NEAR TIBSHELF

BLUE MOUNTAINS

GILLINGHAM

FEDERATED SUNS

06:45, 09 JUNE 3044

It was a beautiful day for a walk, or was shaping up to be once the sun fully came up. The sky was vast and clear, a velvet blanket filled with the pinpricks of stars, and fresh snow covered the ground in a shining, unbroken sheet.

Everything was so peaceful, so tranquil, it almost seemed a shame to ruin it.

Almost, thought Elise from the cockpit of her Clint. The battle plans had been drawn, orders had been given, and goodbyes had been said. Her lips still tingled from when she last saw Anne, the woman doing away with any sort of pretence, first demanding she come back alive, then kissing her with such a desperate passion, like she wanted it to be the last sensation she remembered.

It was still a strange thing for Elise to acknowledge that part of her heart, the one that had been developing, unacknowledged in the background, a bond that had formed and deepened with that strange and beautiful nurse ever since they saved each other that tumultuous night all those weeks ago.

It was also terrifying, yet another unknown going into the future, yet another thing for her to lose.

It was also… nice. 

There had been other goodbyes too. Monty left behind without a ‘Mech — put to work by Anne — and Aiden. Both had also been left with hugs and promises and while they hadn’t burrowed so deep within her chest, they both still tugged at her thoughts in their own ways.

She needed to push all of those feelings to the side and focus on the here and now; there was business to be about.

Elise leapt into the air as the Saladin sped beneath her, avoiding the point-blank shot that would have surely crippled her.

Twisting in the air, she raked her lasers across its path, the emerald beams kicking up a coarse mist of flash-boiled snow and connecting with the craft’s fragile skirts. With a whine and a crunch, its nose ploughed into one of the trenches only just dug, flipping the lightweight machine end over end.

No more trouble from that one.

Ronnie seemed to be doggedly chasing one of the Saracens, the erratic driving suggesting its pilot didn’t expect the speed of her modified Locust, and Hernandez was duelling with the one remaining Wasp as it flitted around him.

Their lance was the first wave, attacking again from near the dairy farm, getting some attention — and causing some damage — while the other lances moved into position.

More vehicles, slower and tracked, were just exiting the town. They would be trouble enough but Elise was worried where the damn Vulcan was, not to mention the Enforcer and, of course, the Banshee. 

After the shenanigans of the previous day, their leader must have wanted to keep his best units in reserve, waiting to see what was going on.

Smart.

She turned and fired off a snap-shot at the Wasp, cursing when it avoided her attack but laughing in pleasant surprise when Hernandez took advantage of the distraction to fill it full of missiles. It leaped further out of range, panicked and smoking as blackened shards of armour rained through the sky around it.

Elise kept moving, dodging as the unoccupied Saracen tried its luck with her. It was faster than her on the flat, especially mired as they were in the open snowfields like this, but she could change direction much faster than it.

Leap. She avoided a stream of missiles. It was being cautious with her, keeping out of range of her lasers. All she needed to do was keep avoiding its missiles til it ran dry. No problem. Not a stressful situation at all.

A couple of explosions bloomed in the snow nearby, accompanied by the thunderclap of distant autocannons. The enemy reinforcements had caught up. Looked like some Vedettes.

“Rude,” she said, putting more space between them. They would be problem enough but the heavier shapes she could see lurking at the edge of town would be a different issue entirely.

Though not necessarily for her.

Flashes broke the twilight, accompanied by ripples of explosions and thumping cannon fire from the western edge of town, nearly the other side to where the recon lance was.

The second wave had engaged.

 

06:50

Missiles.

So many bloody missiles.

They were raining down in dark sheets from the brightening sky as Lieutenant Hornbuckle’s force made their grim slog towards their edge of the blasted town. Or, he should have said Captain Walters’ force, seeing as they had decided to take charge this time, though that was beside the point.

The point was yet another bloody volley of bloody missiles coming down on their bloody heads, fired indirectly from inside the bloody town!

