all, really.
“Right, fuck, okay, listen up,” Babin said. The footsteps had started again, still
orbiting the building. We could see smoke now, gathering up in the ceiling from
near the walls. “As far as I see it, we have three choices: we stay in here and
definitely die, we try to make a run for it and probably die, or we bring the fight to
them.”
“Isn’t that just definitely dying but with more effort from us?” Kovala asked.
Babin shrugged. “Yes, but our corpses might win a medal, and we can’t leave
it to prey on the supply line.”
“Well fu-” Kovala began before I blurted “The supply truck!”
People were looking at me now. “Th-the supply truck has our support
weapons!”
“Yes! Good! We can work with that!” Babin nodded approvingly.
“We’ll still be cut down before we get to it!” another trooper said, his voice
rising shrilly as yellow flames started to lick around the far edges of the room.
“Then we split up,” Babin suggested. “One squad heads out the back and
circles around, draws it away from the transport while the other gets the weapons
out and does their damn best.”
“But wh-”
“I’ll lead the distraction team, you five come with me,” Babin volunteered.
“Kovala, take Utkina and the others to raid that truck.”
“What about me…?” Rudenko gasped, somehow still conscious.
Babin put a hand on his shoulder and grinned humourlessly. “If we succeed,
we come back for you, if we don’t then we’re all dead anyway.” He picked up his
rifle – the same mass-produced ballistic we all had – then looked at the rest of us.
“We’ll wait until it’s level with the front before we make our move, give Team
Truck the longest time for that thing’s back to be turned. It’s been an honour,
comrades, die well or not at all!”
With that he was off, taking five troopers with him, all of them grim-faced
and stooping now below the gathering smoke.
“Right, okay, brace yourselves and be ready to move on my mark,” Kovala
instructed simply. I already had my rifle in hand – even after such little training it
was like part of me – and I took my place when the dishevelled squad bunched up,
tense as coiled springs, eyes fixed on the entrance. My chest shuddered as I fought
to steady my breathing.
Ten metres to the entrance then another ten to the back of the logistics truck.
Ten then ten, ten then ten… Okay. I can do this. Ten then ten…
The legs of the ’Mech – Hermes II, Babin had said – came into view again as
it completed another circuit.
“Come on, come on…” Kavala hissed.
It had nearly gone by again when we heard the snap and pop of nearby small
arms. With remarkable speed, the ’Mech stopped, pivoted, and turned to face the
aggression, responding with the bright glow of a laser fired just out of sight.
“Take the bait, fucker,” a trooper urged.
When the volley of rifle fire refused to let up, its legs stomped into motion
again.
“Go, go, go, go, go!”
Kavala broke into a sprint and the rest of us followed, exiting as haphazardly
as we had entered. The first ten metres were gone in a flash, my lungs protesting as
we passed through a haze of smoke, my eyes stinging as we neared one of the fires.
I glanced to the left as we emerged onto the street, seeing the back of the ’Mech as
it moved away, pacing slowly, carefully placing its shots.
I couldn’t see Babin or his squad, but I could still hear them over the
thumping of my heart and the beat of my boots on the road when I belted across
the second ten metres. Ten then ten, gone in seconds. We were at the back of the
Sherpa.
“How the fuck do you open this thing?’ Kavala growled, straining against the
hatch’s lever. ‘Fucking thing is stuck! Kolesnik, give me a hand!”
A big-armed trooper got up there and helped her, taking precious long
seconds as the ’Mech closed with a building down the street, oily flame spewing
from its left arm, not stopping until orange flowers bloomed in every window. It
waited, watching, the gunfire now silenced, then inexorably turned back this way.
“It’s coming back!” exclaimed a slight young man, barely more than a boy.
He looked like he was going to be sick. He looked how I felt. Our window of
opportunity had closed and we had run out of options.
Metal squealed as the Sherpa’s rear hatch opened and Kavala disappeared into
the cargo bay, swearing incoherently as she rummaged. She passed heavy tubes to
Kolesnik, who in turn distributed one each to the rest of us. We had been given
only cursory training with the one-shot SRMs in basic – I had never actually fired
one. I slung my rifle and took one. Just arm, point, and shoot, that’s all you need to
do, right? Oh, and pray.
“Wait until it’s right on top of us and aim for the head, do as much damage as
possible before it gets you,” Kavala snarled, emerging with her own tube. “Kill that
arsehole pilot if you can.”
This was it. There was no “or die trying” – that was a given. We weren’t
going to walk away from this one. Infantry didn’t go up against a ’Mech and
survive, it just didn’t happen. You’d think with that kind of certainty I would be
calm – no fighting the inevitable, right – but I was still as pants-wettingly terrified
as I had been this entire time.
We bunched up again, reduced to a single squad of green recruits hiding
behind the back of a Sherpa as best we could, the ’Mech continuing its
ground-shaking advance. I closed my eyes, thinking of home. I thought of Elena’s
smile, the smell of her hair, the pure joy as she proposed to me. I regretted not
having married her before shipping out. “Don’t want to curse it,” she had said,
“There’ll be plenty of time when you get back.”
I nearly laughed. The universe is cruel sometimes and war is just a vessel for
that cruelty, distilled into its worst forms.
My eyes snapped open.
Gunfire, close at hand.
Somehow, with the last strength he had, Rudenko had dragged him and his
rifle to the front of the building, hosing down the ’Mech until his magazine ran dry,
a display of futility that must have irritated the pilot enough to get their attention.
Stop. Turn. Stomp.
With a single move of the monster’s leg, Rudenko was no more.
“NOW!” Kavala bellowed and we desperately burst from cover.
I couldn’t get at the thing’s head from this angle – I don’t know why Kavala
ever thought we would – but there was its back, broad and inviting, practically
point blank.
I raised the tube to my shoulder, armed the missile, pointed it at this thing that
had killed so many of my comrades – that had killed Benny and Babin – then
pulled the trigger. Oh, and I prayed.
 Thunk-whoosh, a kick in the shoulder then mine and six others streaked
across the gap, even as it began to turn.
It was too late.
I couldn’t tell you who landed the killing blow, we all struck near enough
simultaneously, but I can tell you the immense satisfaction I felt as amour ablated,
explosions staggered the monster, and with the inevitability of a falling tree, the
mighty metal warlord came crashing down in sheets of flame.
Panic returned as we scattered out of its path, myself diving at the last,
bruising ribs on the tarmac when that great metal body crashed into the ground,
one arm crumpling the cargo bay on the supply truck. Dust flew up in a great
cloud, mingling with the smoke from burning vehicles and buildings to obscure my
comrades from view.
I was alone in a suddenly silent world. I picked myself up and unslung my
rifle, advancing towards the felled giant at a crouch, not even trying to steady the
tremor in my hands. Some of the dust began to thin and its head emerged from the
murk, a cruel visage rendered empty in death. A metallic sound came from within
and I flinched up the barrel of my gun when a hatch opened and a plain-featured
man in cooling vest and shorts came tumbling out, pulled an ungainly helmet from
his head and tossed it aside, grumbling something about “autoejection”. This was
the creature who had killed my best friend. He was the reason Babin’s wife would
never see her husband again, his children their father.
He groaned, pushed himself to his knees, then froze when he saw me, slowly
raising his hands.
“Hey now-” he started to say.
I shot him, put a bullet in his chest and sent him sprawling in the dirt. I want
to say it was a crime of passion – full of rage and loss – but I felt nothing except
hollow when I pulled that trigger. I hadn’t even thought about it, just acted. Maybe
part of me wanted vengeance – one life for over a hundred – or maybe I just
wanted this to end. I slumped to my knees, head filled with static, and let my rifle
fall slack in my hand.
The smoke had cleared now and I realised there were people near me, Kavala
and a couple others watching stonily, the young lad throwing up a few metres
away.
The woman looked at me, at the pilot – the corpse – then spat in his direction.
She squeezed my shoulder without a word and took a comm unit from Kolesnik. It
was one of the long-range ones, apparently battered yet functional, likely pulled
out the back of the semi-crushed Sherpa.
Kavala cleared her throat and began to speak.
“Command, this is Foxtrot Four,” she said into the mouthpiece. “We...”
Kavala hesitated, eyes darting warily about her. What could you even say
after all of that?
“Affirmative, Command, I’m still on the line,” Kavala continued steadily.
“We came under attack by a BattleMech, designated Hermes II, at grid… at our
position en route to Vacor Bridge. We have suffered heavy casualties, all transports
destroyed, and request immediate reinforcement and medevac.”
She paused for a moment, listening to the response.
“No, the ’Mech has been neutralised.”
Another reply from Command.
“Yes I am sure.”
More silence, and when she said the next thing, it was while looking me dead
in the eye.
“No, the pilot was armed and violent, he died attempting to escape.”

UTKINA-KOHUTA RESIDENCE
SOCHALLADAN
ELGIN II
28 FEBRUARY 3030

It was the end of next February by the time I got home. The war had ended, the
Peace Accords were signed, and any celebrations had burned themselves out. Not
that I was in the mood for a party anyway.
After the battle in a town I never cared to learn the name of, we had been
patched up, debriefed, and reassigned. The survivors of Foxtrot company – just us
seven – were amalgamated into our own squad and attached to a different company
as SRM support.
Apparently we did such a good job the first time, Command thought we could
do a repeat performance… I guess sometimes luck is valued as much as
experience. Colonel Ridzik had even congratulated us himself! Okay, one of his
staff – one of his junior staff – did so on his behalf. We even got medals out of it,
even Benny, Babin, and the other “valiant dead”.
I couldn’t bare to look at the damn thing. I was proud of my service, sure, but
I hated what it represented – all those lives lost.
In a twist of irony, Procyon had been captured by the time we were cleared to
redeploy – only took a week – so we just busied ourselves with peacekeeping and
security, like we had been sent to do in the first place, until our relief garrison came
and we had the order to go home.
Home.
I was finally there, the place I had dreamed about on the only nights I didn’t
wake up screaming, the place I had never thought I would see again. The place
where She was.
There were the same unkempt plants out front and the same blue door I just
couldn’t gather the courage to knock on. I had a medal for “unflinching bravery”
for God’s sake and I couldn’t even face this…
 Mustering everything I had, I gave three short raps and waited, fidgeting at
parade rest until the door opened. There she was. My Elena. My love. As perfect as
the day I had left. She stood at the threshold, eyes wide and disbelieving when she
looked at me.
“You cut your hair,” was all I managed. It was a stupid thing to say. Out of the
two of us it was I who had changed the most.
But it was all that was needed to break the spell.
With a sob, Elena rushed towards me, flung her arms around my neck, and I
hugged her back, holding her so close and tight I never wanted to let go. So much
pent-up fear and tension evaporated in an instant, leaving me bawling with overdue
relief and joy. I pressed her against me until I could feel her heartbeat and lost
myself in the healing warmth of her embrace.
I had survived.
I was home.
I now had a wedding to plan.
 TEST DRIVE
ALLEN NICKLOY
@TheHighmont

