BattleTech: Front Lines: BattleCorps Anthology, Volume 6, page 28
There was a crack as the Centurion fired its autocannon, sending a stream of depleted uranium rounds slamming into the chest of Michael’s BattleMaster. Even the assault class ’Mech couldn’t ignore the shock of that attack, and it halted as Michael compensated for the impact. Then the BattleMaster flashed with light as he launched an alpha strike against the weaker ’Mech.
The sudden flash vaporization of much of the Centurion’s chest unbalanced it beyond control, sending it collapsing down to the ground. William looked on in horror at the scene for a crucial second before pushing his Thunderbolt into a run, snapping shots with his lasers at the rebel armor still milling around Edward’s crumpled machine. Ignoring the heat spike, he threw himself forward in a berserk charge to buy time for the junior officer to eject.
The flash of the PPC beam through the space his ’Mech had been a mere second ago testified to the success of the maneuver. “Punch out, goddamn it!” William roared as he brought his Thunderbolt into the full sights of the rebel force.
His large laser slashed across Michael’s right arm, and a volley of medium laser fire cut through the thin top armor of a Vedette’s turret. William felt light autocannon rounds smash into his ’Mech, and braced for the BattleMaster’s return fire. A part of his mind was still wondering why it was taking Edward so long to engage the ejection seat.
A stirring of the heaped Centurion drew his attention, and evidently Michael’s. Edward, amazingly, was trying to push himself up with his arms. It was a feeble attempt, but it sealed his fate. Michael lined up for a final volley to put the Centurion down for good.
William howled with rage as the BattleMaster lit up again, slamming its full arsenal into the beaten Centurion. The impact shoved the medium ’Mech back into the dirt, and Bacchelaut lost his composure as he briefly glimpsed the tell-tale orange flash signaling a catastrophic ammunition failure.
The chest of the Centurion exploded, shooting armor fragments toward the mass of rebel tanks. Flames engulfed the ’Mech as high explosive charges detonated inside the machine. Whether the auto-ejection had failed, been disabled by Edward, or had been taken out by combat damage, they’d never know. A final wracking explosion blew the upper frame to pieces.
The violence of the Centurion’s destruction stunned even the rebels. Michael simply stood before the remains of the ’Mech, keeping his BattleMaster temporarily immobile. The tanks tapered off their fire, and William’s own forces stopped advancing in response to his charge. He had felt such moments of deadly tension before. The battle rested on a knife’s edge.
Nassem’s forgotten Locust smashed out of the tree line flanking the loyalists, strafing the weaker side armor of the nearest militia Vedette. That broke the shocked silence and both lines erupted with fire.
William stood his ground, grinding his teeth in as his Thunderbolt took much of the rebel assault. He locked on with Michael’s BattleMaster and let his former friend have everything, willing the strike to cave in his cockpit.
“My armor’s failing!” The plaintive cry from Emily shook him out of his dawning combat fixation. William took a deep breath and began backing his Thunderbolt up. A quick survey of his sensor plot let him catch up with the rest of the battle. The situation was not good.
There was only one thing to do. “Fall back! Emily, take that Valkyrie and run. Stay at the edge of your LRM range and just keep it firing at the BattleMaster. Packer, retreat as fast as you can. I’ll draw Michael in. Have those LRM carriers ready on my signal.”
It was a tense moment before Hauptmann Packer acknowledged. His terse “Aye, sir,” was a reflection of his own command troubles. The armor company was down to eight heavily damaged vehicles.
William reeled as his Thunderbolt was hit by Michael’s PPC again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw another of Packer’s tanks erupt under fire from Nassem’s Locust. He started the ’Mech moving backward while angling his torso to present his thickest armor to the BattleMaster. He had pushed back several meters before his laser capacitor was fully charged. William fired again, but he was unconcerned with whether or not he hit Michael. It was only important that he continue to goad the assault ’Mech forward.