Judging by the amount, he thought they might be coming from Hunters or some other light carrier, not that it made his mood any better. His view of pirates in general had previously been of equipment stolen or modified, designed as much to haul off loot as to smash their way towards it.

This felt too much like an organised military force.

And the size of the force? He had seen millions of c-bills worth of equipment since he got involved, and that’s not counting everything purportedly destroyed before that point, or even the DropShips! Outside the feared lords and ladies of Tortuga, most pirate bands barely broke a lance, and only had their own rickety DropShip if they could steal or salvage one.

These people were too well-equipped.

Maybe when they got through this, some answers would come to light.

“When,” Hornbuckle laughed, pushing his Grasshopper into another jump, presenting a difficult target for the crash and thump of the medium tanks providing direct fire — and spotting for the Hunters. He felt for Bog in his Hunchback, and everyone stuck in a vehicle, who just had to put up with it.

“Force a breach,” Walters ordered over comms, calm as ever. “We need to get inside the town.”

“Easy peasy…” Hornbuckle muttered grimly, gritting his teeth as a low-calibre shell shattered on his chest. The ‘Techs had managed to patch the armour and realign the laser from the previous day’s… activities… but he was still concerned.

He unmuted his comms and said, “This is Rocky, recommend move on my target, heavies at the fore.”

“Lead the way,” was all Walters replied.

For most other units this would have been a death sentence, but Hornbuckle was the biggest, meanest thing currently in play. This was what ‘Mechs like his were made for.

“Affirmative!” he replied. “Snap, get on my flank and fire at my targets, Bog take the van when we go urban. Goblins follow the ‘Mechs, with Legs in the rear.”

One last leap and a crunch into the snow brought him within a hundred and a half metres of the nearest buildings, the dark, blocky shape of a Vedette taking shelter behind a tumbledown wall. The Grasshopper moved nimbly, running at an angle, and Hornbuckle turned his arms and torso towards it.

Colours lashed out, melting metal and blasting apart brick and concrete from the devastating thermal shock, the brightness of the combined assault causing his viewport to automatically polarise in response. Heat pumped into his cockpit in a sweltering wave, slowing the movements of his ‘Mech and bringing out cool rivulets of sweat on his bare arms.

The aftermath was devastating. The Vedette’s cover had been annihilated in one onslaught of sun-hot light, and the metal of the tank itself still glowed as it tried to pull away in panicked desperation, only to be stopped short when a pack of missiles from Snap slammed into its damaged flank. It lurched to a shuddering halt, belching black smoke and flames from every opening.

Bog thundered past him at a run, kicked the ruined vehicle out of the way and reached the road, line of sight blocked by two four-storey buildings on either side. In an almost comical fashion, the stocky ‘Mech looked left, then right, ducked as something blew a hole in the corner of one of the buildings, then finally replied with the heavy gun in his shoulder. Snow shook from nearby rooftops and Bog’s Hunchback stomped out of sight.

“Infantry in play,” Bog reported. “Manpack launchers.”

“Acknowledged,” Walters replied. “Goblins to the front, clear the area, ‘Mechs be on the lookout for enemy armour.”

Hornbuckle didn’t envy Ellis his job. The tanks’ machine guns might do the job of cutting down enemy infantry, but if they were too dug in it would be up to the Goblins’ own fragile cargo to go building by building. Not a fun time by any accounts.

Heat down to an acceptable level, he closed some distance and launched his Grasshopper up and over one of the intervening buildings, granting him a commanding — if temporary — view of the battlefield. Icons pinged onto his HUD, picking up a pair of BattleMechs in the middle distance, working their way across the northwest edge of town by the same method he was. A Vulcan and an Enforcer. He reported this in.

“Good job, keep an eye out for the Triple B,” Walters ordered.

Hornbuckle puffed out his cheeks, hunching the Grasshopper as he landed, making the most of cover provided by a nearby structure — some kind of industrial building — as an autocannon shot flew overhead.