IDILINE REGIONAL SPACEPORT

KIRCHBACH
CLAN HELL’S HORSES OCCUPATION ZONE
12 AUGUST 3149

“Nah, bossman. I got a plan. You are seeing the small picture.” The heavy
Caribbean accent of Whip’s XO echoed in a small troop bay of the DropShip Bass
Thunder, a venerable Lion-Class spheroid model. While it was a bit dingy
compared to the rest of the ship, Whip liked to use it for meetings, thus it has been
set up with a small pantry and a meeting table that were in similar condition to the
old room itself.
‘Bossman’ rolled off of them at this point. Everyone was ‘bossman’ to Crank.
A MechTech was ‘bossman’, a lady was ‘bossman’, his CO was ‘bossman’. It was
endearing, and downright funny at times.
“No, you are seeing the small picture, Crank. We aren’t going to be raiding a
Hell’s Horses base. That is suicide. I don’t know what kind of crazy got hold of
you today, but we have to play this smart.” Whip crossed their arms and shot a
glance to the rest of the lance. Boomshot was playing with her noteputer, as usual.
She was a slight woman, dressed in a thick black leather jacket with spikes
punched through it like some Solaris rocker groupie. Ramrod stared directly on, at
attention more than anyone else in the outfit had any right to be. She was definitely
every bit the Clanner she always was. Even in her months with the Bass Thunder,
she had barely relaxed. She still wore the proper trim of a Ghost Bear Warrior,
even if it missed her rank patch.
Crank stretched, then stepped through the bulkhead and pointed at an empty
shipboard ’Mech bay, his bare chest reflecting the pure white light of the chamber
in a subtly tasteful way. “Where is my ride then? I signed with you to get me a
walker. Last stop we got Ramrod her ‘Skullface’.” He pouted and moved back into
the haphazard meeting space. “Those Horses have a training cadre on-world. We
have three walkers and three vees. I am a ‘Jock, not a damn tanker! All I am asking
is that my CO fulfills their duty.”
Ramrod waited for Crank to finish, “Neg, my Executioner is not called
‘Skullface’. It is and always will be Legitimate Salvage.” Her thin accent was
barely noticeable in her delivery of what would be perfect Clan English.
“Aye. That it is.” Whip turned to Crank and nodded. “We are here to make a
purchase. I have a contact that has his hands on a prime piece for you and the
lance. Once we get it outfitted, we can get back out and start raiding again.
Period.” They brought up their watch and glanced at the local time. “The seller
should be here. Crank, grab a skimmer. Something light and fast. Move out.”

The group whipped through the rocky outcrops North of the spaceport. It might
have been better to grab the Hetzer back in storage, Whip mused, as the wheels
would have offered some more stability in the terrain. It was too slow though. The
Horses were known for their speed and what better to outrun them than a custom
hovercraft with a mounted fusion engine and supercharger, capable of hitting over
250 kph? Sure, some of their smaller stuff could hit them, but they had other
surprises waiting for anything able to reach their speed.
What an outfit they were though. Whip had stolen their trusty Kit Fox from an
Arcturan Guards post on Tarkad, then hightailed it off planet. After that, Whip
found Crank along with Boomshot in a Galatean bordello. They also brought along
their own ’Mechs, Crank in his Lumberjack and Boomshot’s highly customized
Centurion. Soon, they were all registered mercenaries, under different names.
Dusting off to their first contract in Rasalhague Dominion space for some uppity
Kuritan warlords, they managed to jack their DropShip from the captain and took
over the crew with promises of fortune.
Sad for Captain Felicity though. She was cute.
During the job they managed to claim a bondsman in Ramrod, named so for
her “stiff” personality. Though she would have still been in her sibko, a recent
Combine raid had forced her into a training cadre much like the one on Kirchbach.
While they ended up failing their mission, losing the Lumberjack in the raid, they
had managed to sneak in and extract a fine, slightly damaged Beta Galaxy
Overlord-Two Dropship and a brand new Executioner in one of her ’Mech bays.
Along with the parts to convert it into almost any configuration that they could
think of.
And enough Clan tech to outfit another lance with upgrades. A jackpot for
any unit looking to strike it big in the Inner Sphere.
But there were always bigger, better scores to be had. And, it seemed, not
enough people were willing to take them.
Overall, this “mercenary” work was going over swimmingly for “Captain”
Whip.
The contact brushed their arm, breaking his moment of remembrance. “We have a
few units you may be interested in, other than the one we spoke of on the
tight-beam,” he brushed his dark hair out of his face to engage in eye contact. The
man was large, nearly the size of a Clan Elemental Warrior with much of the
definition that they were known for. Though they were probably a freeborn
cast-out of the Hell’s Horses, they were a beautiful specimen in Whip’s eyes.
“They run the gamut. We spoke of a new model Crab, but should you have the
salvage, kroner, or whatever else to trade these days, I may be able to pique your
fancy.”
Whip’s mouth nearly watered at his voice. It was buttery, deep, and throaty,
“I may have already found something worth my time,” pausing to give the man a
sly wink, “but that can wait until after these… negotiations, quiaff?” They didn’t
dip into Clanner speak often, but if it helped play one, why not?
A flustered look stretched across the contact’s face. Got him.
“A-Aff.” There was a short pause as the Contact collected themself and
proffered a small case. It popped open with a faint hiss. Inside was a bottle of
Trellwan Firewine and a small projector. He flipped a switch and it buzzed to life,
projecting up a holographic image of a line of ’Mechs and vehicles. “As you can
see here, we also have a small selection of other Spheroid units.” His excitement
now gone and his tone much more business-like. “Mostly tanks and hovercraft.”
He waved his hand at the holo and the feed spun. “We have a few combat
vehicle models also favored by my native Clan; mostly Eponas, Zephyrosi, and
Bellonas.” He swiped his fingers again, spinning the image to nearly a company of
walkers. “But we do have a good selection of Battle and OmniMechs.”
Whip studied the image for a moment. A stockpile like this was not common,
even in Clanner space. It would be even rarer in the rest of the Inner Sphere lately,
especially in a Black Market trade such as this. The equipment ran the gamut,
originating from every corner of known space. While their head was spinning,
Whip croaked, “Well, I don’t think we have the space on our DropShip for more
than five of those beauts’. We could probably pick up another five bits of armor. I
have another DropShip in orbit that we really don’t need as a unit, so I could offer
that as a trade?”
The Elemental grabbed his chin and started to stroke a spot on his wrist,
possibly where his Codex was at one point. “What do you have?”
“She’s gorgeous, I tell you. A little roughed up from our last spat, but
spaceworthy and mostly intact. We had to seal off a vee bay before lifting off of
Jezersko, but I think it will hold.”
“You did not answer my question.”
“An Overlord-Two,” they sighed. Clanners never let them play for long.
“Mostly intact?” The seller was visibly excited. “Let me speak with an
associate and we will see what we can do!”

It was nearly an hour more of the bumpy ride. In these lands, the hovercraft had to
be careful to not bottom out and risk totalling the drive system.
“Bossman, I have been thinking about what you said. I want that Ebon
Jaguar. We need a strong line walker. Good fighter too.” Crank radiated
excitement.
That finished it then. They had made their selections. Whip snapped open a
compartment in the wall of the hovercraft and retrieved a handful of palm-sized
data chips. Each was marked as they passed the devices to their lancemates.
 The Elemental had moved up to the cabin, directing the pilot and gunner on
how to get to their destination. Apparently the target was an old Star League Castle
Brian. A whole fortress complex, buried in a long-forgotten cave on the
second-rate industrial world.
Whip glanced at the armored bodyman. He was larger than their contact was
and was much more wary, his dark eyes darting between each of Whip’s
lancemates. His fingers were finding the grip of an autopistol strapped to his thigh.
“It is alright, brother.” They motioned to their own chip, “It is just a copy of our
neural patterns. So we can stomp away when we are done with our transaction.”
“Neg, freebirths like you will not be touching the merchandise. You will be
allowed to inspect. You will be allowed to inquire. You will not be allowed to
touch the cockpits. You will not be piloting these machines ‘back home’.” His face
contorted into a grimace, “They will be delivered to the space port.”
That was a statement.
Whip decided not to dignify it with a response.
Another few minutes brought the hover transport into a divot between hills,
what might have been considered a small valley. The group clambered out of the
vehicle in front of a staggeringly large entrance, big enough to allow five assault
’Mechs to march out abreast. The doorway was damaged by ancient gunfire, that
was clear. A battle would have happened in front of these walls during the early
Succession Wars, damaging the complex. Or ol’ Alex Kerensky showed up, took
what he could, and dusted off to the Deep Periphery to make his test tube baby
murder machines.
Their transport’s gunner made her way out of the cockpit and toward Whip. A
shorter, curvy woman, she weaved between the stretching and conversing crew.
She pressed herself against Whip and gently moved her lips to suck on his throat,
leaving him stunned. After a moment, her heady voice streamed into their ears as a
whisper in the wind, “Are we ready, cutie?”
They snapped to her, dazed by her sudden seduction that their head swam, “Ah,
right.”
Leaning into her, they kissed hard, wrapped up in each other for a long
moment, with them both grabbing. Whip slid another palm-sized chip into her
pocket before breaking off the embrace. “Cupid, you are on the Crab.” Their
whisper drizzled out like honey and she lapped it up.
“You sure do know how to treat a partner, don’t you Cap’n?” She skipped
toward the MechWarriors as suddenly as she had come.
The Elemental produced a loud, drawn-out cough. Whip spun about to meet
him and his now dour face. They offered a smile, “My apologies, sirrah. We simply
have a philosophy of… consensual free love on my ship. Some of us take that
further than others,” Whip motioned to the group to see Crank nibbling on
Boomshot’s neck and Ramrod holding Cupid from behind. “If you are interested, I
can show you the culture of the Bass Thunder?”
Flustered again, the contact turned toward the structure, “A-another time,
c-captain. For now we must make haste toward the merchandise. One would not
wish for a Horse patrol to come about. While some of these units are isorla, we
would be recognized as Dark Caste and surely be put to the sword for our ‘lack of
honor’,” he quoted with his fingers in a fashion much akin to a Spheroid, “and I
would very much like for that not to happen, quiaff?”
Whip squinted toward the building, “Aff. I would very much like to see your
merchandise as is.”

