TIBSHELF

GILLINGHAM

FEDERATED SUNS

07:00, 09 JUNE 3044

Elise leapt over another row of buildings, avoiding the crash of heavy-calibre autocannon as it struck the roof from one of them, scattering more debris over the rubble-choked street. She twisted in the air, raking her lasers across the path she had just left, her jaw clenched so hard it hurt her teeth, her heart pounding such that she thought it might burst.

The Enforcer followed her skyward, more sluggish than her nimbler Clint, losing armour from its leg in thick glowing globules as it was caught by the bright green of her medium lasers.

After taking out the hovertanks and accompanying Vedettes, the recon lance had pushed into Tibshelf itself to reinforce Walters’ detachment and further distract from what was going on at the DropPort. Despite having put up a good fight against the first lances, Hernandez lost a leg to a Hetzer almost as soon as he entered the town. After taking care of the problem, Elise propped him up against a building with a good view of the street, then she and Ronnie went their separate ways, she being able to directly reinforce the others while the Locust disappeared into the urban maze to make a menace of itself.

The fight had dissolved into a desperate melee in the town, the streets a warren of dead ends, hidden infantry, and ambushing tanks that slowed down the Militia advance and made every inch a brutal slog paid in sweat and blood. Only the ‘Mechs with JumpJets like hers, not bound by the buildings and walls, were free to move and choose their fights. Battle had taken to the air and the side that could take out the other side’s jumpers would control the streets.

As soon as she had reached engagement range, the Enforcer had made a beeline for her, almost obsessive in the way it tried to close, using the damaged Wasp to try and corral her into a disadvantaged position. She could see in the distance Hornbuckle’s Grasshopper as he tried to prevent the Vulcan from circling round his rear, and the Catapult as it traded fire with the Banshee, doing its best to stop that monster from using its commanding position on a rise near the town centre from swatting anything else out of the sky.

Leaping between the damaged buildings, smoke from the battle drifting across her path, the rising sun casting orange highlights around her, Elise was uncomfortably reminded of the night she had escaped from this town. The first night she had piloted this ‘Mech. 

Memory overlapped with reality in a most jarring way, almost tripping her up more than once as phantoms drifted across her field of vision. She growled and shook her head in frustration, opening her mouth to say something to Anne then realising the rumble seat in the back of the cockpit was empty. Maybe she should have told the nurse to come along, her lucky charm, but that would have been more than selfish. Anne would be much safer back at camp, and in a position to do her job, once the battle was ended.

Leg burning, she slammed the Clint into another jump, snapping off a shot with her Armstrong, grunting at the bittersweet thrill of it bursting on the thick armour of the Enforcer’s chest. Almost instantly she was in the air again, forced to move by questing lasers from the Wasp, giving ground to avoid being pushed towards the heavier ‘Mech.

She was running out of rounds and patience. That little bastard needed dealing with but there was no way she could do that without opening herself up to the Enforcer.

Rocks. Hard places. Et cetera.

What would her father say?

With a start, Elise realised she hadn’t thought about the man or his damn lessons in weeks. Why should she give a damn what he or — God rest his soul — her grandfather would do in this situation? What would she, Elise bloody Durand-Géroux, veteran soldier, guerrilla warrior, and all the damn rest, do?

She grinned humourlessly. Something reckless no doubt.

Just like she had done a half-dozen times before, she leapt into the air, and just like they had done before, the Enforcer and the Wasp followed her on the transversal. Unlike the previous times, however, Elise, after the other two had committed to their arcs, spun her Clint in midair. The Wasp could see what was doing and its panic was visible, futilely attempting to arrest its motion even as emerald beams sliced through its already-damaged legs, the limbs separating completely and spiralling away.

The ‘Mech tumbled after them, out of control, and Elise’s sense of triumph was painfully short-lived when a sledge-hammer blow caught her in the back. Warning lights flashed in her face, the wireframe on that side blinked to an ominous black, and one of her jets was firmly tagged with a malfunction error.

Stomach lurching, she crashed into the street, grinding the armour from the arm and leg on her left side, and throwing her against the controls with an impact that brought present pain and promised future bruises.

She rolled to one side, frantically pushing herself to her knees, raising her arms to block the Enforcer’s wicked claw as it came scything down towards her head, metal hitting metal with a horrendous crash and tearing plates away with a screech that set Elise’s teeth on edge. Thanking whatever long-dead engineer decided to mount the Clint’s medium lasers in its torso, she triggered them, gasping when the already-warm cockpit jumped to sweltering. 

