by Andrew Keith
The younger pilot's response was edgy. "Ah . . . skipper, I don't know about this ..."
"Damn it, Gates," Alex grated through clenched teeth. "We don't have time for arguments now!"
"But you're asking me to let loose everything, skipper! My heat's still pretty far up the scale."
Heat was probably the main problem of the awesome energies contained within the bulk of a BattleMech. Just moving the machine made the 'Mech's power plant and engines generate hellish amounts of it. Discharging weapons, especially high-powered energy weapons like the Shadow Hawk's two lasers, compounded the already serious problem. BattleMechs were equipped with heat sinks to dissipate heat, but no 'Mech had ever come off the assembly line with enough cooling capacity to entirely solve the problem. Too many other things were just as vital-armor, weaponry, electronics—and it was often necessary to make tradeoffs.
The trouble was, generating too much heat too fast could do a lot of damage to a 'Mech's electronic systems, even overload life support and fry the pilot. An integral part of the coolant subsystem was a governor that would shut down the entire machine if the heat problem became critical. And if the Shadow Hawk suddenly shut down it would become a sitting duck. There wouldn't be time to restart it. Gates would have no choice but to abandon the 'Mech.
Alex didn't hesitate this time. "Drastic times, drastic measures, Three," he said curtly. "Lock on to the assigned targets and get ready. We'll take the bastard when he tops the next rise."
"Yes, sir," Gates responded, still sounding reluctant. Alex understood why. Not only was the other pilot courting a battlefield shutdown, but there was always another fear nagging at the back of a MechWarrior's mind. An overheated 'Mech could become a deathtrap if the machine's safety measures failed. Dancing around the red line was something no sane Mech Warrior wanted to do.
"Guess that makes me insane," Alex muttered to himself, focusing all his attention on the primary screen. If his guess about the enemy's intentions was correct, the BattleMaster pilot wouldn't waste time and effort on a fancy indirect approach. He would count on size and firepower to overcome the two Gray Death 'Mechs. That meant he should be appearing at the top of that ridge any time now . . .
"Target! Target!" Gates was shouting the warning even as the BattleMaster's rounded cockpit swam into view on Alex's monitor. He fought down the urge to override his preprogramming and take a quick shot at the exposed head. 'Mechs were most vulnerable to a head shot, but a miss now would spoil any chance of carrying off his original plan. And that would go against another of McCall's rules: Never trade a sure hit for a chancy kill. Alex held his hand poised over the targeting joystick.
Time seemed to slow down as the BattleMaster clambered slowly up the slope and into full view. "Wait for it," he said softly, as much for his own benefit as for Gates'. "Wait for it ... . Now! Fire! Fire!" His finger stabbed the firing stud as he shouted the order.
After a moment's hesitation, the onboard computer evaluated its targeting instructions and locked on to the enemy machine. A 'Mech's fire control systems could pick individual target points with great accuracy, but only at the cost of considerably slowing down the rate of fire. In a typical fire-fight situation that was an unacceptable tradeoff, but in these circumstances he could afford it. Alex had preprogrammed the computer to fire the Archer's full arsenal, concentrating on the BattleMaster's torso area, site of all its lasers and short-range missiles. Even with the heavy chest armor to protect those weapons, such a massive barrage would still do some damage. A cluster of hits would also drive up the enemy's heat levels, though not as fast as Alex's own were climbing.
Gates fired at the same time, his lasers and autocannon adding to the fury of the attack. Overall, the Shadow Hawk would probably be more effective than the Archer, because the smaller 'Mech's weapons mix was better suited to the range The computer's BDA was already confirming Alex's enemies, showing that few of the LRMs had been on target. The range had just been too short for the missiles to lock on.
But the short range would also limit the effectiveness of the enemy PPC, which was a vital factor at this stage. Double-checking the damage projections, Alex allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. The lasers had burned through armor in two places, and there was a high probability of damage to the BattleMaster's missile storage bay. Another hit or two might detonate the stored warheads and rip the whole left torso open.
Alex's heavy fire must have thrown the BattleMaster pilot off, for all three of his opponent's return laser shots went wide. Misses or not, Alex was sure the other warrior was going to be mustering every ounce of skill—and counting on every bit of luck—at his command trying to even up the odds against the two Gray Death Mech Warriors. From here on, it was likely to be an out-and-out slugging match, pure and simple.