The entrance was further than they had thought, with the yawning doorway even
greater still. Clever design by those ancient engineers forced observers to
underestimate even this massive, well guarded facility.
When they made it inside, however, the real prize stood before them. A whole
pile of toys, more than was shown even in the feed before. Nearly a battalion of
’Mechs lined the massive hall, each neatly backed against a wall, leaving nearly
enough space in the central area of this massive chamber to become an impromptu
arena. Surely, at one point this held a regiment, maybe more, of ’Mechs, heavy
vehicles, and support vehicles. The contact broke the stunned silence, “My
superiors have authorized your trade. We scanned your DropShip in orbit and
everything checked out. For what you have offered, we will trade you your pick of
any five of these ’Mechs. If you would like, we will also accept that hovercraft we
arrived in as a trade for a recovery vehicle. You will be allowed to load it up with
about sixty tons of equipment that we have available. Engines, weapons, armor, it
is all available. Are these terms acceptable in exchange for the Overlord-Two?”
Whip flashed a daring grin. “Aff, my friend.” They reached for their comm
unit, “Whip to Speed Demon. Yep, bring the craft in. I got us a new ride and she
may be slow, but she will be a thing of beauty when we are done with her.” Cutting
off the connection, Whip clasped the contact’s forearm in a strong grip, “Well
bargained and done. Now, uh, where do you want me to park your ship?”

Whip stood before a Dervish. The model looked very similar to the ancient line
model, the reliable, if hot, 6M. What they were told, however, is that it was a
Kuritan retrofit of the old bastard. Brought in line with modern machines, it
featured Clan-grade equipment and some of the most advanced armor that the
Federated Suns or the Draconis Combine could produce.
How the fuck did it end up this deep in Hell’s Horses turf?
 Whip turned toward the entrance where their new recovery vehicle was being
loaded. The DropShip was touching down a little less than two klicks away, and
they were about to have some spicy new ’Mechs. This Dervish was one, but also
an advanced Crab with a supercharger and Plasma Rifles to really bring in the heat,
a Capellan-made Flea and Assassin, and of course Crank’s Ebon Jaguar in what
looked to be the E configuration for some nasty work at most ranges.
Still, this was a bandit cache. It nagged at Whip that this cache was so well
equipped. This was better than some Clan Sea Fox markets that they had seen,
except for not having a Hammerhead or the terrifying Savage Wolf. There was no
way that this group had connections all the way into the Confederation, or deeper
into the Periphery, as seen with some other equipment examples here like the
Surtur of the now-defunct Hanseatic League.
Whip’s palms were sweating. That wasn’t good.
An astech that was working on one of the wiring harnesses motioned for him
to come over. Swallowing a bit, they made their way to the young tech, passing a
glance to their lancemates in the process. Crank was strutting proud, pacing next to
his new ‘Melta Boy’ as he called it. He planned on mounting the Ebon Jaguar up
with a series of pulse lasers and a targeting computer. Cupid was hanging on the
arm of a tech, rubbing and flirting with the poor soul. Ramrod was driving her
astech crew as only a Clanner might. Firm and stern, she inspected every inch of
the Assassin and pushed to have every bit of the ’Mech as clean as an Omni in a
Wolf Empire parade formation. Boomshot had her noteputer plugged into the
Flea’s umbilicals, probably personally adjusting all of the tiniest aspects of the
’Mech to bump its performance. It was a wonder how much you could get out of a
supercharger and ECM unit when you would dial a limiter here and reduce a
memory coefficient there, and she was the one that could do such a tuning.
Whip had barely realized that they were at the foot of the Dervish, let alone
that the astech was even speaking with them. “- you look here, you can see that this
ankle actuator is a fresh model compared to that one. But she has been tested again
and again. This isn’t some Quickscell trash.” The astech leaned in, yanking them
down to their level, “Take me with you.” Their voice was sharp as their eyes kept
casting themselves toward an armed ‘supervisor’ across the cavern.
Whip reared back slightly, “I am fucking sorry! What?”
The tech yanked him down again, “I need to get out of here. Most of us are
slaves or bondsmen. Not that long ago, I piloted this Dervish and I will sooner
throw myself under its foot than let you or anyone else ride off with it.” Their voice
turned into a snarl. “I see you. You are going to bust out of here and get back to
your DropShip with your rides. You aren’t going anywhere without clearance
codes, not to mention scrambling the automated defenses’ targeting systems.”
Their eyes met for a single moment. “I am going to ready up that Rawhide -” Whip
felt a small object get pressed into their pocket, “- and when we are ready, I want to
give them hell. These ammo bins are hot and I am ready to give these fuckers a
taste of what they did to the Charlie Battalion of the Crater Cobras.” The astech
scooped up their tools and half-rushed across the hall, dropping the tools by their
new Rawhide.
“Fuck me.” Whip dialed in their combat frequency and sent a ping out to the
other members of the unit, “Well, this wouldn’t be the first time.” But, this astech
may have just given them the opportunity of a lifetime, even if the lance would be
abandoning most of these techs to whatever fate the Hell’s Horses held for them.
At least this would be interesting.

Crank’s boisterous voice rang through comms, “Yeah bossman. This Jag is a nice
piece of hardware. Full Clan-grade tech too, none of that Sphere garbage like my
old Lumberjack. I am looking forward to stretching her legs.”
Boomshot piped in, “I need mine stretched too, handsome. But only if you
can catch this Flea. I got her tuned up real nice. If she had an ICE, she would purr
like a kitten when hitting 150 k, p, and h.” She paused for a moment before firing
up the line again, “Any idea when that tech will be ready, Whip? I am itching to
get into that cockpit.”
“Nothing yet, Boomie. Last I saw, the astech was heading into the HQ. Then
those tanks pulled in there as well. That won’t be fu-,” his pocket buzzed, he
checked the device. Timing the droning of the device, he noticed that it was
pinging him with old Terran morse code. He mouthed out the letters as they
repeated. M. O. U. N. T. U. P. “Alright gang. That is our signal. I want all units
powered up in sixty seconds.”
They were all climbing their gantries, ladders, and umbilicals. Literally any
hand and foothold that could get the MechWarriors to their cockpits was used in
the scramble. As Whip reached the Dervish’s head, gunfire echoed through the hall,
drawing their attention toward the HQ structure.
Their astech barreled through the door and toward the Rawhide with a
stumbling gait and wielding a smoking assault rifle, their coveralls spattered with
blood and grease. Other techs in the facility were slow to react at first, but when
they realized what had happened, a cheer seemed to rise up from the group. Many
of them simply grabbed tools that they had been using a moment before and made
their way toward the HQ, while others dropped everything and ran to any nook or
cranny they could find to take cover in.
Whip smashed in the override code to pop the canopy and with a hiss they slid
into the command couch. Their neural chip was slotted into the machine next,
syncing their brainwave patterns to that of the ’Mech as they shoved their head into
the too-tight Neurohelmet. The comm unit chirped at them, “There we go,
bossman. ‘Melta Boy’ is a thing of pure beauty!” Looking up from their own task,
they could see Crank stepping out of the gantry, tearing the umbilicals as he
twisted the Ebon Jaguar’s torso free. Ramrod’s Assassin broke free next, swinging
an arm and tearing through the last trailing bits of her ’Mech bay.
The massive tanks rolled in, moving from their parked position by the HQ. A
Gauss Demolisher and a venerable model of Behemoth. While the Demolisher
trundled toward the Ebon Jaguar, spinning its turret to line up the deadly cannons,
the Behemoth pointed its nose toward the now-large group of indentured astechs.
Whip swore they could hear the whir of the tank’s machine guns spinning up
as the Dervish’s canopy hissed closed.
It was as if they were viewing one of those hammy, Taurian documentary
holovids about Terra’s early history. They could only watch as the machine guns
cut down rank after rank of techs as if they were in a broadcast about Napoleon and
Waterloo.
“Let’s go, people! I want some covering fire on those tanks! Those civvies are
giving us our out!” Their fists slammed into a series of buttons, firing up the
console, the deep thrum of the reactor spinning up reverberated throughout the
cockpit.
A mechanized male-sounding voice hummed in the cockpit. “Reactor online.
Sensors online. Weapons online. All systems nominal.” A few more keystrokes and
the computer chirped, “Disengaging ’Mech bay umbilicals. Good hunting, Captain
Vasquez.”
Whip grimaced at that, “Oh, that is not coming up again.” They raised the
Dervish’s arms and readied up the short-range weapons, a pair of Streak SRM
systems with twin tubes and re-engineered lasers, and brought them to bear on the
Demolisher. They were joined by the Flea, lighting it up with twin lasers of its
own. Explosions and lancing light tore into the tank’s armor, but the Demolisher
had its prize in sight and snapped off two nearly-silent shots from its Gauss rifles at
the Ebon Jaguar. One went wide, sending the nickel-iron slug into a foundation
pillar of the Castle Brian, the other tore into the ’Mech’s leg, exposing myomer
bundles.
But then it returned fire.
Whip had never witnessed a Hyper-Assault Gauss rifle in their life. Their
microphones picked up the sound of what would have been like buzzing from a
swarm of flying insects and dozens of rounds slammed and tore at the hull of the
Demolisher. Pale blue light erupted through their feed as Crank targeted the tank
with his lasers. The devastating impact of the missile volley is what did the tank in,
though. Those rockets set into the brute with a fury that he had seldom seen, even
in a drawn out ’Mech fight, with each missile tearing actual chunks out of the
armor and structure of the vehicle.
In moments, what was left of the crew pried themselves out of the wreck and
were trying to stumble for cover. Ramrod ignored them and turned her Assassin’s
weapons onto the Behemoth, sending a charged bolt and a quintet of short-ranged
missiles into its side, blowing off a set of the vehicle’s tracks, immobilizing it.
Whip could hear Cupid cackling with glee over their comms as they noticed
the Crab smash through its gantry and leveling its arms with the Behemoth. The
claws opened to reveal a pair of deadly plasma cannons. In a flash, Cupid fired
dual lances of molten plasma into the stationary tank as it returned fire with its
autocannons and short-ranged missiles. The Crab weathered the deadly hail of fire
relatively well, due to its advanced armor, but the tank seemed to start glowing as
the molten plasma bit at it like some amoeba.
As the impromptu “star” formed up behind them, the screaming in the
broiling tank stopped.
The familiar voice of the astech crackled into Whip’s comms. “Alright. I am
mounted and breaking free of the gantry.” The Rawhide ripped its way through the
wiring and trotted to the line. “Now, the automatic turrets are offline, but there are
at least two lances of armor and two lances of ’Mechs that patrol around here,
keeping an eye out for Hell’s Horses patrols. I have uploaded a map to our comms
network to get us to your DropShip. Get me off world, and I will consider the debt
repaid.”
Whip read the map and slapped together a hasty, pseudo-plan to get them out.
First though, they turned their Dervish toward the crumbling foundation pillar and
called out on the loudspeaker. “To all personnel left in this Castle Brian, I suggest
that you abandon this structure. Some history deserves to be buried.” They flipped
and depressed the twin firing studs, sending a volley of twenty missiles into the
pillar, each explosion scooping out more and more of the reinforced ferro-crete
until the entire cavern started to tremble and shake beneath their ’Mechs.
One-by-one, the six BattleMechs turned toward the entrance and moved at full tilt
to abandon the facility, followed by what was left of the ragged techs.
As they reached daylight, Whip saw their recovery vehicle parked to the side
of the entrance, its pilot, Screwdriver, loading most of the techs onto the vehicle.
“Goddammit,” they whispered out loud, “I forgot that he wasn’t on the combat
frequency. Ramrod, go help him load up anything he might have left. I think you
are the only unit in this gang that has a functional hand on your walker. I want
comms as soon as you guys are ready to take off.” He paused, looking over his
maps and making decisions. “Alright, I haven’t caught your name yet, but you are
now ‘Guts’ to us. Guts, I want you to sit tight with the Assassin. We aren’t taking
off without that truck loaded up, and an Assassin, even when piloted by our very
own ristar, Ramrod, will not do much against a lance of anything. At least you
both can hold out together if you need to call.”
“That is fair,” though defeated, their voice accepted the situation.
“Alright, everyone else on me. We are scouting the way to the DropShip.”
Whip punched the throttle, throwing the Dervish into a full sprint.
Right behind them was Crank. “Yeah, that is what I’m talking about,
bossman. Nothing like a little test drive to see how Melta Boy holds up, eh?”
 Whip’s sensors started bleeping at them, “Won’t take long, Crank. Looks like
we have three… no, four targets moving in. Probably a scout lance, but with what
was in the bunker, I don’t want to underestimate them!”
They had barely finished their sentence before Cupid and Boomshot tore off
down the road, both laughing in Whip’s ears. “You heard the ladies, Crank. Let’s
hunt!”

