TIBSHELF

GILLINGHAM

FEDERATED SUNS

07:37, 16 May 3044

It had been going so well.

Then it had been going quite bad.

Now it was going even worse.

Elise was exhausted, every nerve stretched to breaking point, a long and gruelling combat pushing her to the limits even her old self would have thought possible. Her machine wasn’t much better, every scrap of armour red or orange, the ammo bin under half capacity, the reaction material even worse, and numerous systems blinking stress indicators at her in the vain hope she would be able to take a break.

She had been so prepared for one last push.

She had been ready to finally finish this.

Then Maximus had fallen, Monty’s status unknown in the haze of smoke drifting across the weapon-blasted countryside near Tibshelf, leaving two under-strength ‘Mechs and a battered old tank to finish the job.

And now this.

Elise could only watch in mounting trepidation as the swept-wing silhouette of an aerodyne dropship broke through the clouds like the reverse of a breaching whale, banking lazily over the valley as it shed velocity. A marvel of technology and a monster of the skies, these types of DropShip always seemed too big to fly and yet… there one was, over a hundred metres from tip to tip, engines roaring mightily, searching for somewhere to land.

It wasn’t Militia, that’s for sure, or any armed force she recognised, and judging by the shape it was a Buccaneer, one of the few aerodynes rated for civilian service, not that it meant anything here. Elise remembered enough about the class to know they had been first designed as ‘Mech carriers and were often retrofitted with transport bays by pirates looking to save their c-bills, sneak through legitimate shipping lanes, or both.

There could be a company of ‘Mechs in that thing, or any combination of vehicles and infantry, topping out even the disguised Union for capacity, if not for arms and armour, though any pirate worth their salt would save plenty of space to haul off their plunder.

Whatever the case, things had just gotten much more complicated. It was rare that pirates had access to a single DropShip, let alone one the size of a Union, and especially not two. Elise had heard the stories of Lady Death Trevaline and the feared pirates of Tortuga, who had taken twenty-seven years, an entire RCT, and The Fox himself to finally bring to heel in ‘42. Were these remnants of her forces continuing her “good works” amongst the people of the Outback, a different band of miscreants making the best of the power vacuum, or something else entirely? Elise would likely never know.

Her hands were shaking, her heart was pounding, and only one thought was rampaging around her head like an injured boar trapped in a pen.

Your family will be so disappointed… Again! it squealed, Or would be if you weren’t going die forgotten and unmourned on this filthy backwater!

“Shut up, shut up, shut up…” she told herself through gritted teeth.

She had failed in command, again.

She was going to get people killed for her own hubris, again.

Good leg bouncing and injured one cramping up, Elise’s eyes fixated on the Buccaneer as it ponderously came about, recklessly burning its downward-facing transit drives to come to wallowing halt. It rotated shakily in the air, a remarkable feat for a vehicle the size of a warehouse, before settling down on the relatively flat ground nearer to the DropPort, quickly becoming lost in an expanding cloud of dust and smoke.

She wished she could swat it out the sky, to just be done with it, and if she hadn’t abandoned the religion of her forefathers she might have prayed for the engines on that thing to cut out, for it to plummet to the unyielding ground and the hundreds of people aboard to die in a painful, inglorious death.

Alas, nothing of the sort happened. Of course not. Why would anything good happen to her?

Elise shook her head, barely clinging to the trailing edge of sanity, and almost missed an extra presence latching onto the Militia channel.

“Of all the days you chose to do this, it had to be today,” the voice chuckled, and she knew in her heart that the leader of the pirates had finally decided to speak. The voice was masculine, its accent surprising her by being that of New Avalon, or a decent enough emulation for her to not notice the difference, bearing the haughty inflection of the noble class. It was self-assured, calm, and mocking. “My dear, you must be in possession of the most terrible luck I have ever seen.”

Across the hundreds of metres of broken battlefield, the Banshee took a single, challenging step towards them, arms open wide.

“Come then, hero. Do you not want one last glorious charge? Do you not want this to finally be over?”

“You bastard…” Elise hissed, cursing inwardly at the loss of control, at giving her opponent the satisfaction of seeing her rattled.

She hated how easily he was able to tug her strings.

She really hated how he was right.

“Now now, there is no need for this kind of language,” the pirate purred. “I think we need t–.”

Elise cut the link with an angry stab at her console. Her eyes were darting across her sensor readout, looking for contacts that weren’t there. Where was that Exterminator coming around the side? What about the Crockett and Grand Dragons…? What about… What…

She shook her head furiously, albeit limitedly within the confines of her bulky neurohelmet, clenching her jaws so hard that it hurt, teeth grinding together.