Impossible to miss so close, armour burned away from the Enforcer’s legs and hips, forcing it to sidestep to avoid the full impact of the beams, breaking its deadlock with her in the process. Elise surged to her feet, using the momentum to try and land a desperate punch, deflected by the barrel fist in the heavier ‘Mech’s right arm. It swept the claw at her again, raking ragged grooves in her chest, while she lashed out with her foot, keeping it off balance.

Her mind raced and her heart pounded as she tried to figure a way out of this. Run? No, she would need to turn her armourless back. Jump? She didn’t trust her malfunctioning jets not to crap out at a critical moment. Lasers? Might as well just throw a grenade into the ammo bin herself, the amount of heat she still had to dump.

Only one thing for it then, I suppose…

So, she fought, lashing out with fist and gun, attempting to use speed to overwhelm her heavier, better-armoured opponent. The Enforcer stepped back, avoiding the blows, and lashed out with its own in kind. She avoided the claw but staggered when the barrel fist jabbed into her abdomen, grimacing from the psychosomatic shock of the impact. She tried to step back and her wireframe flashed irritably as she scraped against the side of a building.

She was hemmed in, nowhere to go.

“How about you try this, you pox-ridden son of a festering whore!” she shouted, going for another punch.

Almost contemptuously, the Enforcer caught her arm in its fist and began to squeeze, crushing through armour, fraying myomer, and even denting the ferro-steel bones beneath. At the exact moment when it was fully committed, when its fingers were dug thoroughly into her arm, Elise grinned and pulled back. Metal groaned, protested, and tore, her left arm ripped apart at the elbow, and the Enforcer stumbled forwards… its face level with the muzzle of her autocannon.

She fired.

Ferroglass shattered, structure buckled, plates cracked, and fire burst from seams as the up-armoured skull of the ‘Mech contained the explosion inside itself. The Enforcer seemed to sag, like an exhausted boxer, then crash unceremoniously onto its ruined face.

Elise looked at it, panting, disdainful, resisting the urge to spit at it. No use sullying her own mount in the process.

She pushed herself back, down into her own mind, locking her feelings away behind that old familiar wall. Later, if– when this was over, she would allow herself the chance to feel things again. For now, there was still too much to do and still too much that was riding on the outcome of this day.

A deep steadying breath – in then hold then out – then cast an expert eye across her readouts, dismissing warnings about the dismal state of her armour, the petulant whinging about her ruined left arm, and deactivated the malfunctioning jump jet, doing the same with the one on the opposite side to make sure she was balanced in the air.

Ammo reserves? Low.

Armour integrity? Mostly red.

Reaction material? Hmm, not too bad.

Elise reached out and touched the manufacturer’s plate on the console.

“Come on you stubborn old mare, let’s get back to it.”

 

07:02

“Come on you bastard, just stay still!” Hornbuckle yelled, frustration dissolving his composure as the Vulcan leapt out the way of his lasers for the hundredth time — or what felt like it anyway. He hadn’t been able to land a hit on the gangly medium, its superior manoeuvrability and narrow profile used to its advantage.

All he could do was sweat buckets and keep firing his lasers as it jumped circles around him, trying to land a shot on his fragile rear armour.

He kept glancing distractedly over to where Snap was locked in a long-range duel with the Banshee, wincing when this latest check saw one of the bird-like ‘Mech’s blocky missile pods blown from its mounting in a devastating explosion.

The breath caught in his throat, releasing in a tense exhalation when he saw his lancemate still standing, if blackened and battered. There was no way of telling how the monstrous pirate was doing, but it barely seemed scratched despite the tonnes of missiles that Snap had poured into it.

“Captain, this is Rocky, Snap needs support!” he grated into comms, flinching as the Vulcan’s lasers seared across his left flank, taking advantage of him being distracted by the duel in the middle of town. That side wasn’t looking good at all.

“Rather bogged down here!” Walters replied, pausing to shout an order at his crew. The line crackled from interference, presumably as the Manticore’s PPC discharged. “Lost two Goblins to tank traps and the infantry are pinned down.”

Hornbuckle swore, firing his large laser to keep the Vulcan at a distance. “Where’s Bog?”

“Lost comms with him five minutes ago,” Walters admitted. “Saw an ejection and sent a squad round to pick him up but he might have landed in enemy territory.”

