TIBSHELF

GILLINGHAM

FEDERATED SUNS

06:45, 16 May 3044

The sun was beginning to rise once more on this part of Gillingham, though it would be a while before it emerged from behind the high peaks that coalesced from out of the darkness, immense silhouettes against a blanket of clouds shifting from black to grey in slow, unstoppable increments. Some people wouldn’t see the sun at all this morning, or ever again for that matter.

Elise, caught in the jaws of a quiet moment amidst the still, dark forest outside of town, was wondering if one of those would be her. 

After everything she had been through, across dozens of battlefields on a score of worlds in service to an uncaring state, suffering the derision of an equally-uncaring family when she was of no use to their legacy, and withstanding the torment of her own mind… If she were to die out here on this backwater…

She sat in quiet surprise when she found she didn’t mind. Of course she would rather not die –  she and that particular daemon had come to an understanding years ago – but it would finally be for a cause she truly believed in, even if she had been forced down this path just as much as those others she had walked before.

Leg bouncing nervously in the face of idleness, breath steaming in a cockpit that was merely a bare metal chamber with the Clint shut down, she again went over the last moment before they made the arduous, stressful journey down from the hidden camp. It had been a promise and threat both from Anne that if Elise did not come back alive, she would pray to every god in existence to the extent that if there was a life after death, her soul would be continually harassed to the point where staying alive would have been the more peaceful option; “Reverse haunting” the nurse had called it.

Elise had been taken so off guard by this baffling tirade that she was completely unprepared when Anne threw her arms around her in a tight, desperate hug, like she was afraid that Elise would float away if she dared let go. When she finally did, she held Elise’s head in her hands, scowled at her furiously, and said, “Now you promise me: come back alive.”

As much as she could, restricted by the other woman’s grip, she had nodded fearfully and let out a startled “I- I promise!”

Anne had let go of her then, still scowling, brushed a strand of hair behind an ear, then strode away – shoulders set – to see to the medical Sherpa. Only once did she look back, just before entering the vehicle, her expression lost in the gloom.

Now it was Elise’s turn to frown, wondering about the exchange, so much so that she nearly missed the signal when the bright burst of a flare leaped out over the still expanse of the DropPort.

Reflexes immediately took over, her soldier’s mind pushing out any other thoughts as she kicked the Clint into a cold start, feeling the bass rumble of the fusion engine firing to operational levels in the space of a second. She shuddered as the already-unlocked neurohelmet synched with her biosignals, and her gloves creaked as hands took the controls in a tight grip.

Then the lance was moving, Monty and Walters in close formation, Elise off to one side and Ronnie already pulling ahead at breakneck speed, all of them making for the distant target of the mine entrance, still out of sight on the shrouded flank of the tall mountain.

 

06:56

For a plan to succeed it often took, well, planning. For it to succeed well, it took more than a little luck. To get a brace of rattling, ICE-powered militia vehicles inside the cordon of the pirates’ outer defences had been a daunting task for Everett, one which had involved hours of watching patrol routes by pairs of stupidly brave (and bravely stupid) infantry spotters lying on the cold ground between the woods and the town.

So much doom had been thrown about regarding the operational capacity of the Militia, worn down over time, that everyone had forgotten just how much damage had been done to their enemy. After some mental maths, and asking around people with better memory, he had worked out that over half of the pirates’ original force had been crippled or destroyed – not a bad record for some part-timers and past-their-best warriors. This had a knock-on effect right down to this moment, meaning there were less of them around to guard what they had and search for the thorns in their collective side; not to mention do silly things like eat and sleep.

It left such a large gap that when Everett made the risky decision to just drive his vehicles right up to the floodlit bulk of the DropPort buildings – at the opposite end, but still uncomfortably close, to the shadowy mass of the camouflaged Union – he did so without a single sign of being spotted. Sometimes things just get to the point where you only have enough forces to react to events rather than pre-empt them. Maybe this was a sign they were going to actually pull this off.

He had quickly banished that thought. Hope could be a dangerous thing when left to run unchecked.

Then came the hard part.

With the Sherpa parked in the shadow of a warehouse, he had loosed off a flare, the stolen technicals then roaring at best speed back towards the woods, lights on this time as if they were fleeing the scene of a crime. It was a feeble ruse yet bait enough for the pirates to give chase when, with a turbine scream the small – by the standards of its kind – Wasp BattleMech leaped from behind the buildings as it followed in pursuit.