It was a harrowing retreat. His Thunderbolt could outpace the BattleMaster at a comfortable rate, but to fire at Michael he had to keep the machine’s front exposed to the enemy’s weapons. Autocannon rounds pelted his ’Mech like lethal rain, and the deadly man-made lightning of the PPC flashed by too many times for comfort. Nassem’s Locust was kept at bay by massed autocannon fire from Packer’s overwhelmed tanks, but he was wearing them down with high-speed dashes into and out of range.
Once he was sure Emily was following his order to run, he let his own combat instincts take over. He felt a great sense of detachment come over him as he put his full attention into piloting his BattleMech. Nassem cut in a little too close, and he nailed the light ’Mech with his large laser, snapping off the birdlike leg of the Locust and sending it plowing down into the A34.
William panted heavily now, and sweat covered every exposed area of his skin. The flimsy MechWarrior jersey under his cooling vest was soaked, as were his shorts. A quick glance at his screen showed Emily three hundred meters behind him, and what was left of Packer’s armor company pulling back fast. That was only seven tanks left, five Vedettes and two Scorpions.
Michael’s BattleMaster was coming on at the charge, with a swarm of fourteen light tanks at his sides. The projected engagement zone of the LRM carriers was marked out in a green line on his tactical display, tantalizingly close now. William gulped the stifling cockpit air and steeled himself.
He walked forward, ignoring the dangerous red glow of his armor diagram and elevated heat of his cockpit, letting loose another full barrage at the onrushing enemy. The heat spiked and William thought he was being roasted alive, but he ignored it. Michael’s rebel force kept coming in a full-out charge, no doubt intending to try and overrun his lines. They had no other real choice.
William turned his ’Mech around and pushed it into a run. “Clear, clear, get out of their damn way!” Packer needed no encouragement to push his tanks to full military power and Emily followed his lead readily enough. Ahead of them boxy shapes poked up, promising succor. Promising victory.
He briefly considered calling for Michael’s surrender again.
The LRM carriers were wreathed in flame as they launched a timed volley of their missiles. The swarm of missiles streaked overhead, past his ’Mech, into a pre-plotted kill-zone the rebels were racing right into. A rain of rockets lanced down on the enemy, smothering them in rolling explosions. The first flight of missiles had barely finished their work before the next was on the way, and then yet another leaped from his hastily formed lines.
He walked his ’Mech around the sides of the carriers before turning around to see what their firepower had wrought. It was a hideous mass of mangled metal, rising black smoke, and flames burning out of control. The BattleMaster was unbroken, but much of its armor had been peeled off, revealing the internal skeleton on its chest and arms, with the characteristic PPC barrel now blown into scrap. Still Michael pushed his ’Mech forward, shoving the hulk of a Scorpion out of the way and stumbling toward William’s lines.
William couldn’t bring himself to fire again. The BattleMaster stumbled forward, and managed to get up to a shuffling gait. The LRM carriers cut off their fire as well, letting Michael close to within two hundred meters.
The Hetzers opened fire with a volley, the ultra-heavy shells slamming into the wounded assault ’Mech, smashing weakened armor plates with ease. One string worked their way up his chest, punching through the ’Mech’s central torso and into its engine. The sudden loss of power saw the BattleMaster slump forward just as the shells inched higher, sending a 150mm depleted uranium round into the cockpit.
It was done. Firing tapered off without the exhausted and drained Kommandant having to call a ceasefire. Minutes later, the first calls for quarter came.
* * *
CITY OF ROSCOE
BLUFORD
FEDERATED SUNS
24 MAY 3067
TO THE WEST, the snow-covered peaks of the Stone Mountains rose on the horizon above vast forests at their feet. They dominated the landscape against the few puny skyscrapers the planetary capital boasted.