A scout lance lay crumbled at their feet. While they had taken a bit of damage,
their lancemates were enjoying the carnage of their new rides. Their lance had
easily overpowered the dealers, even with a Conjurer as lance leader. Hopefully,
they had cleared the way to the DropShip. Boomshot had even managed to contact
Bass Thunder and got the Lion offworld or close to it; they wouldn’t know until the
lance got an orbital ping.
So far, this was much smoother than Jezersko.
“Hey bossman, I have blips moving in fast. Looks like five walkers. I think
the Ponies are here.” Crank sounded nervous. That leg was still exposed, even if he
hadn’t lost too much armor in the day’s battles.
“Fan out. I am going to move on the DropShip. Let them come to me. I want
you to make it back to the column.” Whip set their machine in motion as they got a
series of affirmative replies to their order.
It did not take long for the Horses ’Mechs to find them. The star had moved
quickly, surrounding them more like a pack of wolves. They were Clan scout
models. Quick ’Mechs that were common among strike forces; a Locust IIC, an
Incubus, an Arctic Wolf II, a Shadow Cat, and the likely leader in an Ice Ferret.
Whip’s comm array lit up as they were hailed by the Clanners. “Fuck it. Not
like I have a choice if they want to talk,” and they flipped the switch to open the
channel. “Greetings. I am called ‘Whip’ by my comrades. And you fine folk are?”
“Why do you trespass on Clan Hell’s Horses territory, freebirth?” The voice
was younger than Whip had expected, but they always were when dealing with
Clanners.
“Myself and my unit do not ‘trespass’ on Horses territory. We were hired to
eliminate a suspected Black Market operation by Clan Sea Fox, specifically by
saKhan Andreas Sutherland of Tiburon Khanate,” The lie slipped through their
teeth easily, even as they armed the Dervish’s payload and checked their targets.
“We are moving to our Overlord-Two DropShip over there. My comrades have
returned to our loot column in order to guard it from further attack.” While their
voice had remained calm and level, Whip was sweating bullets. They would not
last under a single volley from trained Clan pilots in Clan ’Mechs.
It took them several moments to respond, “Aff. We have had reports of bandits
and unknown visitors to Kirchbach.” There was a pause. “This column. Does your
unit claim isorla over what was found?”
“We do. Our contract was paid as a percentage of the isorla gained from our
raid. We were informed to offer any unclaimed salvage as a gift to the touman of
the Hell’s Horses from the Tiburon Khanate of Clan Sea Fox. I offer four
BattleMechs that we defeated up-road, as well as an entire decommissioned Castle
Brian and the treasure inside to your Clan.”
“We shall escort your troop offworld and shall relay this information to our
recovery teams and to our leadership. Clan Hell’s Horses appreciates this generous
gift from Clan Sea Fox and the Tiburon Khanate.” The connection went silent.
Thank the gods.

NEAR ORBIT
KIRCHBACH
CLAN HELL’S HORSES OCCUPATION ZONE
14 AUGUST 3149

“You called for me, Whip?”

Whip looked up from their tablet turning down the synth music echoing in the
chamber, “Ah, right. I wanted to formally welcome you to the gang, Guts.” They
offered a hand to the former astech. After a moment, Guts took it, shaking firmly.
“I am glad that you made the choice to stay on.”
Guts looked to the floor, flushed. “Cupid and Crank both gave me such warm
welcomes, how could I say no?”
Whip flashed a knowing grin, “They have a habit. I just hope that Cupid
wasn’t too rough.” They straightened their back and turned fully to the reminted
MechWarrior. “I am sure that you noticed some… interesting tactics on-world. We
are a group of private citizens that specialize in… inappropriate acquisitions. Or
pirates, in the common parlance. We are going to take everything we need,
especially in this interesting time. Guts, we are simply riding the wave to riches. I
am not here to pick sides, I am here to make money and so are you, is that clear?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, boss,” Guts flashed the widest of grins.
 DRAGON SLAYER
MILLA KOPONEN
@Detocroix