For the moment all eyes would be on the ruckus out in the wilderness, not what was going on closer to home. Everett had set aside eight of his infantry to drive those vehicles and man their guns, leaving only a paltry twelve – including himself – to do what needed to be done. Sometimes there was a wisdom in taking a smaller force, but with combat at this kind of scale he would have felt a lot more confident with a full company at his back and manpack launchers on their shoulders. Also some armour support. He just needed to trust that Walters and the others would do their job.  Hopefully before that Wasp pasted his comrades in their flimsy little cars.

So he grit his teeth and led his troopers along the edge of one of the great warehouses, the one that supposedly held slave-prisoners kept by the pirates. A peek around the corner, just enough for a quick look and back again. There were two guards, one either side of the pedestrian access door, but more importantly there was another BattleMech just across the ferrocrete plain, standing sentinel over this side of the DropPort. It was a broad-shouldered brute, a cannon in one arm, a clawed hand on the other, and the dark pits of missile tubes in its chest. The distinctive shield on its left arm and the crested “helm” of its head matched the description of what had been called a Centurion. 

It was apparently a bit of a plodder compared to the smaller, faster ‘Mechs so hadn’t seen much pursuit action but was by all accounts a fearsome brawler. It was also a complication Everett didn’t need. 

He looked at it, silent and imposing, completely unaware of them as it faced towards the northeast, away from the warehouse, then gestured for Donovan to move up. Sallow-cheeked and with intense eyes, the young man had refused to give up his bow for a rifle since joining their efforts. Now, as an arrow pierced straight through one of the guards’ necks, falling completely silently, Everett was thankful for his stubbornness. 

The other guard only noticed something was amiss when they heard the potato-sack thud of their comrade’s body hitting the ground, not even having the time to call for help before Rivers jammed a knife up into their ribcage.

Everett looked at them for a second, fresh corpses on the ground, and decided against hiding them. No time to waste.

The door was bolted from this side, otherwise unlocked, and opened with the creak of illmaintained hinges. Everett winced and looked at the Centurion, as if it might have heard something. Still, thankfully, no movement from the spike-armoured giant.

Inside was sparsely illuminated by the few lights still working — observation of the prisoners a greater concern than their comfort — revealing a near-empty space, bereft of even the slightest home comfort, in which around fifty or so people in tattered clothes, huddled together for warmth watched the interlopers with owlish suspicion. They were of all genders but Everett could clearly see that none were obviously children or too old to be of any use.

Everett recognised a few faces from around town, happy faces with the light driven from them by weeks of toil. Pitmann swore vehemently and there were dark mutterings from most of his other troopers.

“This rescue is brought to you by the Gillingham Militia,” Everett announced, trying to project confidence. “We have a vehicle ready to take you out of here, though it’s not going to be an easy trip.”

The prisoners seemed to look at each other, disbelievingly, for a few stunned moments, then surged up all at once in a wave of gratitude and tearful relief, the reignited spark in their eyes not quite distracting from their fresh bruises and pinched cheeks. They were quickly shushed into some kind of order, a man and a woman breaking from the throng to approach him.

“Whatever’s happening here, we can help,” the man said, indicating to himself and the woman. “If you can get us into the Powerman stables then we can even the playing field a little.”

Everett thought about it. Even if they weren’t exactly BattleMechs, it was a damn sight better than nothing.

“Fine, we’ll give it a shot,” he said, “What’re your names?”

“This is Katy Tyler,” the man, who might have been good-looking if he’d been treated right,  told him, “And my name is Aiden Reeves.”

 

07:05

“Hold your fire, let them waste their ammo and you save yours!” Elise ordered. “Fire for effect when you have a clear shot!”

Missiles flew through the air around them, peppering the rock and mud with craters where they landed, the long range and moving targets meaning her earlier words were coming true. The Gladiator and the remains of the Crusader had been put against them, one of the Wasps — the scratched, dented face armour testament to Ronnie’s wild manoeuvre three nights ago — keeping a cautious distance as it tried to simultaneously play spotter and avoid a repeat performance.

Elise kept her speed up, working her fusion engine to keep the cockpit warm without being toasty, avoiding the use of her precious few cannon rounds while she could help it. This far from the fight, able to keep a clamp on her thought process, she was managing much better than she had expected.