He fired the Archer's two arm-mounted lasers again, opting now for speed over accuracy. Gates fired another auto-cannon burst, pouring out high-velocity shells as fast as the Shadow Hawk's ammo feed could dump fresh rounds into the chamber. "Discontinue firing, Three," Alex ordered curtly, taking aim for a third laser shot. "Resume repairs." The faster Gates could get his machine moving again, the sooner both of them could break off this fight and try to escape.
The BattleMaster kept on coming, hardly seeming to notice the Gray Death fire. As it stalked toward them with inexorable purpose, the torso lasers flared again, scoring a hit on the Archer's left arm. Alex cursed and returned fire, cursed again when the shot went wide. The enemy 'Mech was almost on top of them now, close enough for him to pick out the individual scars on the torso armor.
And still the giant 'Mech kept on coming. In a sudden rush of understanding Alex realized that the pilot wasn't going to stand off and engage in a firefight at all. With the damage around the mjssile ammo bay, it was only a matter of time before the BattleMaster took a dangerous hit, and the pilot was too smart to bank on those odds. He was planning to turn the fight into a literal hand-to-hand engagement, in close where even laser targeting systems would be all but worthless and where all that counted was mass and power.
Alex retargeted his lasers. With the BattleMaster's left arm encumbered by the massive PPC, the two-fisted Archer had a slight advantage in a close-in fight. He had one chance left to magnify that advantage before his opponent reached him.
Firing the Archer's twin lasers almost as one, Alex barely contained a whoop of triumph. Both shots had struck their target perfectly, just below the right elbow joint. If they hadn't shattered the whole lower arm, they had certainly penetrated the armor enough to damage the control circuitry and bundles of myomer fibers that served the 'Mech as inorganic muscles. With one arm damaged and the other one virtually useless, the other pilot was suddenly in too close to use his weapons effectively.
Alex stepped the Archer forward, bringing the Mech's powerful arms to the ready. Even the strongest armor wouldn't hold up to the punishment a 'Mech could deal out with the weight of seventy tons behind each titanic punch. He drew back for the first blow, then froze in horror at the other 'Mech's response. He had forgotten, in the excitement of the moment, that the BattleMaster's PPC was not a built-in weapon like the Archer's arm-mounted lasers, but more like a gigantic rifle that could be jettisoned at will. Which the enemy pilot had just done. Even as the Archer was stepping into range, the BattleMaster had dropped its PPC and was raising its massive left fist now clenched tight. Before he could react, Alex realized that his opponent had timed his strike perfectly. The huge hand was aimed directly at the Archer's vulnerable head, and the force behind the swing was enough to crumple the armor and shatter the whole cockpit.
As the punch landed, Alex knew the sour taste of failure, followed instantly by the crackling of his taccom circuits.
"All right, all right, exercise over," came the voice. "Shut it doon, lads. 'Tis nae point in continuing the noo!"
The huge fist in Alex's viewscreen shimmered and vanished as his sensor arrays once again projected the real world outside rather than the falsehoo
ds of the training program. Alex Carlyle slumped in his control chair, sweating from more than just the BattleMech's heat. The exercise was over, and his trainees had lost the battle.
"Bring your bairns in tae the HQ and report to the debriefing room," the heavily accented voice of Major Davis McCall continued gruffly.
Then came Caitlin DeVries' voice over the lance's private radio channel. "And Heaven help us all," Alex heard her mutter.
2
Glengarry, Skye March
Federated Commonwealth
31 March 3056
"I dinna ken what tae dae aboot ye, Alex. In twenty years there hasna been anither Mech Warrior in this auld outfit who could match ye when it comes tae straight 'Mech handling, but 'tis nae enough. Nae enough by a long shot, laddie, and ye ken it weil a weil."