ASHEN BEAR BASE

MUALANG
RASALHAGUE DOMINION
2 JANUARY 3151

“Full Salvo.” A gruff voiced Elemental with long black hair as a tight bun on the
back, a smooth chin, and a wide smug smile on their lips, slammed down five
LRMs & SRMs cards on the metal floor of the ’Mech bay, all LRM 5s. “That is
twenty five points, with a bonus volley of five points for the full LRM 5 set. Beats
your salvo, quiaff?”
Point Commander Sana stared at Warrior Kire over the cards in her hand,
gritting her teeth. Kire was big even for an Elemental. They were almost three
meters tall and wide as a small hover car. Sitting cross legged and with their back
hunched, they would still tower over the two Ghost Bear MechWarriors watching
half of her Elemental Point play cards. As far as Sana knew and their codex read,
Kire was a trueborn like her. Unlike her soft shade of chestnut, Kire was pale,
almost white as snow, with cheeks ever flushed in red.
Warrior Jessica sat next to Kire. Even though she was tiny in comparison to
her and Kire, she was still a giantess compared to the MechWarriors talking in
hushed tones. She was tattooed all over with ursine imagery running up and down
her arms, joining on her neck and reaching up her cheeks. Her short, dirty blond
hair, was side shaved, with a stylized Ghost Bear tattoo on the side of her head.
Jessica was a freeborn Elemental with a Ghost Bear mother and a Kuritan father.
The rest of Sana’s Point consisted of Warrior Svens and Eriks, a pair of
Rasalhague freeborns, brothers of the same washed out Elemental parents as far
Sana knew. Outside of combat and training, Svens and Eriks rarely shared the same
space with any others.
Sana didn’t really put any importance to trueborn and freeborn differences
many of her Clan still hugely valued. Her Point was her sibkin, regardless of their
birth or its prestige.
“Beats your salvo, quiaff?” Kire repeated, tapping their five cards on the
rhomboid patterned floor with a thick index finger, the smug grin widening ever
further, lips rolling up revealing their pointed teeth. “It beats your salvo, quiaff?”
Sana turned her gaze back to the cards at hand. One LRM 10, a pair of SRM
2s, one AMS, and an SRM 6. “AMS kills Kire’s Full Salvo,” Sana mumbled,
slowly pulling out the AMS card and slapping it onto the ground.
“What!” Kire yelped, the smug smile washing away from their face in an
instant.
“Like a Kontio, Point Commander strikes from the shadows and sweeps the
victory away from your claws, Warrior Kire.” Jessica reached out, slapping Kire on
the back with a soft smile on her lips. “Perhaps you do not rely on LRM 5s the next
time, quiaff?”
“I still have four LRM 5s left. That is twenty points, Point Commander. Beats
yo—”
Sana slammed the rest of her cards on the metal floor, smirking.
“I use SRMs, Warrior Kire.”
“Then that is five points from Point Commander’s LRM, and sixteen from the
SRMs. That i—” Jessica started, but Kire swiped the cards away with their massive
arm, growling.
“Cheating is dezgra, Point Commander Sana,” Kire snarled.
“Do you accuse me of cheating, Warrior Kire? Should I beat some sense into
that thick head of yours, Point Two?” Sana rose to her feet, her thick purple braid
whipping in the air as she stretched and cracked her knuckles. She stood over two
meters and forty in height, thick from shoulders to hips, muscles bulging even
when rested. Her barely clothed figure was akin to an ursine, further reinforced by
a feral tattoo of a white bear covering her back.
“Aff. I always welcome a brawl, Point Commander.” Warrior Kire stood up,
cracking their neck side to side and punching their massive fists together, a grin
dawning on their face again. “Fists solve grievances better than words.”
The two MechWarriors watching the Elemental Point play cards started to
slowly back away.
“Spheroid game of LRMs & SRMs is not dezgra, Warrior Kire,” Jessica said,
still on the ground, carefully collecting the scattered cards. “Just because you bet
on the wrong set and lost, does not make the game dezgra.”
“Spheroid game is dezgra,” Kire looked down at Jessica, growling. “I know
you like coupling with the Point Commander every night, Warrior Jessica. Do not
let it clou—”
Sana’s fist landed straight to the side of Kire’s head in a thud akin to slapping
two massive pieces of mutton together, knocking their massive body to the ground
nearly two meters away.
“That is dezgra.” Kire climbed back to their feet, rubbing the side of their
head where red marks of Sana’s knuckles were already starting to appear.
“It is not dezgra. It is educational.” Sana leaped forward knocking cards from
Jessica’s hands, throwing her massive body against Kire, sending them back to the
ground in a crushing bear’s grip. They wrestled on the ground, trashing and kicking
around as Kire tried to break free and gain the upper hand.
“Grime Hammer!” An angry woman’s voice pierced through the battle crazed
haze in Sana’s brain.
Bellia.
Sana and Kire scrambled to stand, under clothes dirtied from the perpetual oil
and grime covering the ’Mech bay’s floor. They quickly joined Jessica already in
attention before the fuming Star Commander Bellia.
“I have warned you of this before, Grime Hammer. This is not a place for
brawl, if you wish to fight, fight in your barracks or the training grounds, quiaff?”
“Aff!” Both the Point Commander and Point Two barked as one.
“I cannot have you Elementals crush MechWarriors or damage equipment
with your careless quarreling over a stupid Spheroid game, quiaff?” Bellia’s eyes
burned with anger.
“Aff!” Sana barked, but she wasn’t joined by Kire.
“Spheroid game is dezgr—” Kire started but was cut off by Sana thwacking
them on the back of the head with the palm of her hand.
“A game cannot be dezgra, Point Kire.” Bellia shook her head in disbelief and
sighed.
“But it i—” Kire deflated and fell silent under her piercing gaze.
A small smile crept on Sana’s lips. There weren’t many who could silence a
massive Elemental Warrior like Kire and make them look like an ashamed
half-a-ton heavy puppy, but the scrawny meter and sixty tall Star Commander
managed it each time.
Bellia turned her amber gaze to Point Commander Sana. “Armor up, Grime
Hammer. Star Captain assigned us a patrol duty at the Ash Flats. You will ride my
Hellcat as usual. We will leave in three minutes.”
“AFF!” All three Elementals roared in unison.
Sana stood before her Battle Armor with a wide grin on her face.
Like all the Ghost Bear Battle Armor, her armor was painted dark grey with
lightning blue highlights, but unlike most Elementals, Grime Hammer were a
veteran point and had painted white bear skulls with red eyes on the face plates of
their armors and a bear skeleton over the chest and limbs.
Astechs had tried fervently to paint over the skeletons, first openly and then in
secret after their initial encounter with enraged Kire who had just repainted the
Grime Hammer iconography on the armors. Eventually the tug of war over the
paint job ended in favor of the stubborn Elemental as the astechs simply gave up
trying.
Sana turned the hatch handle, and opened her Battle Armor up.
She grabbed the handles inside the Battle Armor and pulled herself in, turning
around and planting her back inside the cocoon of the Elemental.
Sana took a deep breath, a faint chloramine like smell of the HarJel mixed
with ever present smell of blood and sweat forever ingrained to the padding of the
armor filled her nostrils. A smell she loved the most in the whole galaxy.
I am home, motherbear, your cub is here.
“The Grime Hammer has returned!” She roared in the back of the ’Mech bay
where the Battle Armor bay was.
“The Grime Hammer will ride!” Roared her Point in unison.
Sana pulled the hatch closed. Viewscreen flared to life, drawing a view of the
outside in a compressed 360 degree view before her eyes.
Please state your activation phrase.
“Purgatory.”
Pass phrase accepted, Point Commander Sana.
 Running diagnostics.
She grinned, watching numbers roll on her screen. In the distance of the
Ashen Bear Base’s ’Mech bay she saw a dark grey Hellcat rise up from a hunched
pose, and step out of the gantry it was in.
“Catch up, Grime Hammer,” came Star Commander Bellia’s voice over the
comms. “I gave you three minutes and you already missed your time by two
seconds.”
“Oh we will, Star Commander, we will catch you,” Sana growled.
Fusion batteries full.
Thrusters online.
SRMs online, bound to voice command.
Bellia’s Hellcat, Covetous, turned towards the ’Mech bay exit, an enormous
door slowly sliding open fifty meters ahead of the ’Mech, almost a hundred and
fifty meters ahead of the Elementals.
Small Laser online, bound to primary trigger.
All systems nominal.
“Our ride is ready, Grime Hammer!” She yelled into the comms, and started
running. The heavy footsteps of the Battle Armor, weighting over a ton, echoed in
the ’Mech bay as she stomped forward. “If you miss our ride, you get a personal
beating from me!”
Panicked astechs and MechWarriors scattered out of the way as the Point
rushed towards the Covetous as it neared the doors.
Sana held down her jump jet trigger, blasting off from the ground, burning
streaks on the floor. She soared through the hall and landed on the back of the
Hellcat, grabbing onto the magclamp handle protruding from the ’Mech.
Soon after the four other members of the Point joined her, hanging onto the
sides of the ’Mech.
“Grime Hammer reporting for combat, Star Co—!” Sana barked before her
comms were cut by Bellia’s override.
“Must you yell that phrase every time?” Bellia’s voice came through the
comms as the Hellcat cleared the doors and turned north.
“Aff! There is no reason to only speak it out, it must be done with conviction.
The Grime Hammer has returned and we ride,” Sana explained locking her Battle
Armor to the magclamp and charger.
“Can you not do it in the channel of your Point, quiaff? Must it be on public
comms?”
“Neg. It is a before battle cry, it must be yelled.”
“Fine.”

Sana watched the horizon intensely as their Hellcat rode through a light snowfall
over the barren tundra of the Mualang Ash Flats. The ground on the sides of the
overhead passage was cracked and surrounded by shallow ravines, barely deep
enough to even hide a light ’Mech in them.
A smile crept to her lips again. Serene.
She loved the Ash Flats, loved in a way no Clan Warrior should ever love,
deeply, fervently, and with devotion. It was her forbidden nectar.
The combination of bright pink grass, and dark black ground and rock walls
of the ravines was beautiful to look at, so beautiful it ached and wrenched her
heart. A thin coverage of snow had already covered some of the plants and hidden
the splendor, but Sana didn’t mind. Snow, pink, black, she loved it all. Maulang
was her mother, figuratively speaking.
“Kire lost to Point Commander again?” Came Warrior Svens voice through
Sana’s comms.
 “Aff. In both cards and a brawl. That is why they have been growling the
whole trip. At least we finally got deployed. The constant training and lack of
missions was getting on my nerves even more than Kire’s snarling,” spoke Warrior
Eriks.
“Cut the chatter, Point Three and Point Five, or you both will get the same
treatment back at garrison,” Sana growled.
“Aff!” They replied in unison.
Children.
A Point of Visigoth aerospace fighters passed overhead, two tiny arrows high
in the cloud covered sky. They zoomed past Sana’s compressed rear view to within
her sight ahead.
“Where are they going, Point Commander?” Svens, maglocked to the Hellcat
next to Sana, turned around trying to follow the flying arc of the pair.
“Why do you not use your viewscreen, Warrior Svens?” You have a 360
degree view, and you turn around like a Rasalhagian child in a carousel. Sana
sighed.
“I—” They started before Eriks interjected with a snort and amusement in his
voice.
“Because that stolen riot control UrbanMech shot them. Since then Svens
ha—”
“You would not laugh had you experienced a ’Mech taser through your visor,
peeling half your face open, shocking you and frying all your Battle Armor
electronics,” Warrior Svens explained angrily, turning in their maglock spot again,
to vague direction of Eriks somewhere on shoulder of the Hellcat above them both.
“There are not many who can boast being shot with a ’Mech taser and
survive, Warrior Svens, you should be proud,” said Kire, finally cheered up and
with a genuine adoration in their voice.
“How did it not cook you like a hapless beef?” Came Warrior Jessica’s voice,
curiosity peaking in her voice. “Is it not akin to a lightning, quiaff?”
“Aff. It did burn me and I smelled like a roasted veni—”
“And still look like one too!” Eriks spoke over Svens again, booming laugh
crackling in the comms.
“Please, Grime Hammer. I do not want to hea— Just shut up, quiaff?” Star
Commander Bellia broke through their chatter, voice slightly shaken and filled
with anger.
“Aff!” The whole Point barked.
The pair of Visigoth’s passed high above them again, just barely below the
clouds, but this time flying alert, streaks of afterburner flame cutting through the
sky.
“This is Visigoth Point Ursa’s Claw, we have a visual on a lone Kuritan
Raven in sector gee-twelve-point-five. Heading is south-east-east, inside a ten to
fifteen kilometer long ravine in the area. Unable to track on sensors, stealth
suspected. We will engage, quiaff?” A low pitched and monotonous woman’s voice
came through trinary’s battle comms.
“That is directly north of us, quiaff?” Jessica asked in hushed tone.
“Neg. Follow the Raven at distance. Do not engage. Wait for further orders,”
came command’s voice over the channel.
“This is Hellcat Covetous, we are in area, carrying an Elemental Point. We
will intercept the Raven in the direction it is traveling and capture it, quiaff?” Star
Commander Bellia spoke over the command channel, and not wasting time to wait
for confirmation, turned her ’Mech in a sharp arc and pushed the Hellcat to sprint.
“Aff. Capture the BattleMech intact, we want to see where it has been.
Sending location and heading data.”
Sana’s tactical map overlay pinged with an enemy light ’Mech symbol and a
dotted line marking the ravine the Raven was detected in. Her lips curved to a grin.
Action.
 “And the MechWarrior?” Bellia asked.
“Redundant.”
“Aff.”