Maybe I’m getting used to it again, she wondered, snorting almost immediately. Sometimes it was nice to play pretend.

While her heart was racing, her muscles tense, she was at least managing to avoid the stress-fuelled clenching of her jaw, even if she was wondering where the hell the pirates’ Banshee was. It was a monster of a ‘Mech that had seen little fighting since the night of the invasion, more than capable of turning the tide of battle all by itself. She hoped it was holding the line at the mine entrance, a problem to deal with later.

She also wondered where that Enforcer was, not to mention that Vulcan. She couldn’t shake the feeling they were circling around, ready to maul them from the sides like hungry wolves.

“Metal, stop pissing about and watch the flanks,” she said, using Ronnie’s callsign. “Legs, Silver, use your main guns as soon as you have the range; can’t waste ammo with an energy weapon!”

Walters and Monty broke formation, widening the gap as they advanced. At first Elise thought they were readying to split their fire, and she was about to admonish them but she realised what they were doing as soon as the Manticore fired.

They were focusing on the Crusader, Monty distracting it while the tank went for the hastily-patched weak spot where there used to be an arm.

Even at long range, Walters’ gunner proved their worth, a cracking ‘shell’ slamming into the lopsided ‘Mech, unfortunately spending itself on the chest armour in an explosion of molten armour, shining in the morning twilight.

Despite not being a devastating hit, it was apparently too much for the pilot. Now wise to what they were up to, the Crusader immediately began to backpedal, angling its torso away from their assailants as they tried to make for the cover of the nearby DropPort. 

Incoming fire immediately slacked off as the Gladiator milled around in confusion, unsure whether to follow their comrade or do their job, their hesitation affecting their output.

“Push them!” Elise growled. “Press the advantage!” 

More energy fire lit up the countryside, the long range and transversal movement of all targets leading to no more hits. Not that it mattered — if Elise and the others could drive the pirates from the field, then it’d be one less thing to deal with.

“Incoming!” Ronnie’s voice burst urgently over comms, her music dimmed in deference to the situation. “Two contacts, north north west!”

Elise wheeled without slowing, the Clint’s boots skidding furrows into the mud as she leaned into the turn, her stomach lurching as the damaged gyro struggled to compensate.

The flares of jump-jets burst from further up the mountain slope, her computer immediately tagging them as the Enforcer and the Vulcan. 

As much as she enjoyed being right like the next person, sometimes she would rather not be.

 

07:10

The distant, rolling drumbeat of explosions echoed across the DropPort. It had hitherto been a sporadic, lowkey affair, an exchange of long-range fire intended to soften or intimidate the enemy. Now it had intensified, suggesting the engagement beginning in earnest, heavy guns brought to bear. 

Whatever was going on, Everett was glad for the distraction. The Centurion was facing in that direction, the expressionless, immobile ‘Mech nevertheless giving him the impression of a hound alert to some intrusive presence, only the bondage of harsh training stopping it from leaping into the fray.

He had no idea how things were going for Walters’ armour lance but it’d be going less well if that thing got involved.

So that’s why he, a few handpicked troopers, and the Powerman operators were running in the wrong direction behind its back while the rest of his unit escorted the majority of the civilians to the waiting Sherpa. Something needed to be done. This might well be the last ditch effort after all.

He grimaced, heart pounding in his chest and breath hissing in his lungs as they ran across the open ground. All it would take was for the Centurion to notice them and they’d be obliterated by any one of its weapons. At least it would be fast. He hoped.

The Powerman stables were ahead of them, apparently unguarded, the tall, open-fronted building unlit and abandoned, the dozen or so gantries empty save for a trio of stocky, hunchbacked figures silently standing in their shadowy home.

Weapons up and trigger-fingers twitching, the militia scurried into the shelter, waiting a few tense moments for gunfire to start, glad when all they could hear was the intensifying ‘Mech battle in the distance.

“Not bothered guarding these, huh?” Robles commented.

“No-one around to steal them,” Aiden replied with a winning, mischievous smile. He and Katy were stripping out of their rags and donning stained, well-worn jumpsuits with some kind of company logo on. It seemed like IndustrialMech operators had the exact opposite dress code to MechWarriors.