“Acknowledged,” Hornbuckle snapped, flipping through channels until he connected with the Clint. “What are you doing, Nibs, we need support over here!?”

The reply was instantaneous. “Shove it up your arse, Rocky, I’m already inbound!”

In all their short association, he wasn’t sure he had ever heard the woman be so… informal. It was nice to know there was a human being in there too.

“Acknowledged,” he replied, trying to sound a little less harsh with her.

He cut the link and turned his full attention back to the Vulcan as it ran down a parallel road, disappearing behind a low block of apartments.

“You,” he growled. The building looked damaged, reinforced only to the minimum extent to not collapse under its own weight, like many such structures in these grubby frontier towns.

Planting his feet, he glanced at his heat gauge, grunted, then fired searing light into the building. Glass melted, timbers scorched, and concrete shattered as the civilian building took enough firepower to wreck most tanks. Hornbuckle wasn't sure if any passed through, but the bombardment had the desired effect when the Vulcan burst from its cover like a snowhen from long grass.

“Gotcha,” he muttered, blinking the sweat from his eyes, ignoring the temperature warnings as he jumped after it. He might not have been able to catch up with it but he was going less of a distance. The Vulcan had jumped in a panic, following the street, and Hornbuckle had jumped onto that same line.

It landed, hemmed in on either side, and the Grasshopper was already there to meet it, a clear line of sight. 

Hornbuckle fired. 

Coloured beams of incandescent energy tore into the smaller ‘Mech, ripping apart armour from thermal shock, spraying molten metal down into the steaming snow, burning deep into its core. The Vulcan staggered, jerked, and fell, a ragged glowing crater punched into its torso, big enough to drive a car into.

The cockpit felt like an oven and Hornbuckle could barely breathe, every lungful of scorching air instantly drying him from the inside out, forcing a spluttering cough.

His ‘Mech shuddered, screens flickering then going dark with an electronic whine. Legs locked automatically, actuators creaking, but he managed to somehow stay upright as his Grasshopper put itself into emergency shutdown. 

Dragging the back of a glove across his eyes, he peered through his viewscreen towards the fallen figure lying crumpled in the street. It wasn’t getting back up.

“Yeah, welcome to Gillingham…” he gasped, knowing no one would hear him. “Twat…”

With nothing better to do, he craned his neck to see how Snap was doing, just in time to see the smoking hulk of her Catapult come crashing into the ground.

 

07:04

Things… might not have been going so well, Everett mused.

It had started off not too bad, under the circumstances, losing a handful of his infantry — Robles included — in the mad dash across the landing field but the surprise and ferocity they had wielded overwhelmed the startled defenders, momentum carrying them up the ramp and into the first cargo hold.

Where the pirates had set up a machine gun emplacement.

Duffy and Moreno had been cut down in the initial burst, along with half of what was left of his platoon, sending the rest scattering for cover. Armed crew had followed them, flushing them out with a ruthlessness that gave no quarter and offered no mercy.

A few of them had managed to slip down a corridor, more through luck than judgement, somehow avoiding the machine gun’s scything sweep as they got out of line of sight. They could hear single shots, an executioner’s blow, cutting off terrified screams or shouted pleading.

A glance around had shown him they ended up in some kind of maintenance section, or maybe engineering? He didn’t know a damn thing about space ships but he could see lots of pipes and wires, a couple of gauges, and other miscellaneous bits and pieces that probably meant something to somebody.

What he was most concerned with were the three doorways, to more machinery, that didn’t seem to lead anywhere else.

One way out.

Everyone was stressed, panicked, but somehow keeping it together.

Everyone… he thought. There were only about six of them left.

“Prepare yourselves!” he told them, shocked at how confident he sounded. “We can bottleneck them here!”

They were still good on ammo, they had a defensible position, and had enough mettle to see this through. Anything the pirates threw at them they would beat back. They wouldn’t even be able to get that machine gun repositioned without being cut down.

They could do this.

Everett looked down as a small round object came clattering through the doorway at an angle, bouncing off the opposite wall and coming to a gentle stop.

“Oh fu—.”

Light. Sound. Pain.

In the blink of an eye his view had completely changed, a scene of metal and pipes sliding away beneath him as something squealed in his ears and his mouth flapped drunkenly, trying to form a word he couldn’t even think.

A sharp corner.

A bump.

No more sliding. 

