BLUE MOUNTAINS

GILLINGHAM

FEDERATED SUNS

09:53, 10 May 3044

Adam Everett had always thought he liked the rain. He enjoyed the sound of it, the way it hissed through the trees or drummed from rooftops and made everything still and hazy out of the window of a warm house. After weeks of being stuck out in it for hours a day, his feelings on the subject were much less favourable. He had experienced a similar epiphany about camping. Every year he had come up into these mountains for weeks at a time with the Militia, his resources little more than a tent and good company – much less fun when you were fearing for your life.

Initially they had tried digging a hole to conceal themselves when on watch, quickly abandoning it after it filled with muddy water. They had then tried hiding in the eves of one of the stout conifers that covered the region, a band of which were at the entrance to the defenders’ valley base, but decided that was a bad idea when Robles had nearly broken their arm after slipping from a water-slick branch.

So they stayed in the undergrowth, tired and wet and miserable, coats and raincapes so caked in mud as to be an almost perfect camouflage for their surroundings. Adam had also thought himself a patient man, but staring at the same landscape for days and days without change was driving him mad. He understood the need for security, sure, and why they had to be hidden, yes, but he was almost wishing for an attack just to break up the monotony.

“I note with my little scope…” Duffy began, peering through the sights of his hunting rifle. “Something beginning with… ‘T’…”

“I swear to God, if the answer is ‘Tree’, I’m going to hang you from a branch by your underpants,” Pittman said in that tone no-one could ever tell was serious or not. She was a strong woman with a short temper, a former farmhand from a valley south of Tibshelf.

Duffy thought for a moment, running a brown finger across his thin moustache.

“Hmm, no, wrong answer,” he replied.

“What is it, then?” Pittman demanded.

A self-amused smirk spread across Duffy’s face before he said, “The answer is ‘t’cloud’.”

A wet thud resounded through the watch-post as a clod of mud hit the man’s back.

“Stop it,” Everett ordered wearily.

Duffy didn’t retaliate. Even if they were far from professional soldiers, the squad could at least avoid descending into chaos.

“I note with my little scope, something beginning with ‘B’…” Moreno spoke up, her binoculars fixed on a different part of the wide, tree-strewn valley below, always jammed onto her eyes with enough force to leave red rings when she rarely removed them.

“Struth, Talha don’t you start…” Everett trailed off, remembering the serious young woman had never been one for joining in on the banter. “What is it?”

“BattleMech, down there by that old rockfall, the one with the boulder that looks like a cat.”

Immediately the mood in the squad shifted. Everyone hunkered down a bit more and became deathly quiet, pulling out a variety of viewing devices. Everett put his pocket telescope to his eye and focussed on the landmark. Despite the distance and the haze, he saw the spike-backed beast lurch through the haze, its head tracking back and forth as it scanned its surroundings.

It was one of the small ones, as far as a BattleMech could ever be called “small”, one of the scout models he now recognised as a Wasp. As far as he could tell, it didn’t seem to be on the trail of anything. It was just advancing cautiously, getting the lay of the land and being careful of the slippery, rocky terrain underfoot. The black paint and savage decorations unmistakably marked it as one of the pirates.

“Must be the furthest out the buggers have come,” Pittman commented, to a few grunted assents from the rest of the squad.

“Better not be a lance more behind ‘em,” Cochran wheedled.

“Better not,” Everett agreed. “You get yourself back up to base, put them on standby while we keep peepers down here.”

Cochran groaned and slung his rifle, the lad nevertheless managing to keep enough discipline to stay low until the trees became more dense.

“And come back when you’re done!” Everett hissed after him, not sure the lad heard over the rain.

He shook his head and went back to looking at the Wasp.

“Oh bloody hell…” he swore. Another ‘Mech had come to join the first, a little heavier than the Wasp but still on the lighter side of things, unmistakable to any who had survived the sacking of Tibshelf as a Firestarter. It was the reason the town had not just been damaged in the fighting but had also burned. The pilot was a psychopath and Everett had personally witnessed them sending sheets of fire over screaming, unarmed townsfolk as they tried to flee.

They would have likely tried to burn down the whole forest if it wasn’t so wet.

For the first time in two weeks, he was grateful for the rain.

They were getting bolder, that’s for sure, but they were also getting smarter. Since Miss Bowman had started her reconnaissance runs a couple of weeks back, the pirates had learned not to send anything less than two ‘Mechs out on their own patrols. Though it may not seem like much of a machine in a straight fight, the girl’s Locust could run rings round anything, especially when the pirates brought the slower, heavier ‘Mechs out.