“Not many around to steal,” Everett added, looking up at the Powermen. They had big, powerful arms designed for lifting and moving cargo but no real weapons to speak of. He was starting to wonder if this was really such a good idea.

“Yeah, well, some people had the fool idea to take some and fight back, night of the invasion,” Katy explained, not bothering to hide her bitterness.

“Lost a lot of people close to us that night,” Aiden said sadly.

“We all did,” Everett agreed. “You think you can do this?”

“No idea!” Aiden laughed, pulling on a helmet — purely protective, nothing like the bulk of a neurohelmet. He saluted louchely and the two operators ran up the stairs and began climbing into their respective cockpits.

“When those things engage we stay clear,” Everett ordered his troops. “We skirt around the edges and link up with the Sherpa.”

“Easy as, eh?” Pitmann scratched her thick neck.

“Yup.” Echoing growls reverberated through the hangar as the ‘Mechs ICEs fired up, and Everett shooed his troopers to one side. He had no idea what kind of sensors the Centurion had but it wouldn’t be long before they noticed.

Less sophisticated than a BattleMech, these machines clearly had a much shorter startup sequence and were moving almost as soon as they had power, their gait jerkier and less fluid than their more advanced cousins but no less precise for it. Impressive torque brought the Powermen to running speed almost as soon as they cleared the hangar, and practised piloting kept them steady even on the smooth surface of the ferrocrete.

The militia followed them out, already lagging far behind, uncaring about being exposed under the orange-lit clouds as they sprinted across what was about to become a battlefield.

Something warned the Centurion what was coming as the Powermen bore down on it like farm dogs on a wolf. It turned, getting half way round, enough to level its cannon arm. 

With a boom that Everett felt in his chest and rang in his ears, the heavy autocannon fired and hit the lead Powerman in the same second, blasting apart its armour in a great explosion, wreathing the smaller ‘Mech in smoke. 

Despite the damage the Industrial ploughed on, showering the forrocrete in shattered metal, its operator uncaring of their own safety — or just having nothing left to lose — and with the stab of a green laser going wide, the trio made contact.

By design the Powerman was only good at one job, picking things up and putting them down again, but a skilled pilot could do a lot with even that. Despite being out in the open, Everett found himself slowing down in gobsmacked awe as the scene unfolded before them.

Hunching like rugby players to a scrum, the Powermen each grabbed a leg of their intimidating opponent, continuing even as its free arm tore armour plates and dented supports, as its laser passed close enough to scorch paint to a bubbling black mess. Metal ground and scraped and actuators whined, audible even from this distance, as the Industrials lifted fifty tonnes of war machine clear from the ground, tipping the Centurion on its front with a resounding crash, arms flailing in an almost comical manner.

The Centurion’s rear laser lashed out, tearing a molten furrow through the arm of one Powerman while the other grabbed its head, planted a foot on its thick shoulder and began to pull, pull, pull. The BattleMech swung its cannon arm out but the other operator grabbed it, the shell flying harmlessly into the air. It flailed desperately with its hand, almost bending one leg inwards on its assailant but still the Powerman pulled, until…

CRUNCH. The Industrial staggered backwards and almost toppled when the head came free with a horrifying tearing noise. 

It held up the object, almost on inspection, and seemed to consider throwing it when the cranium burst open in a puff of smoke and the pilot shot up and out. The Powerman tilted backwards, following its trajectory, then simply dropped the empty cranium at its feet. Pivoting at the waist, the Industrials looked around for further threats, then revved back up to speed in the direction of the astonished militiamen.

“Struth…” Robles gawped.

“Can fuckin say that again…” Pitmann agreed.

Everett himself could only watch, wide-eyed and wishing he had a comms unit so he could congratulate the pair. Even given the money he wouldn’t have bet on what he had just witnessed being possible. By any rights the Centurion should have wiped the floor with them, but… it just goes to show that surprise and skill could balance the scales as much as any advanced weaponry; or even more, in this case.

Off in the distance, something large exploded, sending a plume of fire, smoke, and debris high enough into the air to be seen from even their low position.

“We should go,” Everett suggested urgently, putting words into practice and once again making a hurried break for the waiting Sherpa, the two Powermen keeping a plodding, unhurried pace.

They had scored an unexpected point to be sure, but there was so much left to do before they could even think of claiming victory.