Hail whipped Point Commander Sana’s visor as the Hellcat plowed through the
growing snow storm, snow pooling in corners and clumping over her viewscreen
cameras.
“Set visor heating, eighty percent,” she voice commanded, a small heating
symbol lit up in the corner of her view.
“The Great Ghost Bear tests us with a challenge in the storm,” she heard
Warrior Kire say with excitement in their voice. “This hunt will test our resilience
and cunning.”
“It will especially test our resolve, as we, again, cannot rely on our sensors,
and we cannot rely on our eyes to spot this foe,” replied Warrior Svens over the
comms with a serious voice.
The Hellcat slowed down to walk, took a few small steps over to a ravine’s
edge and dropped several meters down into the ravine below, legs bending down
soaking the impact. The Covetous turned north, and continued to run within the
ravine towards the suspected itinerary of their prey.
“No foe is too big fo—” Kire’s voice was cut out as Star Commander
overrode their Point comms on priority frequency.
“Grime Hammer, we have reached a narrowing in the path of our prey. We
will mask ourselves in the cover of the storm and surprise the Raven. Get ready to
pounce, we cannot chase the faster ’Mech nor count on destroying it with a single
strike from my Hellcat, and so you must mount and disable it as it runs past us,”
Bellia explained, parking her Hellcat to side of the ravine, leaving the center of the
ravine open.
Sana’s maglock connection turned dark as the Hellcat shutdown, slightly
hunching down.
“If we are to react with haste, we must keep our battle armor online. The
Raven will detect us, Star Commander, quiaff?” Sana detached her maglock and
climbed on top of the Hellcat, magboots clanking each step as she was glued to the
surface of the ’Mech below her.
“Neg. It matters not. The Raven is hounded by the Ursa’s Claw and will not
have time to react to the tiny sensor blips of your Point.”
“Aff, Star Commander.” Sana switched to Grime Hammer frequency. “Our
target is a Raven running over a hundred kilometers per hour. We have but one try
only. Thrusters ready, on my signal. Detach your maglocks, and prepare for
boarding, Grime Hammer.”
“Aff,” her Point responded enthusiastically albeit in hushed tones as if already
prowling after their prey.
Boarding. The word had slipped between her lips unnoticed as she stood over
the Hellcat. Ten years ago, they took part in an another unplanned boarding action,
attacking a pirate dropship harassing a small station with only a few dozen
colonists at the Mualang Recharge Point. The Elemental Point was left on the
station due to an unfortunate misunderstanding when their ride docked with the
station unannounced for a quick delivery emergency rations for the colonists.
That same day, a pirate dropship had arrived to shake up the station crew and
plunder the station of whatever riches there were left, but to their surprise, behind
the airlock they were greeted by five very angry Ghost Bear Elementals instead of
the hapless ragtag Rasalhagian station crew.
The pirate dropship was called as the Grime Hammer.
“Neg. We are the Grime Hammer,” Sana snarled and walked over to the nose
of the Hellcat, parking her feet on the top of the cockpit. Magboots keeping her
attached to the ’Mech, even at over a forty five degree angle.
“Set a sync marker signal to Point, activated on jump jet trigger,” she gave a
voice command to the computer.
Sana held on to the jump jet trigger.
The other members of her Point flocked over the extrusions of the
BattleMech, on the barrels of the weapons, and shoulders of the ’Mech.
“We are Ghost Bears. Soon we hunt,” she growled.

Sana listened, her outside volume input maxed. Each snowflake passing by
sounding more like crackling and groaning of a glacier. Sound of the air pressure
changes wobbled in her ears and the wind against her battle armor was like a
grinder cutting through ferrocrete.
The suit’s noise cancellation fought desperately to filter away the familiar
sounds of her armor and the shutdown Hellcat Covetous under her, still hissing and
snapping loudly as it cooled down in the freezing air. The noise levels constantly
peaked dangerously, warnings popping around on multiple frequencies.
A thump.
There.
Another thump, and another.
Rapidly approaching.
Volume started building up, shooting all frequencies to red and audio output
breaking and crackling.
Now.
She muted her mic and squeezed the jump jet trigger down to the base,
sending an automatic signal to her Point, and blasting off from the nose of the
Covetous at maximum thrust.
Sana flew directly into the assumed path of her target, obscured by and from
the snow storm, claws spread akin to a bear ready to strike, face distorted in to an
enraged grimace. Through the snow, a Raven appeared in a fraction of a second,
bearing a zigzagged snow camo and the emblem of the mighty Draconis Combine,
sprinting forward at maximum speed.
Her Elemental Battle Armor crashed directly to the front of the cockpit of the
Raven, the high speed impact denting her armor and tearing her side open, causing
the HarJel system to fire up and start pumping thick black ooze to cover the wound
and seal the breach in the armor.
Ignoring the shock of the impact and the pain, she sunk her claws into the
mighty Raven, slipping and sliding along the side of its beaked and oblong torso,
scraping through the ’Mech’s stealth armor, leaving behind streaks of tortured
metal, furiously punching her claws in to stop her from falling off.
Her claws finally struck, pinning her in place.
From the side of her screen she saw one of her Elementals fly off into the
distance, disappearing into the wall of snow with streaks of jump jet plumes
spinning after them. Another one partially rose above the body of the Raven from
the other side of the torso, barely visible in the beating storm.
“Status,” Sana called over the comms ignoring the other Elemental as she
started to claw climb towards the cockpit of the Raven still swaying and trying to
stabilize from the impact with over five tons of very angry Elementals.
“Point Two on torso, making way to the cockpit with you, Point Commander
Sana,” came Kire’s voice over the comms.
“Point Four on left leg, cutting through armor,” Jessica reported. “Another
Point shares the leg with me, no signal.”
“And one of our five failed the landing. All accounted for,” Sana said over the
comms as she reached up to the cockpit of the Raven, and maglocked herself to
place, almost losing contact as the Raven’s pilot desperately tried to shake off the
massive Elementals sticking to it like parasites.
She struck her claw against the armored cockpit, and struck again, and again,
bending and cracking the armor. Her claws finally sank through the thin armor of
the canopy. Next to her, on the other side of the cockpit, Warrior Kire beat at the
cockpit with ferocity and strength of a demonic bear.
Let us crack this little egg.
She grinned wildly and growled loudly as she strained to push her claws
through.
Let us crack this little egg and see what is inside.
Sana bore into the cockpit, forcing the canopy lock to break off and pulled the
tortured cockpit open. The canopy caught the wind and was torn off from the
hinges, flipping into the distance.
She turned her gaze and raised claw to the hapless pilot.
In the cockpit sat a panicked Kuritan woman. Her face was angular with a
chiseled chin, eyes that were a deep, almost metallic brown in color, and with
pupils dilated from adrenaline, tall hair braided and tied in a bun. Wind and snow
beat on the woman’s face and loose hair.
She was also very tall, vastly taller than many Clan MechWarriors Sana had
seen. Her mouth fell agape.
So beautiful.
Completely abashed at the sight before her, she opened her battle armor’s
hatch, to see the woman before her own eyes. Seeing her moment, the Kuritan pilot
hastily pulled out an autopistol from the side of her command couch and aimed her
gun at Sana.
Warrior Kire pulled their laser at the pilot, no word, only reflexes, but Sana
grabbed it with her clawed hand and forced it down.
 The combat drugs, excitement, adrenaline, and now… warmth? A desire? An
obsession? Was it lust? Neg… it was love. It made Sana just smile silly as the
realization sunk into her mind, as bullets sunk into her body, one cutting through
her cheek and piercing her ear as it passed by.
The pistol fell from the pilot’s hand and her mouth opened in a surprise.
“Wow! Why are you so big?” They both uttered at the same time.
A slight blush mixed with Sana’s blood covered cheek.
The Raven’s run slowly dropped to a walk, and then halt, as they just stared at
each other.
Sana barely registered a groan coming from Warrior Kire through the Point’s
comms.
“Point Commander, what is going on? Why did the Raven slow to stop?”
Came Star Commander Bellia’s voice over the comms, from somewhere far away,
a little bleating voice she didn’t care about.
Her heart and mind were somewhere else.
“Point Commander caught a Spheroid. Does not matter. We got the
BattleMech, Star Commander Bellia.” Warrior Kire sighed deeply, stepping over
the edge and dropping off to the ground with jump jets slowing their fall.
“What is going on?” Sana heard Jessica ask with a confused voice.
“Spheroid caught the Point Commander,” she heard Kire reply to Jessica
somewhere in the muffled mists of her mind. All her senses were fixated on the tall
pilot in the cockpit.
“I— uhm, I am taller than most girls because I am trans?” The Kuritan pilot
uttered carefully, breaking the awkward silence. “Though… looking at you, I am
probably shorter than most of your girls.”
“You are a trans… born? I am a trueborn Clan Ghost Bear Elemental,” Sana
said, pulling herself out of her battle armor and sitting on the edge of the cockpit
right in front of the Kuritan pilot, her thick tree trunk like legs dangling inside the
cockpit.
“I mean I am trans, I uh, wow. You look amazing!” The Kuritan pilot yelped
and giggled as Sana leaned over her, unbuckling her harness. Sana’s tight light grey
jumpshirt drenched almost see-through from all the sweat, blood, and traces of
HarJel.
“I am Point Commander Sana, and I claim you as my bondswoman.” She
gently grabbed the pilot, carefully squeezing her shoulders closer together with her
massive hands.
“Yes please!” The Kuritan giggled again as Sana pulled her out of the Raven’s
cockpit. “I mean! I am Iora of, uh, previously Draconis Combine.”
“With me you will become a Ghost Bear.”
“Rawr.”
 OLD WOUNDS, OLD WORDS
RUSSELL ZIMMERMAN
@RussellZee