A nauseating lurch and he was sat up, propped against a wall, his senses creeping back in along with a burst of agony stabbing through his thigh. He looked around, head lolling a bit, seeing Pitmann’s tense face as she wrapped something around his leg and pulled tight.

Cochran was there too, pushing shut a bulkhead door, tears running down his face. As far as he could tell, they were the only ones in that room.

Living, anyway. There was a pirate crewman, red hole front-and-centre in his face, slumped backwards over some kind of control panel, a pistol hanging from his limp fingers.

“What happened?” he asked, his words slurred and his voice sounding muffled.

“Grenade,” Pitmann replied tersely, head snapping around when there was a loud, metallic banging from the door.

Her sense of humour was completely gone.

“Oh,” Everett replied, looking around. The room they were in was quite large, overseeing some kind of big machine. Again, he had no idea what it was, though he’d worked in industry enough to recognise some of the warning labels, angry yellow against the dull metal. His gaze roved over the floor, down to his own leg, which was crossed by a ragged gash overflowing with blood, soaking his trouser leg and flowing drip drip drip through the grated decking below.

The banging on the door intensified then stopped.

“Bit of a pickle we’re in,” he said, devolving into a wheezing, humourless laughter.

He was feeling a little lightheaded.

“Bastards are going to try and blast through the door, I bet,” Pitmann commented, staring unblinkingly at the offending portal.

Cochran didn’t say anything, only took a couple of wobbly steps back. Both of them had cuts and scratches, though they didn't seem too worse for wear.

Not like him anyway.

“Nope,” he told them.

“Only way they’re going to get in,” Pitmann growled.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But they wouldn’t be able to do it without cracking this whole egg.”

Both of them looked at him. His last troopers. Through thick and thin.

He wondered how Espinosa was doing.

No, focus…

He pointed, wobbly, at the curve of a tank built into a side of the wall, covered in pipes, gauges, and warning labels.

“That…” he told them. “Is a tank of liquid hydrogen… Pierce that and… boom…”

Pitmann grinned her savage, mirthless grin. “Lovely,” she replied. “Guess we’re stuck here until help arrives.”

More clanking came from the other side of the door, less brutish, more purposeful.

“Or they manage a mechanical override…” Cochran croaked. The lad looked like he was going to cry. 

“OR,” Everett argued, wincing when his voice was louder than expected. “Or, you get out there.”

He was pointing at the floor, one of the grates surrounded by yellow and black stripes, the words “Emergency Exit” stencilled across it.

Pitmann stared at it dumbly for a few seconds until the cogs finished turning, then a spark lit behind her eyes.

“Ha! Right! We’ve got grenades still, we can pile them up against that thing, then put one on a long fuse, pull the pin and scarper!” she crowed.

“Not… going to work,” Everett winced.

“Fine, we’ll just scarper then,” Pitmann said regretfully.

“Not going to be much of a ‘we’, I’m afraid…” Everett countered, waving a hand in the direction of his leg.

“Sod that,” she snapped. “You’re not that heavy, I can lug you anywhere I damn please!”

Everett laughed. “Unless you can… put my blood back in… it’s not going to work… You can’t… tie a tourniquet worth shit…”

Pitmann grinned but he could see the sadness in her eyes.

“What’s the plan, Chief?” she asked him quietly.

“Same as yours,” he told her, “‘Cept I’ve got my hand on the trigger…”

“You sure?” Cochran asked, voice quavering.

No…

“Yes,” he replied. “Now get on with it before I change my mind…”

They hurried, piling grenades haphazardly against that wall, with a few spare magazines for good measure. Pitmann put the last grenade in Everett’s hand, closing his fingers around it.

Their eyes met, held for a moment, and she nodded. He returned it and said, “See you around…”

“Hopefully not too soon,” she replied, the joke forced with obvious effort.

“Go on, bugger off…” he told them, waving his free hand. It was really getting hard to think now. Grey was beginning to crowd in at the edge of his vision. “Give you thirty seconds…”

Another nod, another regretful look, and Pitmann and Cochran levered up the hatch, glanced cautiously down it, then disappeared from sight.

Everett slumped back, exhausted, fingers clutched around the pinless grenade.

Life was all about learning things about yourself, and it seemed he was a foolish damn hero.

“Mother always said I made poor choices…” he muttered, realised what he’d chosen as his final words, then smiled grimly.

Then, gathering the last of his strength, Everett began to count.