The two figures began their slow plod uphill towards the valley entrance, and Everett wondered aloud why they didn’t just use their jump jets to get the distance.

“Imagine if you jumped and landed uphill on a slippy slope,” Pittman suggested, miming a toppling tree with her hand, accompanied by a low, comical whistle.

He hushed her and focussed back on the ‘Mechs. They were getting closer now, hugging the treeline, using the bulk for cover rather than going in and getting slowed by the dense vegetation. With their gun arms raised and their heads on a swivel, it was clear to see the pilots were paranoid about an attack at any moment.

With good reason. Even if Bowman didn’t pull her tricks, the defenders had enough heavy machinery to blow these two into scrap. As much as part of Everett dearly wished for that to happen – especially the Firestarter – he knew it would reveal their location. They would need to move again or come under concentrated assault from the pirates’ heaviest and deadliest ‘Mechs. He still saw the big one in his nightmares.

The ground shook, he could hear the rumble of their footsteps and the grind of their actuators over the rain. Small as they were compared to other ‘Mechs, they still towered over Everett and his squad. One errant step was all it would take to grind them into the mountainside, a red stain to be washed away. He wondered if it would even hurt. Maybe for a second, maybe less, then nothing. Could be worse ways to go. He certainly imagined inflicting them on the pilots of these things.

A hundred metres, fifty metres, twenty, ten… and they stopped right next to the squad, who were doing their best to lie as still as they can, not even daring to breathe. Everett could have reached out and touched the Wasp if he so wanted to. If only he could do that and just swat it away like its namesake. That would be nice.

The titans were there, though, towering as tall as any of the ancient trees that lived in this place, water running from scratched and pitted armour plates, every movement an orchestra of clangs and scrapes and whines as a hundred parts in motion moved in concert with each other – man’s most perfect killing machine. God made Man in his image and Man made monsters in the image of themselves. Man could have made them look like anything, yet here they were with a human shape. Told you a lot about the thoughts of those who designed – and bought them – or so Everett thought; he got philosophical when he was frightened.

He reached for his comms unit. If those bastards took another step he would have to call in to camp. Then his squad would need to scatter into the woods, hope they could link up with the others again, and hope even harder the pirates didn’t find them first. From this close up he could see the things mounted on those machines’ spikes.

Trophies, of a sort, not worth looking at too closely.

He rapped the comm unit on the stock of his gun, a rapid tap-tap-tap that the others would know as the signal he was about to do it. They tensed, or at least he assumed now he was unable to see any of them. He was certainly tense, every muscle and sinew ready to pop from their joints.

One finger on the transmit button, an intake of breath, and…

CRACK. There was a snap of ionizing air and splintering wood when an emerald beam shot through the air, coming from hundreds of metres away and passing the pirate ‘Mechs wide. Off in the distance, from between the legs of the two murderous giants, he could see the rapid avian gait of Bowman’s Locust running past, keeping in sight in an obvious taunt to the marauders. Instantly they pivoted on their torsos, target tracking, locating their prey when it sent another ineffectual shot in their direction. Everett could see what was coming next and shot to his feet, shouting at his squad to get clear, any attempt at stealth abandoned.

He was on his feet, stumbling through the undergrowth, putting as many trees between himself and the ‘Mechs as possible. Turbines whined and, with a deafening roar and blinding, blistering tails of plasma that flash-boiled the falling rain to clouds of steam, the two ‘Mechs ignited their jumpjets and leaped down the hill in reckless pursuit, the backwash buffeting Everett and his squad like they were caught in a hurricane, flensing branches closest to the thrust nozzles down to little more than blackened twigs, stripping the undergrowth where they had been to smouldering clearings.

Multi-tonne warmachines sailed in lazy arcs down the hill, passing over rock and tree as fast as Mr Montgomery’s Thunderbolt could run, the Wasp sticking the landing with admirable dexterity, even if the Firestarter slipped on the thick, wet mud and fell behind. They soon disappeared behind the distant trees and Everett knew that they would never catch Bowman’s little Locust, even if she kept darting tantalisingly in sight to draw them further and further away. No-one ever did.

Lungs pumping like bellows, Everett bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Around him, his squad did likewise, their eyes wide with fear, rain cutting streaks through the mud on their clothes and faces.

“Sound off!” he wheezed. “Anybody dead?”

An equally-winded chorus from from his six – no, five, Cochran was still at the camp – subordinates. That had been the closest they had come to death since they abandoned the old Montgomery place and with good reason. Infantry had no business fighting ‘Mechs in open ground. Everett was dubious they had any business in a battle at all, but Miss Durand-Geroux had stories about fighters hidden in the upper stories of buildings, armed with portable SRMs and a clear cockpit shot.