The mountains and towers were both visible from the Royal Bluford Memorial Cemetery, on the outskirts of the city. Sprawl was carefully managed to keep congestion and businesses away from the field of honor where the planet laid its fallen heroes to rest. Most of those bore a simple slate-gray government issued tombstone with the note “AFFS” and some years etched in. Almost all of them had fallen on some foreign world dozens or hundreds of light years away.
Colonel William Bacchelaut imagined his own grave, inscribed with Tikonov, 3028. Maybe that would have been for the best.
His brand new, olive-drab uniform blended into the shade of the row of willows lining the edge of the cemetery. He waited respectfully as a group of people finished paying respects to a distant grave. There were two young children there, their features not visible, but sadly imagined. The women were in respectful black mourning dresses, the men in their Sunday best. One of the black-clad females knelt to place a bouquet of flowers on the ground before the tombstone.
He pulled out a pack of Bluford Blues cigarettes and fished one out. Extracting a lighter from his other pocket, he lit up with the fluid motion of years of experience. The smoke irritated his lungs, but it was reassuring nonetheless. The cigarette had burned down almost to a stub before the knot of mourners finally moved off.
He walked slowly through the lines of tombstones to the grave he’d been watching. It was just past a statue of Jesus Christ, arms outstretched as if to receive souls into his bosom. A weathered plaque, briefly glanced at while passing, boasted of its donation by the Otis family back in the 30th century.
William dropped his cigarette butt before the statue and crushed it into the ground with his service boot. “You won.” He said it slowly before the grave, as though the moldered bones inside might have trouble hearing him. “You made it here, amid our pantheon of heroes. Probably the only one in the row killed on Bluford. Count Reese couldn’t move fast enough to get you here after he heard what happened on New Avalon.”
The planet’s noble ruler had sent a communiqué affirming his loyalty to the new regent as soon as ComStar had delivered the video of Katherine’s arrest. “Victor cut and ran again, you know? He could have put the FedCom back together. He could have preserved something of what I fought for. What I saw so many people around me die for. But it was all pointless, wasn’t it?”
His uniform was proof enough of that. The FedCom whites had always been garish, but they had been a symbol of a dream. The practical, oh-so-understated AFFS uniform was better in a lot of ways, but its very drabness seemed to symbolize return to a more mundane reality.
“I’m still with the militia, as overall commander now. Four years in prison didn’t do Colonel Saunders any good, so he elected to retire.” No doubt the Count was thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t had the old man executed for treason. Old man? He smiled, despite himself and his surroundings. He was an old man now. “I didn’t have anything else after the divorce, and someone had to reorganize our defenses.”
Against what, God knew. But it kept him busy.
“I got your surviving men pardoned. They were cashiered, but didn’t spend any time in jail. That’s something, I hope.” He shook his head. “All of it was in vain. This world didn’t matter, Michael. Nothing I could do could have saved the FedCom. Nothing I did could have repaid the opportunities it gave me. Even though it cost me my marriage, contact with my grandchildren, even though I killed you for it.”
He stared down at the serene patch of too-green grass underneath the tombstone. “The worst part of it was explaining to Edward Taliaferro’s parents why you killed their boy.” There was a tinge of accusation in his voice. “They couldn’t understand why you did that. He admired you, underneath all that young arrogance. And you killed him, the same way I killed you, and none of it mattered one damn bit.”
Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes, but he wasn’t sure if sorrow or bitterness threatened to overtake him. Before he found out, he drew up in a stiff salute, right hand held palm outwards along the service cap.
“You’re a hero now, Mike. I hope it was worth it.”
With that, he turned and began walking back to his car.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Harper Brand lives with her family in the Midwest, where there are no ’Mechs and precious little excitement of any kind—hence her fascination with inventing it. She writers stories about people in stressful situations because learning how those people will react is one of her favorite pastimes.