BUENA
ALARION PROVINCE
FEDERATED COMMONWEALTH
19 MAY 3047

Hannah Rippon-Hart was the last graduate of ’47 to leave the War College of
Buena. It was not by choice.
Not her choice, at least.
Somehow Father must have heard. Leutnant-General Waverly must have said
something after all, or another cadet, someone must have said something,
somehow. I came in second in my class! My academic record was spotless, even
with…everything going on! My field reports kept me from being the top-ranked
cadet, but second shouldn’t have been enough for him to stay away like this!
Somehow, he knows. There could be no other reason for him to snub graduation.
There could be no other reason for him to keep Uncle Cameron and Aunt Fatima
away. There could be no other reason for him to somehow keep Grandpa Bran and
Grandmother away. There could be no other reason for…this.
Everyone else’s families had come and gone. Everyone else’s parents,
siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, had surrounded them, congratulated them, already
been milling about, networking for them. Everyone else, everyone else who’d
scored lower than her in every class, from Power and Energy to Mechatronics,
Terran Mythology to Literary Methodologies, The Early Succession Wars to
Strategy, Policy, and Generalship…everyone who’d been behind her all through
their academy days, everyone else had spent graduation weekend rubbing elbows,
hobnobbing, securing their preferred assignments. Everyone she’d beaten in every
way that counts was getting prestigious postings, filling the ranks of the Arcturan,
Donegal, or Lyran Guards.
No one had stood with Hannah. No one had celebrated her posting
announcement. No one had been there to see her disappointment.
Grandmother or Aunt Fatima’s connections couldn’t get me into the Lyran
Regulars, even?
‘Vendrellian Militia,’ her formal posting had said, ‘Leutnant.’
Home. All this time, trouble, work. All this expense. Everything I struggled
for…just to be fetched home.
And fetched home late, to rub salt in it. Left to sit and stew in my failure after
the other graduates left. All my friends, and my…and everyone else, too.
She stood at the DropPort alone, but she stood there in her dress uniform, bag
slung over her shoulder, spine straight, chin up. She wasn’t going to show her hurt
to anyone else. The Ceridwen touched down, its Leopard-class body sleek only
compared to other dropships.
Father couldn’t be bothered to arrange transport, of course, she thought as
the ramp began to lower and her blue-green school rag whipped in the wind. Her
tightly-curled black hair wasn’t entirely immune to the retrothrusters jetwash,
either.
Grandpa Bran had to send the Ceri.
“As-salamu alaykum, and here we are! A bit late, but the deuced Prometheus
sprung a hydrogen leak – JumpShips, what can you do? – and we were delayed.
Terribly sorry!” Hannah didn’t recognize the accent of the uniformed flyer who
emerged from the steam of the still-lowering ramp, striking a bit of a pose as he
rode it down the final meter. She didn’t recognize the accent, but she hated it, thick
with faux-good-cheer. “But enough about that, how’s Vendrell’s finest…
err…finest…cadet…do…ing?”
The pilot was far lighter skinned than her, and looked maybe five years older.
She studiously ignored how well he filled out his Mountain Wolf BattleMechs –
Grandpa Bran, Brandon O’Leary’s, company – flight uniform. His stupid face had
a stupid expression on it, stupid red hair framing it, stupid blue eyes wide, stupid
mouth hanging open right above his stupid chiseled jaw.
“Err, terribly sorry, I’m here for Cadet Yusuf Ripp—“ he started to stammer.
Of course.
She cut him off with her duffel bag, swung from her shoulder with gusto and
zeal. He took a half-step back as she thumped it against his stupid, broad, chest.
She did her best to stand and talk and act and emote like Aunt Fatima. Powerful.
Confident. Tired of being insulted.
“It’s Hannah,” she corrected, tone icy. “Or, rather, since I graduated nine days
ago, Leutnant Rippon-Hart. Not cadet.”
He recovered enough to give her a sunny smirk and a sarcastic bow,
grandiosely gesturing for her to continue up the ramp that she’d had every
intention of boarding with or without his invitation.
I don’t even rate Captain Munene. Someone new. They all must hate me.
Hannah kept her chin up, features controlled, and pace even.
 “Your quarters are ahead, st—“
“I know where my quarters are,” she cut him off without stopping, slowing, or
turning her head. “Ahead, starboard, where most Leopards have an aerofighter bay.
I will be using Grandfather’s quarters, thank you.”
The cavernous cargo bay of the Ceridwen was silent and dark. Not a
MechTech or astech in sight, no surprise guests, not even any BattleMechs to look
down on her. I suppose I should be glad they’re not hauling cargo, and picking me
up as an afterthought. She cut through the emptiness and made her way to what
had once been the office, the office, of Mountain Wolf BattleMechs, the quarters of
the CEO, the beating heart of an Inner-Sphere spanning BattleMech production and
distribution…network. Not empire, perhaps, but network was fair.
To her, growing up, it had always just been Grandpa Bran’s room. Flying to
Tharkad, Hesperus, Arc-Royal, or Solaris, seeing the stars alongside Graf-Consort
Brandon O’Leary, being doted on by Uncle Cameron, going over ’Mech specs with
Aunt Fatima or Chief Kol…
She slammed the hatch shut behind her, stalked past the desk and guest chair,
and threw herself onto the bed. The Leopard never fully quieted, but the tone of the
engines changed as it went from landing, to idling, to preparing for lift-off. It all
sounded far away and false, without any conversations to take her mind off of it,
without anyone she knew or cared about nearby to talk excitedly about the
upcoming trip.
There was nothing about this trip to be excited about.
Just home. She lay face down, scowling into a blanket. Just home, and being
hated. Hopefully this asshole took a hint, and will leave me alo—
“Leutnant?” Came a knock at the door, accompanied by a deep voice. Deep
and smug. Deep and smug and sugar-sweet with false politeness and respect.
“Leutnant Rippon-Hart? We’ve a skeleton crew, but we’ve already prepared to lift
off. Please be certain you’re strapped in or otherwise appropriately braced. I’ll give
a final countdown from the helm.”
Yeah, you better not open that hatch, she glared daggers at the uncaring steel.
Just give your dumb announcement and leave me alone. For all you know, I could
be changing in here, and you wouldn’t want to get an eyeful of the freak, would
you?!
“Ten,” crackled over the interior comms. A warning light flashed on the
O’Leary desk.
Hannah heaved out a sigh as the countdown continued, and hauled herself
from the bed and into Grandpa Bran’s chair; like everything else in the
wood-paneled office, it was sturdier than it looked, still as practical and flight-safe
as it needed to be. The cushions were terrific, but the chair proper was bolted down
and reinforced, and the brown leather hid proper four-point set of straps.
“Three,” it wasn’t her imagination, the countdown got slower as it got nearer
completion.
“Two,” this idiot can’t do anything in a hurry. Hannah buckled in, rolling her
eyes.
“One,” the speaker finally said. A heartbeat later, the engines roared, the floor
beckoned, and g-forces pressed Hannah down, hard, into what had once been the
golden throne of Mountain Wolf. Hannah’d felt less force when hot-burning
skyward in a combat ship, still strapped into her ’Mech as part of a field exercise
helmed by another cadet!
Allah! At least Grandpa Bran spared no expense in the padding, she grit her
teeth and rode it out. This was a harsh enough take-off! What’s this asshole trying
to do, kill me? Punish me for the duffel bag thing?!
She glowered. The Ceridwen cleared Buena’s atmosphere after a hard burn,
and the warning light faded, yellow blinking back to a pleasant green, then winking
off.
Hannah tore off the safety straps and heaved herself to her feet. She took
tremendous pleasure in how heavily she stomped on her way out of her quarters;
maybe she wasn’t back in a ’Mech, but she felt just as fearsome as she stormed into
the cockpit.
There, she found Stupid Himbo McWhateverface, and a slender woman of,
perhaps, mixed Liao-Chinese descent. She had the helm, despite Ol’ Duffel Bag
Beefcake having been the one giving the launch warning over the comms.
“Ah!” he said, spinning his whole seat about to face her and forcing a strained
smile. “And there she is! Glad to see you handled takeoff well, I was beginning to
worry we—“
“What the hell was that?!” Hannah waved an arm, feeling absolutely thrilled
at being able to let out some anger. “Was Buena being invaded, and we just had to
get out of there at, what a four gee burn?!”
“Not that our sensors picked up on, no,” he said, smile brittle, sharp, and fake
as hell. “And it was a five-point-one-five gee burn. I told Leutnant Cho you
seemed to be in a hurry to leave, and encouraged her to oblige you. She’s new, and
I thought she could use the pra—“
“Yeah, well, when I want my neck broken or my organs squeezed out through
my butt, buddy,” she faltered for a second, glaring back and forth between them,
and finally glancing down to make out his own name badge, “I’ll ask you clearly.
Just fly normal! Can you do that? Huh? Can you…”
Goodman, she almost coughed as she saw his name. Just my damned luck.
“Can you just get us back in one piece? Get ‘Yusuf’ home? Deliver the freak
undamaged?”
She turned and stormed off as the flyboy – Goodman, fucking perfect, another
Goodman, just what I needed – made a big show of looking surprised, shocked,
hurt, offended, protective of his co-pilot, and who-knows-what-else. Hannah
stomped again, damn it felt good, rattling the plates beneath her feet as she made
her way back to her quarters. She re-slammed the door, too, hatch roaring shut, still
echoing softly as she fell into Grandpa Bran’s seat, the isolation and tight quarters
making her feel secure, alone, safe, alone, sheltered, alone, shielded, alone…
And then another knock, louder than the first.
Leave me alone, she thought as she hauled herself to her feet and lurched to
the door.
“Leave me alone!” she hollered as she pulled it open, let it swing wide, glared
at Goodman’s stupid face, clanged the hatch against the interior wall, and used the
rebound to swiftly slam it shut agai—
It thumped against his boot, instead.
“I think I’ll not, thank you,” he said, voice firm. His foot was wedged into her
threshold, hatch uncloseable.
“And I’ll also thank you to apologize to Leutnant Cho when next the
opportunity presents itse—“
“Apologize?!” Hannah put on her best shocked face.
“Yes,” he nodded.
“I’ll apologize to her when you apologize for…for…” Hannah narrowed her
eyes, mind racing through the litany of grievances she had with this latest of
Goodmans. Goodmen? Goodpeople? Good…whatever. “I’ll apologize to her when
you apologize for storming into my quarters!”
“I’m not in your quarters, Leutnant,” he said, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh, we’re going to play the ‘I’m not touching you,’ card, really?” she glared
down at his foot. “I’m sure the Dowager-Duchess will be thrilled to know – oh, oh,