He had long since been used to being the biggest thing around, so to be briefed on the monstrous Banshee terrorising the region had been an unpleasant surprise.

Across the lance channel he said, “Bog, ignore the infantry and proceed on that flank, Snap come up and over with me, we need to engage those ’Mechs.”

Affirmatives came back, Snap’s Catapult moved into position at his side, and the two of them cleared the building in one easy jump, landing in a snow-covered lot near a field of houses, none of them coming up past his waist and most of them damaged beyond repair.

Almost immediately warnings blared in his ears as the air was ripped asunder by charged particles, snapping out with devastating speed and accuracy to flense the armour from his right arm. Hornbuckle pivoted to the other side and began moving, eyes frantically scanning his HUD. An icon dutifully popped up when his sensors caught up with reality: there, towards the centre of town, was the hulking form of the Banshee.

“This is Rocky,” he spoke into the general channel. “The Triple B has been engaged!”

 

06:55

One of the many mysteries of life was finding out new things about yourself, just part of the rich tapestry that made you You.

Normally this was a wonderful thing, although Everett dearly wished he had known he got airsick before finding himself in the back of a Karnov speeding at full clip towards a battlefield.

Every bump, rattle, and shake travelled right through to his stomach, which complained profusely about such treatment and threatened to take direct action all over his boots if it continued for very much longer.

Everett tried to ignore it, closing his eyes, clinging into his restraints and praying for them to soon land. Or be shot out of the sky. At this point he wasn’t being picky.

“Coming up on the LZ, hold on tight,” the pilot announced over the intercom, and Everett was about to offer thanks to every deity that might be listening when the Karnov threw itself into a series of sharp jerks and evasive manoeuvres that really tested his resolve. 

Swallowing down a posset of hot bile, he nearly wept when the VTOL touched down with one final thump.

“Go go go, get clear!” he bellowed hoarsely, hastily unbuckling his restraints and hitting the open ramp at a run, a platoon’s worth of infantry hot on his heels.

The morning air hit him in the exposed parts of his face like a frigid slap, and the sounds of irregular thunder reached his ears from over towards town, a fierce battle that was nevertheless a ploy, drawing away combatants while the infantry did the real work. 

Turbines whined and the Karnov lurched into the air again, going fast and low as it sped across the open field of the DropPort and back towards the safety of the mountains. Missiles and PPC bolts flew after it, missing their mark as inexperienced gunners struggled to get a bead on the speedy craft.

Everett watched it go, its wingmate coming up from the south where it had dropped off Espinosa’s platoon.

He had been dropped off in the shadow of one of the dark and damaged terminal buildings. His unit was half experienced natives of Tibshelf who had been doing this for weeks, half green newcomers from Arrow Town.

With no small amount of trepidation, he motioned his troops and led them at a scurry into the shelter of the building. They would use the cover to make their way around, hopefully giving them minimal amount of open ground to cross to their target.

The DropShip. The disguised Union that had started this all. While Espinosa’s mob were doing the same to the Buccaneer, they were supposed to capture the bastard and take away the pirates’ way off of Gillingham. That way, even if the Captain and their forces failed in their mission, the pirates would be stuck.

Nothing too big, then…

He had never in his life expected to be in charge of people, certainly never so many. First a squad, now a platoon. So many people looking to him for guidance.

He led them through wide corridors, past rows of silent chairs, towards the departure lounge. Through the glass loomed the menacing orb of the DropShip, the prongs and blisters of its weapon emplacements becoming clearer as dawn crept in. If they waited too long they would lose their last chance at stealth.

Shots rang out, everyone scattered for cover, and Everett made a mental note to stop tempting fate like that.

Flat on his belly, Cochran swearing terrifiedly to his left, Pitmann swearing boisterously to his right, he tried to get a read on the situation as both sides tried their best to get a shot at targets they couldn’t really see. They were almost at the long “arm” of the building that reached towards the landing pad, one that would have forced his troops into a devastating bottle neck had the pirates waited just a couple minutes more.