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A Chicago native and perpetually disappointed Cubs fan, Jason Hansa is an active duty U.S. Army Officer. After receiving his commission from Northern Illinois University ROTC (Go Huskies!) Jason has served around the world. Many of his stories published by BattleCorps were written while stationed in Korea, Germany, Iraq, and Afghanistan, and he is incredibly proud to stand among the first science-fiction writers to depict kangaroo-mounted infantry in battle. Jason is currently stationed in Virginia with his wife and two sons, writing Army doctrine by day, fiction at night, and hoping that no one has noticed when he's accidently blended the two.
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Chris Hussey is a local TV marketing director in the real world and his spare time is spent as a beloved cohost for Fear the Boot, an RPG podcast. Chris’ BattleTech credits stretch back to the days of FASA (among others). Chris lives in Iowa with his wife and four kids, and a dog with digestive issues.
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Steven Mohan, Jr. lives in Pueblo, Colorado with his wife and three children and—shockingly—no cats. He has sold more than twenty stories to BattleCorps, including the Jihad serial “Isle of the Blessed.” He appeared twice in Total Warfare, and has done work for several BattleTech sourcebooks. His original fiction has appeared in Interzone, On Spec, Polyphony, Paradox, and several DAW original anthologies, among other places. His stories have won honorable mention in The Year’s Best Science Fiction and The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for his alternate history tale, “A Monument More Lasting Than Brass.”
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Blaine Lee Pardoe is an author of science fiction and military history books. He has written numerous BattleTech/MechWarrior books and books on Count Felix von Luckner (The Cruise of the Sea Eagle) and Frank Luke, Jr. (Terror of the Autumn Skies.)
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Christopher Purnell was born in southern Virginia and developed an early interest in the past, in travel, and other cultures that eventually led to a Master's degree in History from Old Dominion University. He first encountered BattleTech through the MechWarrior computer games, and was intrigued enough in the various references made there to look into the setting. The rich, expansive setting that he discovered hit on many of his interests and arguing about it on the Classic BattleTech message boards soon took up a fair amount of his free time. It is with great pride and satisfaction that he has been published on BattleCorps and in several official products, thereby contributing to the lore that had captured his imagination.
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Craig A. Reed, Jr.’s first BattleTech publishing credit was several coauthored items that appeared in the magazine Battletechnology, including his first story. For the past six years, he has written for both the Battlecorps website and has both writing and fact-checking credits in Battletech products, and has written for the Valiant RPG line. In addition, he has co-authored two novels in the Outcast Ops Kindle series. A resident of Florida, he keeps one eye on his writing and the other eye on the weather channel, in case of hurricanes (Having seen Hurricane Charley up close and personal in 2004).
COMING SOON: REDEMPTION RIFT
A BATTLETECH NOVEL BY JASON SCHMETZER
ON THE HUNT AGAIN…
It is the Dark Age—3139—and the famed mercenary regiments of Wolf's Dragoons have returned to the employ of House Kurita after a century of bitter enmity. Somehow, mercenaries and Kuritans must find a way to work together in a combined invasion of the Dragon’s oldest enemy, House Davion.
Thrust into the middle of this new conflict, Colonel Henry Kincaid is surprised by the commonalities—duty, honor, expediency—the Dragoons and Combine forces share.
But as the Dragoons’ lightning tactics and unstoppable drive brings world after Davion world under the Dragon’s banner, old hatreds arise anew, and with them come insidious plots engineered to cause the mercenaries’ downfall.
Throughout the campaign, General Kincaid struggles to rectify what he thought he had always known about the Kuritans with the truth he discovers while fighting alongside them. But when his forces are trapped on a Davion world with no way to escape and the enemy forces closing in, can he pull another bit of genius from his hat, or will the battalions of Wolf’s Dragoons be destroyed?
HASLET SPACEPORT
GANDY’S LUCK
DRACONIS COMBINE
2 JANUARY 3139
THE HULL of the DropShip Jaime Wolf shuddered as it came to rest against the hard ferrocrete of the port’s tarmac, but not so much as it had when ringing under the fire of a Jade Falcon autocannon. Then it had rung like a tocsin, while here it only rumbled.