or maybe I’ll just tell my father, the Duke?! – that you, a man, stormed into my
quarters and refused to leave.”
“Leutnant, I’m not in your quarters,” he said again, sounding more tired this
time, but still firm, “But I am refusing to let you shut the hatch until we establish
that you’ll treat my coworker with a bit more professionalism for the remainder of
this trip.”
 “Oh, yeah, the coworker that’s not come anywhere near my quarters, while
you’ve basically barged into them twice now?!” Hannah gesticulated furiously.
“What, you think I didn’t notice, Goodman, that you left the girl upstairs, and it
was the boy who came down here to burst into my room? Huh? Yusuf’s room?!
Just another guy?”
His expression softened to careful neutrality.
“Leutnant, we’ve got thirteen jumps to make before we get back to Vendrell,
and it’s going to go better for everyone if we—“
Hannah remembered the last few years at Buena, and another Goodman, and
she kept going.
“I’m tired of your shit, Goodman. I’m tired of your smug, stupid, little accent,
I’m tired of you smirking at me, I’m tired of your sickly-sweet politeness, I’m tired
of your stupid fake salaam, I’m tired of you looking at me like that, and calling me
by the wrong name over and over again, and I’m tired of you belittling me, tired of
you protecting the girl from the big, bad, weirdo, and I’m tired of you talking down
to me.”
His teeth clenched and his jaw twitched, but he kept his features calm and
even as she picked up steam.
“So go ahead,” she hissed. “Get it out. Speak your mind. Are you going to go
with ‘abomination,’ to make sure I get the insult? Or are you going to look at the
freak and go old-school, call me a piggul or maybe a shekez, huh?”
He squinted at her.
“Oh, yeah, real surprised the stupid Muslim girl knows those ones? I’ve got a
few more. I met another Goodman, bunked with him at the Academy, for a good,
long, time. I’ve got years of this shit, ready? Well buckle up, buttercu—?”
“He’s wrong,” Goodman cut her off.
“…he’s…what?”
“He’s wrong. If I was going to go ‘old-school’ and call you an abomination, it
would be a toebah, that’s the worst kind, and it’s what some Jews used to call folks
who engaged in ‘perversion,’ like homosexuality. My grandmother, for instance,
was fond of it,” he said, lightly, but the sort of light that a foil was. A sharp light. A
cutting light. “But that would be wrong, too. So your Cadet Goodman – ope, sorry,
Leutnant Goodman, now, I can’t forget that you all graduated nine whole days ago,
nine days that Cho and I spent on half rations, to make sure we saved enough food
for you – your Cadet Goodman was wrong, twice over. Once for not even knowing
the insult to use, and once for using it.”
Hannah had lost all her momentum, now. Goodman had picked it up. He filled
her doorway, broad shoulders almost touching both sides of the hatch, as he leaned
in, but still didn’t step forward.
“A piggul’s just an illegal offering, and a shekez is what I’d call you for eating
an unclean animal. But since I read your file, ‘stupid Muslim girl,’ and since I
signed off on our food for this trip, I know you eat halal, which the War College
considers close enough to my own kosher that the menus overlap, so I doubt that’s
fitting either. So, no. No, he should have been going for toebah, this other, random,
Goodman of yours, that I don’t share a brain with, if he just had to call you
something awful, but found ‘abomination’ too hard to spit out.”
“He…yeah, well, he…” Hannah tripped up. She was finding everything too
hard to spit out.
“But what he should have called you isn’t any of the old Hebrew words for
abomination, but, rather, ‘Baronet,’ to respectfully reflect your future rank as
Duchess, but if he just had to try and sound especially Jewish for some reason –
oh! Is he one of those Donegal Jews, even my grandmother couldn’t stand those
people – then he should have called you saris adam.”
“Saris what?” Hannah eyed him warily but, despite herself, curiously. “What’s
that one accuse me of?”
“Saris adam,” he said again, carefully, pointedly. “And it doesn’t accuse you
of anything. It’s not a type of abomination, it’s more an…observation. The
halachal recognizes a whole bucketful of genders. Male, female, and a handful in
between. Saris are someone who was identified as male at birth, but female later
on. A ‘natural’ saris is a saris hamah, a saris through human intervention – say,
someone taking advantage of the medical perks a cadet might be offered if her
grandmother was good friends with the Leutnant-General of the military academy
she was spending several years at – is a saris adam. The Talmud’s full of you
people. Along with our old midrash, old law codes, you name it.”
He gave an off-handed wave.
“And please, don’t pull out the ‘Muslim’ thing again with my ‘you people,’
that’s not what I meant. Or your skin tone, either. We just left Buena, not New
Capetown.”
Oh.
It hit her.
He hadn’t been smirking. His smiles hadn’t been fake. His good cheer hadn’t
been forced. His greetings hadn’t been sarcastic. He’d been surprised, yes, no one
had told him to expect a Hannah instead of a Yusuf, but he’d been…sincere, since
then. Helpful. Polite. Protective of his crewmate. Determined to help everyone get
along on a long flight. Determined to stock the galley with food his Muslim
passenger would like. Determined to do a good job.
Decent.
“I’m, um,” Hannah swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, throat suddenly tight.
Her mind raced, playing catch-up and far too slowly. She remembered what
he’d said about toebah, and what his grandmother had said about them to him.
About him? Was he…?
“I’m sorry,” she managed. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Yes,” he smiled again, but more softly this time. “You did. You did mean to
take it out on me, because you had to take it out on someone and I was your first
chance. It sounds like a few of your classmates didn’t make your barracks
particularly pleasant, either because of your excellent grades, or for…other
reasons. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Hannah looked down at her feet despite herself, and her voice was very small.
“I’m sorry your grandmother called you…that.”
“Toebah,” he said, meticulously. “You should really learn it.”
She blinked at him stupidly.
“Why would I want to learn it?”
“So you can recognize it if another nefarious Donegal Jew tries to pull it out
at you, first off. But also so you can use it on someone else, because along with
everything else it covers – your classics, idolatry, worshiping false gods, your
everyday spellcasting and divination and such – that particular brand of
abomination is actually pretty common in the higher ranks of the nobility. It’s also
what you call a cheater, a false witness, annnnd…” he leaned in close, though still
carefully not stepping into her chambers, leaned in close enough to faux-whisper,
as though sharing a scandalous secret. “And it’s for incest, too. And some of those
Donegal and Tharkad types, the fancier Dukes and Duchesses from higher-up?
They keep the bloodlines a little too pure, you know? So, just, trust me. Toebah.
Learn it.”
He heaved himself back out of her quarters, one hand on each side of her
hatch, offering an easy smile.
“But yes, it does also cover your garden variety pervert. And yes,
grandmother called me that. And yes, I am one,” he said it all matter-of-factly.
“And yes, for what it’s worth and speaking of that generation, your grandfather
knows, not just my grandmother. Mr. O’Leary mentioned it in passing, very
specifically, just to remind me that Mountain Wolf would extend marriage benefits
to anyone I filled out the paperwork for and as soon as I put it on his desk. He’s
trying to get me to settle down, I think, and the Dowager-Duchess is in on it. They
set me up with a lovely astech girl and a rather handsome MechWarrior, both, this
year. I, meanwhile, am trying to get him to officially make me a dashing space
captain. So far, neither of us has what we want.”
At that, Hannah couldn’t help but snort-giggle. Her rage was past. Her anger
was gone. Her frustration had dissolved.
“Mr. O’Leary sends his love, Leutnant, as does the Dowager-Duchess.” It was
time for Goodman’s features to cloud slightly, his smile to waver. Worry, not anger,
though, darkened his features. “Did you…did you hear the recording?”
“The…?” Hannah raised her eyebrows. “The what now?”
Goodman frowned.
“Mr. O’Leary left you an audio disc, there, in the desk. I wanted to mention it
earlier, but – ah, the ‘but’ isn’t important! What’s important is that you listen to it. I
promise you, though, the Dowager-Duchess is fine, sh—“
“Grandma?!” Hannah’s eyes went wide and her voice broke.
“She’s fine! She’s fine, Leutnant,” Goodman sounded a lot more than five
years older than Hannah, for a few moments. His voice was the calming, soothing,
tone used for a spooked horse or a scared child. “But after her fall, she couldn’t
travel. It was her hip.”
Grandmother had an old wound. A war wound. And, Hannah knew, she
wasn’t getting any younger.
“The doctors said space travel was out of the question, and wouldn’t let her
leave Vendrell. So, she couldn’t leave the planet, Mr. O’Leary wouldn’t leave her,
and the Duke…well…I’ll leave that for the recording. Your grandfather should tell
you, not me.”
He sounded…apologetic, then? Embarrassed?
Father heard, Hannah thought. Father heard, and wouldn’t come. Doctors kept
Grandmother away, and Grandmother kept Grandpa Bran. But Father decided for
himself. I kept him away. He would have come to Yusuf’s graduation. Not
Hannah’s.
“I…see,” Hannah nodded slowly, suddenly desperate to be alone with the
recording. “Thank you, Mr. Goodman.”
“Yoshi,” he said with a smile, “We’ve got thirteen jumps to go. I hope you’ll
not stand on formality the whole time.”
“Yoshi,” she nodded, and held out a hand, offering a smile, also. “And please,
just Hannah. Not…not Leutnant. Hannah is fine.”
“My pleasure, Hannah,” he stepped into her quarters, finally, but only to take
up her hand and bow over it, every centimeter the Lyran gentleman at last, the
dashing space captain in training, the gallant Mountain Wolf cavalier. “Hannah is
fine.”
Hannah’s cheeks flushed. Even – especially – at the cadet’s ball, no one had
treated her that way…
Yoshi Goodman straightened after placing a single feather-soft kiss atop her
knuckles, backed out of her quarters, and spun to leave.
Hannah’s gaze wandered as he left…then she remembered why he was
leaving, and scrambled for the desk.
Oh, Gran-Gran, she bit her lip, digging in the drawers for an audio disc and
the old audio reader Grandpa Bran kept around. Please be alright, like they say. At
least until I get…home.
Thirteen jumps. Vendrell was waiting.
BattleTech belongs to everyone. Celebrate yourself. You matter, and you are
amazing. Be strong, be shamelessly proud, and stomp forward.

Thank you for reading! ♥

 CREDITS

Editing by Milla Koponen (@Detocroix)

Cover art by Samantha Richardson (@Samwitch11)

Pride celebration art by Jordan Bowlby (@VersusJordan)

 COPYRIGHT

All BattleTech related material is copyright ©2023 The Topps Company, Inc. All

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

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

countries.

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

nor The Topps Company.