“Pittman, get your arse up to base and give the all clear, and for god’s sake drag Cochran back will you?” he ordered. “Rest of you back in position, shift’s still not over.”

He watched as his squad dispersed and slumped to sitting on the wet forest floor, breath coming in ragged gasps, hands shaking fitfully as he turned his face to the rain and shut his eyes.

13:21

Close and cramped, the inside of the Sherpa was humid from evaporated rainwater and the sweat of bodies in an armoured box. With no better facilities, it had been converted into an ad-hoc MASH truck using the little resources the defenders had to hand. It had been an eggs and baskets scenario – an unlucky strike would take out all of their medical capabilities but on the other hand said facilities could just drive away in an instant, taking the worst of their wounded with it.

Adam Everett had waited until the rest of his squad went to lunch, chatting and happy with the other troopers not on duty, slinking away and collaring Nurse Anne when he got a chance. She was a formidable woman that brooked no nonsense from her patients but was also reliable and ready to help any time they needed it. Doctor Nasir was nice and all but after having him as a general practitioner for years, there were some things Adam wouldn’t talk to him about.

“Your heart rate seems fine, even if your blood pressure is a little high,” Anne commented, releasing his wrist.

“Oh, you know, age and all that,” Adam joked lamely.

“Mhmm,” Anne responded, fixing him with a look. “What’s really bringing you here?”

“I…” he began, not sure where to go with this. Growing up on Gillingham, he had been taught to be independent and stoic in the face of a galaxy that couldn’t care less, to be strong and not drag everyone else down with him. It made it hard to open up. Nevertheless, he tried, describing to Anne his sleepless nights and pounding heart, the sweats that came from nowhere and the trembling hands, often fumbling for the right words like a person trying to speak a language of which they only had a tenuous grasp.

Throughout this, the nurse nodded encouragingly, her brow furrowed in comforting concern, no trace of judgement to be found. At the end she placed a gentle hand on Adam’s arm, not in the intimate way a lover might rather a comforting, anchoring touch that kept him in place.

“What you’re experiencing is a normal response to being under so much constant stress and anxiety for such a long time,” she told him quietly. “People are not designed to live like that and war is pretty much the only situation that causes it.” She grimaced at the word, a flash of hatred Adam had never thought her capable of, only to be gone in an instant as the composure reformed. “If I had any sort of resources I could give you something to help even you out, maybe sleep a little better, but I don’t… so all I can do is talk through it with you, and... let me break patient confidentiality with you briefly… everyone here is the same and I bet you a beer that every one of them is trying to hide it so as not to appear weak or to worry everyone else.” She sighed. “Maybe you can be the catalyst for change here, at least in the footsoldiers. Get them talking. Bring these anxieties into the open, talk to each other about them, because if you keep them bottled up then the pressure will only build and build and build until cracks form and –” she made an expanding motion with her hands “– you burst.” A rueful smile flashed his way. “Trust me, I’ve seen the results of this and it isn’t easy to come back from.”

Adam paused for a moment and nodded, taking a deep breath.

“You talk to your squad and if you can’t then you talk to me or Nasir,” Anne ordered. “Only together we can get through this, physically and mentally, as much as we are able.”

Another nod.

“And get some lunch,” the nurse added sternly. “Feeling hungry, thirsty, or tired always makes things worse, and the first two you can control, okay?”

Yet another nod.

“Okay…?” Anne repeated meaningfully.

“Okay,” Adam echoed.

The nurse smiled sweetly, if with a hint of mischief, and patted his arm before her hand withdrew. “Now bugger off before all the ‘good’ food’s gone, and if you do want to come back after make sure you bring me something nice.”

A smile crept across Adam’s lips, “Yeah okay.”

“Good,” She shooed him away. “Now go.”

“Yes’m,” he replied compulsively, getting up off the box he had been using as a chair and clambering out the rear hatch of the Sherpa, pulling up his hood and stepping into the perpetual drizzle. He closed the hatch behind him with one last wave to Anne and took a moment to pause. He hadn’t expected it to go like that but he wasn’t disappointed with the outcome either. He just needed to make good on what the nurse had said. It was all in his head, but that made it no less real than a cold or a sprained ankle, it just meant the treatment was a little less physical too.

He sighed and set off for the comforting bulk of the mess tent, nervous at the prospect of talking to his squad about this but also… hopeful. Maybe they could get through it together, more or less, and as he crossed the short distance he wondered if it was his imagination or whether the rain was finally starting to let up.