“Focus for god’s sake, you stupid girl!” she snapped. It might have been her voice that said it, but it was her father’s words coming out of her mouth.

Realising what she had done just made her angrier, sick at the grip he had over her even now. She glared out the viewport, at the Banshee that had begun to stomp purposefully in her direction, the malevolent creature like a physical representation of that bitter old man. In the corner of her eye, she could see the insistent blink of comms requests from Ronnie and Walters.

For now, they went ignored.

Elise took in a few deep, rattling breaths, even as next to her Clint, the Manticore’s LRMs spat out towards the oncoming foe.

As Ronnie began to dart off to one side, seeking to intercept the Wasp, Elise reached up and gently touched the manufacturer’s plate – the one that had been “modified” – with the tips of her fingers.

“Looks like this might be it, old girl,” she whispered, only half to the machine. “Let’s not do anything stupid, eh…?”

Another deep breath and Elise was back at the controls, opening a lance-wide comm connection on the back-up channel.

“Metal, corral that Wasp and keep it occupied!” she snapped officiously, already pushing the Clint into motion on a wide strafe as the Banshee’s PPCs began to stab exploratorily at the edge of effective range. “Legs, withdraw and pick up Silver if he’s still around!”

“Nibs, thought we’d lost you there,” Walters replied neutrally. “We’d be better in the fight.”

“Negative,” Elise responded sternly. “You have carrying space and easy ground clearance; confirm when you have him.”

A moment of silence where she wondered if they were going to retake command from her.

“Acknowledged.”

The Manticore broke away, utilising its turret to great effect, firing even as it retreated from the immediate battle. There was no telling if Monty had even survived the destruction of his ‘Mech and the ejection seat firing was never a sure sign. Sometimes an autoeject could fire a corpse into the air as surely as a live one, and even if a pilot was well enough to pull the cord themselves, too many of them broke their necks — or legs — landing badly in rough terrain.

Monty’s a tenacious old goat, however, and she was keeping that in mind when she reopened the channel to the pirate Banshee, hoping that the Wasp was listening in too.

“Now listen here, you malodorous quim,” Elise growled, low, dangerous, and angry. It was a voice she hadn’t used since Blücher, a slimy wretch of a fellow captain in the 3rd RCT. “I’m going to make you two promises: that this world will be my grave, and that it will be yours first, if not today then someday soon.”

Before her opponent had the satisfaction of a reply — again — she switched back to the other channel, punctuating her argument by slowing to cruising speed and snapping off an AC/5 round that sent the ugly, welded-on plates from one of the Banshee’s shoulders spinning into pulverised shrapnel.

Four in the pot.

Elise leaped backwards as the Banshee fired, lighting shooting through the place she had been standing only moments ago. The bigger ‘Mech — over twice her weight — was advancing at a faster pace now, trying to bring its AC/10 bear as well. She wasn’t going to give him the privilege.

“Malodorous quim?” Ronnie spoke up, amusement evident in her voice. “Why didn’t you just call him a stinky cu-.”

“Clear the channel!” Elise snapped, cursing at the distraction when her next shot went wide. “Focus!”

The girl was doing a good job of tying up the Wasp, even if she wasn’t able to damage it, and maybe didn’t deserve such a harsh tone. Unfortunately, Elise was skating the edge of a mental breakdown and was not in the mood for joking about.

Three in the pot.

Half a lance vs half a lance, each of them vastly outclassing the other for different reasons. It would be a hell of a time for the Vulcan or Enforcer to come back now, and Elise was banking on the presence of the Manticore preventing this from happening.

Elise swore as charged particles passed a metre from her cockpit, pulling herself together enough to skip a blow on the Banshee’s leg.

Two left.

The dust had settled over near the DropPort, revealing the Buccaneer large against the distant buildings like a colossal, ungainly bird that had come in to roost. It took time for a ‘Ship to unload, especially one not suited for rapid military deployment. One way or another, things would be over by then.

Elise landed and skid to a halt, frowning when she noticed her opponent had also come to a standstill. The ‘Mech had opened its arms again, goading her into an attack. The pirate must know enough about a Clint to understand its ammo issues and realise she was running low and that, no matter how determined she was, it wouldn’t be enough to breach the huge ‘Mech’s armour.