Alex Carlyle shifted in his chair, wishing he was anywhere but here. The office was small and sparsely furnished, with a single window looking out over the cluster of low buildings that made up the Brander Wilderness Training Center where the Gray Death Legion practiced field operations and trained cadet MechWarriors. The trainees often joked that the room's single chair reserved for cadets had been deliberately designed for maximum discomfort, and today Carlyle was ready to believe it. Worse yet, there'd been no time to shower or change after the morning's exercise and the humiliating debriefing of the fiasco. Sweaty, dirty, clad in his MechWarrior's shorts and a lightweight mesh tunic instead of the regulation cadet uniform, Carlyle wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide—but only after an hour or two in a sonic shower stall.
He forced himself to focus on the words of the Gray Death Legion's weapons master. Major Davis McCall had been one of the unit's first 'Mech pilots, back in the days when Alex's father and his men were still cutting their teeth as a struggling mercenary company. McCall had fought in most of the great battles of those early days, on Verthandi and Sirius V, Helm and Baldur and Gram and all the other scattered worlds of the Inner Sphere where the mercenaries of the skull banner had drawn and shed blood in the seemingly endless Succession Wars. The veteran from Caledonia had the scars to prove it, too. The red hair and beard were streaked with gray now, his right eye was a glittering bionic implant, and his left arm, like that of the 'Mech he had piloted for so long, was an artificial assemblage of plasteel and myomer fibers, but he was still an integral part of Grayson Death Carlyle's innermost circle of lieutenants and friends. The burly McCall rarely climbed into a cockpit these days, but his tactical skill and years of experience in the field went to good use in his role of weapons master supervising the training of young recruits preparing for a career with the Legion.
"Your auld faither winna be pleased with this quarter's TE reports, laddie," McCall went on, shaking his head slowly. "When he returns from his wee junket tae Tharkad he'll be aye upset tae see ye hae fallen sae far behind."
The regular training evaluation reports were the measure of each cadet MechWarrior's progress in the Gray Death's ongoing training program. A poor TE could end a trainee's hopes of permanent employment even before he was fairly started.
Alex had never really considered the prospect of a bad evaluation. He made higher academic marks and handled his BattleMech better than any of the other cadets. Besides, he was Grayson Carlyle's only son and heir.
He opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Anything he said now would sound like he expected some kind of special treatment, a favorite son trading pn his father's name. And that was one thing Alex would rather die than do.
McCall stopped pacing behind his desk and leaned over it, stabbing a finger at the younger man for emphasis. "Aye, lad," he said, seeming to read Carlyle's mind. "Tis nae special dispensation for ye just because of who your faither is. In fact, laddie, ye hae higher standards tae measure up against than any o' the ithers in your class."
"Higher standards!" Alex broke his stoic silence at last, unable to contain himself any longer. He didn't look for special favors, but he'd always expected a fair deal. Catching himself, he added lamely, "uh, sir."
McCall's smile was thin. "Aye, lad. Higher indeed." His voice was gentle now, the thick Caledonian accent lilting instead of harsh. "I've kenned weil that ye were a natural-born 'Mech pilot from the day ye first climbed into a cockpit. As an ordinary MechWarrior, lad, ye would be ain of the best, someone I'd want as my ain lance mate. But as the colonel's only bairn, the Gray Death will be yours someday, young Alex. That's nae small responsibility, and ye hae tae be prepared for it. Not just as anither pilot, but as commander. That's ain skill ye havena learned the noo. Ye must learn tae be a leader fit tae tak over from your faither. And 'tis there that ye still dinna make the grade."
Alex found his voice. "No one could do that, sir," he said slowly. "My father . . . he's one of a kind. He forged this outfit from nothing but raw talent and a few lucky breaks. If you expect me to be half as good as him you're kidding yourself."
"Aye, the colonel's always been a braw laddie," McCall agreed with another smile. "But dinna sell yourself short, young Alex. Ye hae the potential tae be just as good as Grayson Carlyle, maybe better, some ways. But it winna just happen. He was as raw as ye are once, but he learned. First from his faither's people, and then on his ain. And he's never stopped learning, either, laddie. And nor will ye."
Alex looked down at the desk. "Maybe you should be grooming someone else for the job," he muttered darkly. "Dave Clay, maybe." He didn't bother to hide his feelings now, his tone as bitter as his words. It had taken more than an hour for the trainees to return from the mock battlefield after the morning's exercise. The long trip back through the pass to the training center had given Carlyle ample time to brood over his mistakes, putting him in a dour mood by the time the four 'Mechs and their escort of trainers had been turned over to the technical staff. Step by step, he'd tried to make the best possible choices, yet each one had only made things worse.