“I count five of them, hunkered down near that desk at the end,” Robles announced calmly but loudly, peering down his scope into the tunnel. “I think we surprised them.”

Everett frowned, wondering what they were going to do. As boxed in as the pirates were, his forces needed to get down there in order to—

Oh.

“Grenades!” he snapped.

With his new friends came new toys, and two of the Arrow Towners cried in what they probably thought was an intimidating manner, followed by the curious thunk and rattle of the heavy tubes they carried shooting objects down the corridor. 

Explosions. Screams. Silence.

Grenades and confined spaces were a deadly combination, especially if you didn’t really need to aim.

“Huh,” he said, cautiously getting back to his feet. “Any casualties?” No answer. “Anybody?”

“Uh, Simmons got winged?” one of the Arrow Towners shrugged, pointing to a trooper who was sat on the floor, pressing a seeping field dressing to her leg and glowering.

Everett clicked his tongue. “Think you can run?” Simmons shook her head. “Congratulations, you get to stay here. Try not to freeze to death before we get back.”

He was moving before the girl had a chance to argue, pushing into the tunnel, doing his best to ignore the disconnected pieces of pirate at the far end, stepping gingerly around the pools of rusty red.

One of the pirates was still alive, clutching their belly, their groans muffled by the daemon-faced mask it wore. Without a word, Pitmann knelt down and pushed a knife into their neck. She stood back up, nodded to Everett, and wiped off the blade.

Part of him knew he ought to have felt something in that moment, watching her so casually take a life, but after two months of fighting occupation in the ruined shell of his hometown he no longer saw these pirates as worth mourning.

If they wanted to be seen as faceless daemons then he would treat them as such.

He cast his gaze out of the broken glass doors at the end of the corridor, towards the looming DropShip now perhaps fifty metres away, light flooding from the wide-open ramp, warm and inviting. They no longer had the element of surprise, but they did have numbers.

And, unfortunately, open ground to cover.

In the snow.

Everett sighed.

“Who wants to grow old anyway…” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Duffy asked.

“Nothing.”

Everett opened his mouth again and hesitated. This seemed like the moment for a speech. Captain Walters might have had something inspiring to say, or even Elise. As it was, all he could manage was a halfhearted, “Better get on with it then… Spread out, run fast, and don’t think.”

Not even giving himself the chance to hesitate again, he burst into action, charging out into the open followed by twenty-six of the best soldiers that Gillingham Militia could find on short notice and no budget.

The DropShip seemed so close yet so far, a great monolithic beast so large they should be beneath its notice.

Forty metres left, no sign of life from the beast, the inaction giving Everett a spark of hope.

Thirty metres. His breath was becoming laboured, the awkward, waddling run needed to get through the snow burning more energy than on the flat. Still no response. Maybe they were actually—

A flash of blue and a soldier to Everett’s right was reduced to ashes, not even having a chance to scream.

Green lights lashed out now, catching another, this one definitely being able to scream, and in great guttural quantities. Everett didn’t dare look back, though a newborn fog was making it difficult to see.

Twenty metres. Missiles lashed out, going as they were unable to get a lock, ruining more of the terminal’s roof.

“We need to retreat!” shouted one panicked voice. There would be no retreating, not if they wanted even the slightest chance of surviving.

“Onwards, you milk-dribbling fuckstains!” Everett bellowed.

Pitmann’s guffaws joined the cacophony from somewhere just out of sight, suddenly drowned out by autocannon fire that impacted too close for comfort, spraying Everett with a wave of snow.

Ten metres. More lasers, more missiles, more cannons.

More drowning, overwhelming noise.

More deaths.

Then metal was under his boots and he was charging into the bright interior of the DropShip, screaming a wordless battle cry that sounded muffled to his own ears. 

He raised his rifle, pointing it at the shocked ‘Techs and crewmen that were diving for their own guns.

No thoughts, no hesitation, he pulled the trigger.