“Enough to breach your goddamn cockpit…” she muttered, planting her legs in a stable position, raising her arm and trusting in her targeting system.

Bang, the Banshee staggered back as a round burst on its head, knocking a noticeable divot in its dark armoured skull.

Regathering itself, her opponent resumed his pose.

The arrogance.

The sheer unbelievable arrogance that only cemented her belief that this was someone who had been born into high standing.

Like her.

Such things meant little out here, only force of arms being the true measure of power. Which, to be fair, he seemed to understand well enough.

Elise raised her arm again, the reticles aligning over the grinning, shark-painted face of the Banshee. All she needed was one good hit.

Aim… and…fire!

The shell sailed through the air on a perfect arc guided by skill and technology, travelling hundreds of metres in the blink of an eye, to break apart on the heavily-armoured chest of her opponent, right below that infernal smile.

Everything went still, the pirate waiting for her to move and Elise waiting for him. The Banshee began to move again, slow, unconcerned, safe in the knowledge that there was now not a damn thing she could do to stop him. Even though her lasers were still perfectly functional, it would put her in range of enough firepower to make an Atlas sweat.

Attacking that thing head-on would be a suicide mission.

But… she needed to buy time for Jamie to find Monty. Maybe if they at least managed to do that… Maybe then they wouldn’t hate her as much… Maybe she wouldn’t be such a disappointment.

Deep breath in, aching feet on the jump pedals.

Shaking hands on the controls, ready to move.

“Nibs, we have him!” Walters’ voice burst across comms. “A bit cold but good enough!”

Deep breath out, slam on the pedals, Clint rattling as she jumped back nearly two hundred metres in a handful of seconds, avoiding the barrage of fire that lashed hastily out from the Banshee as it saw she wasn’t going to fall into her trap. 

“Lance withdraw, effective immediately!” she ordered, using more of her dwindling reaction material to avoid turning her back on her opponent.

In the distance, the Banshee halted once more, knowing he would never catch her, his very presence a mockery of everything she had tried to achieve today.

Bitter and broken, Elise shot one last glare at the enemy before finally turning her back and retreating at full speed. She didn’t know how she was going to face everyone when – if – they made it to the rendezvous point. She didn’t know how she was going to face herself  when the butcher’s bill became apparent. This had been her plan. It had been a failure. She had been a failure… a disappointment…

Tears in the corners of her eyes, her Clint slipped into the deep woods on the valley slope, while far above from the heavy grey clouds, the first snows of winter began to fall.

 

DURAND-GÉROUX MANOR

WEST OF DISTRICT CITY

KATHIL III

FEDERATED SUNS

10:02, 04 January 3030

The entrance hall was cold this time of year, although it never felt truly warm, even in the height of summer, with sweat dripping from the body or slicking hair into ratty strings, it sent a shiver down Elise’s spine. It wasn’t the bare flagstones that did it, though of course that wouldn’t have helped matters, nor the dark furnishings in a desperate echo of the duke’s residence like so many other minor holdings.

No, it was beyond that. Despite the function, it was not a place for welcomes, the glad receiving of guests, it was a place of intimidation, to cow those who were supposed to be beneath you and persuade those above that maybe you ought to be higher. It was a petty piece of architecture, beloved of petty nobles with petty ideals.

In reality, those below saw the attempt at grandeur and knew only disdain for their so-called “betters”, and those above sneered at these pitiful attempts to claw their way out of mediocrity.

Unfortunately, Elise didn’t yet know any better. She was immersed in this, groomed and moulded to be this, formed as the perfect little homunculus of parents desperate for an enduring legacy. Stood in a line, shivering slightly, she nevertheless kept her chin up and her shoulders back, waiting loyally for the arrival of the man she loved and feared like a god.

Either side were her four siblings and her mother, Rosalie, dressed in a king’s ransom in jewellery, exquisitely made up, and drink already in hand despite the hour. Like her husband, she had once been a MechWarrior, giving up that life for the chance to play house and raise a dynasty. In her childhood, Elise had been awed at the sacrifice and love that must have taken. Now in her teens, Elise could see the undercurrent of bitterness and knew enough than to dare ever bring it up again.

To either side of the grand double doors were the servants, lined up, silent, and stony-faced, doing their duty for the coin and hot meals. They had been waiting for nearly twenty minutes now – some sort of delay at the DropPort – and while Elise eldest brother, Cassius, three years behind her, was trying to be a perfect echo of his sister, their youngest, Louis at three years total, was getting fussy and becoming a challenge for his fraught nanny to keep under control. Bernard and Eric, somewhere in between, were slightly older and just about managing. 