And the hell of it was that this wasn't the first time he'd failed. It seemed that every exercise designed to test his ability to make snap judgments in the field ended the same way, in failure and another lecture from McCall on the responsibilities of command. The rest of the recruits had finished their debriefing and headed back for the cadet quarters, but as usual Alex was left to face his mentor alone in this same small, spartan office, feeling like a fool.
McCall shook his head. "The Gray Death winna follow anyone but a Carlyle, laddie. Ye ken that. 'Tis your faither's skill that brought us together, and 'twill always be a Carlyle at the helm."
Despite his personal doubts, Alex knew that McCall was right. In the era of the Successor States of the thirty-first century, ties of personal loyalty and feudal allegiance went deeper than any other bonds. A man pledged faith to a leader based on blood ties or proven abilities rather than outmoded concepts like nationalism or ideology. And that held as true among a mercenary unit like the Gray Death as it did for any of the Great Houses of the Inner Sphere. The men and women who signed on with Grayson Death Carlyle would remain loyal to his name, to his heirs. But without that essential core of leadership, the unit would probably just melt away.
"Even if ye never tak the field in person, ye will be the man in charge," McCall went on. "Owner if nae commander. But 'twould be a waste for ye tae be some faceless owner relying on the likes of my wee godson tae run the unit in battle. Ye hae too much tae offer, laddie, tae end up anywhere but at the head of these troops."
Alex shrugged. "If you say so, Major," he responded listlessly. "But I just don't see how I'm ever going to get it right. I was sure I was doing the right thing today, but obviously I was wrong from start to finish."
"Aye, maybe ye were." McCall sat down heavily and flexed the fingers of his bionic hand absently. "Do ye ken where ye went wrong?"
Alex pursed his lips. "Forgetting that the BattleMaster could drop the PPC was a pretty damn stupid thing, for starters. I might've had a chance if I'd disabled that arm."
"Ye wouldna hae been able tae do it," McCall s
aid. " 'Twas nae time, and ye were lucky with the first arm hit, anyway. Computers gave it less than a thirty percent chance." Both the regular BattleMechs and the trainer 'Mechs had used onboard computers to predict and calculate damage and to provide bogus sensor information, killing onboard systems to match the hits they projected in the theoretical combat. Live-ammo exercises were too costly in men, materials, and man-hours of repair work to be viable for normal training.
"And that last fight wasna the real problem. Ain-tae-ain, the odds were well-nigh even. Had ye nae frozen up, ye might hae won that fight, but ye still wouldna hae won the battle."
"But the others made it to the pass," Alex protested. "And if I'd beaten the BattleMaster, Gates and I would've been in the clear!"
McCall shook his head. "By the time ye were engaged wi' that big behemoth, lad, the rest of the lance was aboot tae be swamped by the flankers ye barely touched on the way tae cover Gates. That was why I ordered the halt. The situation was hopeless by then, because ye were too damned stubborn tae delegate the rescue mission tae the ithers."
Alex's shoulders sagged. "I couldn't order them to do something I wasn't willing to do myself. I figured I was the only one who could hold that BattleMaster, and it didn't seem right to sacrifice more than one 'Mech if the rescue went sour."
McCall's eyes glinted. "And did it nae occur tae you, lad, after that stunt ye pulled last week Tayside, that there might be a good reason why we gave ye a 'Mech designed for stand-off fighting?" McCall looked genuinely angry now, and his accent seemed to fade as he tried to make his point plain. "No one doubts your bravery, lad. Or your compassion for your people. 'Tis more important that you learn to handle your assets effectively than it is tae score cheap popularity points by wading into the thick of the fight. A commander canna become bogged doon in combat sae much that he loses sight of the whole battle. DeVries or Clay could have covered Gates up close, with you in support at longer range and the fourth 'Mech moving tae secure the pass. Your Archer could hae supported in both directions at once, and that would hae turned the tide not only against the BattleMaster but at the pass as weil. But ye chose tae ignore doctrine and gang your ain glay, didn't ye?"