Elise glanced about, at the paintings of her ancestors on the walls, at their disapproving frowns and tightly-starched uniforms, and quickly put her eyes front again. They always scared her.

She couldn’t ever show that fear. She needed to be the perfect soldier. The perfect daughter.

Then suddenly, the doors began to open, white-gloved footmen swinging them inwards on artfully-creaking hinges, bringing through a blast of dry, frigid air and a burst of cold sunlight, admitting two men – one in his sixties the other his forties – in military dress much the same as those on the walls, with facial features a muted remembrance of the paintings’ occupants, chatting brightly like they had been on a lovely little holiday.

“... and then the dogs routed! Spineless bastards like all Capellans, so it was only fitting we gunned them down!” guffawed Major the Lord Thierry Durand-Géroux, Elise’s father, like he had told a great joke. His father, General the Lord Sir Bernard Durand-Géroux (senior) only nodded politely, his smile somewhat forced.

Elise’s grandfather looked older than the last time she had seen him, more exhausted, his hair now completely grey. He had made an attempt at retirement a few years ago, but the advent of a new Succession War had dragged him right back in again as a military advisor. If one thing could be said about this family, they did their duty to the state, although judging by his latest messages to her, he intended for the retirement to stick this time around, what come may.

“Ah, my family!” Thierry swung his arms out, greeting his wife and children with unusual joviality. He had been on the Capellan front, piled with success and awards as the Federated Suns had almost extinguished their old adversary. It, along with no longer needing to spend weeks at a time in a cramped DropShip, had clearly put him in a good mood.

He swept forward, kissing his wife on the lips and gifting his children with an indulgent smile before ordering his servants to bring in luggage and get him “a goddamn drink for Christ’s sake”. 

Grandpa Bernard stopped in front of Elise, face dour, back parade-straight, looking her up and down like a soldier at inspection.

“Goodness me, you need to stop growing, little flower,” he eventually said, cracking a smile and ruffling her hair. Elise tried to scowl as she put her hair back but couldn’t hide her own happiness at seeing the old man. “Are you going to give your grandpa a hug?” 

His uniform was rough, his medals and buckles dug into her, but she nevertheless threw her arms around his chest and hugged him tightly. It had been nearly two years since she had seen him last.

“What are you, sixteen now?” he asked, as if he never managed to get at least a message out to any of them on their birthdays with perfect punctuality, no matter where in the galaxy he was.

“In April, sir,” she confirmed.

“Grandpa, not sir.”

“April, Sir Grandpa,” Elise grinned.

“April, yes, yes,” Bernard nodded, smiling at her cheekiness. “So you’ll be starting a new school in September? Military academy?”

“Yes, s- grandpa, College of Military Science on New Avalon!” Elise puffed up.

“Goodness! That’s quite impressive!” Bernard exclaimed, like he didn’t know any of the instructors by name, like his own name hadn’t been a factor in her offer of admission. “Well, study hard, pass your exams and you’ll be seeing the back of Kathil before you know it!”

He ruffled her hair again, moving on to Cassius with just as much enthusiasm, leaving Elise with a warm glow in her heart.

“Elise, come and talk with me for a moment,” her father instructed. He always did this after Grandpa Bernard had spoken to her, trying to gift some attention to his daughter and impart fatherly wisdom. Later in life, Elise would recognise it for what it is: jealousy that someone else might be above him in her esteem and impotent frustration that it was the one person in their family he couldn’t bully into submission. For now, she eagerly came to heel.

“Are you well?” he asked. “Studies progressing as planned?”

“Yes sir,” she replied dutifully.

He nodded sagely like this was all according to his design.

“Good, good, and to the NAIS in September?”

“Yes sir.”

“Excellent,” he replied, like reviewing a new BattleMech that was performing to specifications. “Now Elise, you are the first born of this house and as such will one day take my mantle as head, so there are certain expectations of you.”

“Yes sir,” Elise replied like she hadn’t heard this since she was old enough to remember.

“You will go to New Avalon, you will excel at your studies, you will earn your commission, and have a long and glorious military career.”

In true MechWarrior fashion, the possibility of dying on the battlefield clearly hadn’t come to mind.

“Yes sir.”

“You will represent this house in everything you do. Every word you say, every action, even the smallest, will reflect on the name Durand-Géroux, do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” Elise nodded.

“I trust, then…” her father said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “That you will not be a disappointment.”