Everything was as real as they could make it. Even the enemy, who acted in callous disregard for human life and frustrated The Republic’s every attempt to save the day. Because that was how it really happened, right?
No militia tank crew brought down one of their own Legionnaires with friendly fire because they were too scared to double-check their targets.
No armored infantry squad took cover in a civilian neighborhood, firing out of doors and windows to avoid the wide-open streets. Forcing Confederation officers to call in gunship strafing.
And no Republic-trained MechWarrior walked his Ryoken II through the brick facing of a downtown apartment complex, parking his war avatar in the center of the building to hide it from approaching Capellan forces, trading ninety-three civilian lives to set an ambush. The Ryoken’s left-shoulder machine gun would not have been of a height with the third-floor apartments. There was another reason for the twenty-mil wounds that killed Evan’s parents and left a two-year-old ward for Chang-an’s Civic Child Care Services.
Evan shook himself free of his imagination’s hold and tightened his grip on the simulator’s control sticks. Dwelling on the past would only earn him failing marks in the present. He owed his parents better than that. He owed himself better.
And the battle for Desu continued.
Failing under the Confederation’s onslaught, the office building collapsed into a pile of rubble and fire. Lasers sliced through the dust, searching. Evan turned into the battle but throttled backward, working into a retrograde maneuver that duckwalked the sixty-five-ton Thunderbolt back between two parking garages. He shifted his crosshairs over, framing the Shen Yi’s broad chest.
The programmed MechWarrior fired first, carving into Evan’s left side with the ruby scalpel of its large laser. A score of missiles hammered in behind. Evan shook against his restraints, clamping his teeth together in a grimace of determination.
His crosshairs flashed between red and gold. Partial lock would have to do. Pulling into a full strike, Evan gambled on the computer’s biased programming. His Gauss rifle missed, screaming its payload past the Shen Yi’s shoulder and over a low-rise mall. Evan’s missiles fared much better. Smoke trails corkscrewed in at the Shen Yi, blasting craters across its armored chest. Then his trio of medium-class lasers sliced across the ’Mech’s shoulders, one of them splashing over the forward shield.
“Cadet Kurst, southeast quadrant,” he said, raising his voice so that the volume-activated microphone opened up a channel. “One Wasp disabled. I have a Shen Yi with supporting forces on top of my position, lowering real estate values. Request assistance.”
Sergeant Cox would ding him later for the black humor, making light of the tragedy. Evan felt just as insulted that the simulation glorified The Republic position when there was plenty of blame to go around.
“Copy cadet.” Cox’s voice was gravelly and gruff. “We have forward deployments of Fulcrum hovertanks relative two-four-five, and Elemental battle armor at one-six-eight.”
Evan’s head’s-up display painted new icons in friendly blue. Each graphic had a small identification tag to help distinguish it at a glance. Evan could fall back northeast to the armored vehicles—better firepower but a lot more damage to the city—or northwest to rendezvous with the armored infantry—good holding power, and a real threat to an enemy Mech Warrior unless he wanted to risk Elementals cutting through his cockpit’s access hatch and bodily removing him, in pieces if necessary. Neither gave him a fair chance at winning the scenario because the Confederation forces would call up support as well.
One or the other. Sergeant Cox would not give Evan command of both.
But Evan might force the issue, if he timed it right.
He throttled into a faster, backward walk, drawing the Shen Yi after him, down the narrow street. The armored forces took their own path down a parallel avenue, trying to flank him. Flip a coin. “Elemental company, close on my position,” he ordered, taking charge of the armored infantry. “Engage and delay enemy forces.”
At the next intersection, Evan throttled back, sidestepped out of the Shen Yi’s line of fire and hunkered his Thunderbolt down, facing into the next intersection over where the Schmitt would appear any second. It did, bringing up the rear as the Demon medium tanks ran an advance path.
“Hùn dàn,” Evan swore, wrenching his stick over to drop crosshairs on the lead Demon.
Bright gold rewarded his quick reflexes, and he pulled into his primary trigger to punch a Gauss slug straight through armor, cockpit and the simulated Confederation crew. The tank rolled onto its left side, slamming into the parking garage. The second Demon stuttered ruby bolts from its bed-mounted laser, splashing more of Evan’s armor into a molten mist.
Ignoring the second vehicle and hot-cycling his weapons, Evan pulled his targeting reticle back in time to cover the advancing Schmitt. Eighty tons, heavily armored and armed, the “mugger” assault tank was perfect for controlling city streets. Evan hit it with a full spread of weapons, his Gauss slug slamming the tank’s turret, missiles shattering armor across the front and right side.
And then it was as if the Schmitt simply picked up Evan’s Thunderbolt and threw it bodily to the ground. Both Mydron rotary autocannon roared into the night, bright fire tracers tracking in at the Thunderbolt’s waist. Hundreds of tiny hammers, each one a fifty millimeter slug tipped with depleted uranium for ’Mech-stopping power, beat against him in a thunderstorm of sharp, metallic pounding. Four lasers poured out scarlet fire, slagging more armor composite, and missiles followed after to punch the Thunderbolt deep in the gut and in the side of its head.
The head-ringing detonations were bursts of noise through his comm system, meant to disorient, not injure. The simulator bucked and shook, worrying Evan like a rag doll caught in the jaws of a pit bull. He ducked forward, fighting against the rough treatment. His ears filled with the whine of stressed metal as his gyros strained to work with him, but it was too much, too fast. One foot flailing for purchase, Evan stumbled backward.
Gravity did the rest.
“Down,” Evan croaked after the simulator quit bouncing him against the simulated street. “Kurst is down.” His wireframe schematic showed heavy armor loss across his entire lower torso and damage to the gyroscopic stabilizers. He also counted three warning lights—two for ruptured heatsinks, and another for a ruined jump jet.
Evan worked his controls, half rising, half stumbling into a side street, taking out the overhead traffic signals with a swinging arm. He regained his bearings quickly.
“Backing away north, nor-east.” Away from his infantry reinforcements. “Elemental company, move zero-nine-zero for new rendezvous point.” The move would tie them together only a half kilometer shy of the staging Fulcrum heavy hovertanks. Evan couldn’t call on them for additional support, but he trusted the computer’s AI to make some decisions on its own.
Which it did in the next few seconds as the Shen Yi put its weight to use, driving through a nearby apartment building rather than take the longer way around. Joined by a squad of Hauberk infantry and more fearsome Fa Shih, the BattleMech led the drive forward. The Schmitt and remaining Demon stuck to the street, chasing around the corner the same way Evan had come.
Evan reacted without thought, recognizing the danger in an instant. Close quarters with the Shen Yi and the Schmitt, pressed up against a row of high-rise apartments, it was a no-win situation. He stomped down on his steering pedals, lighting off his remaining jump jets and leaping into the air, right out of the Shen Yi’s line of fire.
Too late for the apartments, though. The programmed Capellan reached out with lasers and missiles again, gouging deep into the building. Evan twisted the Thunderbolt about in midair, feathered his jets early and soft-landed it atop the high-rise.
Like an archer looking down from a parapet, he had a commanding view and clear firing lanes. He put a Gauss slug into the Shen Yi’s shoulder and peppered its head and chest with missiles, staggering the mig
hty machine. Then, before anyone could track him, he stepped backward off the building. Firing three short bursts from his jets, Evan landed in a ready crouch on the next street over.
“On the run,” Evan said for the sergeant’s benefit, delaying and distracting as he tried to put his plan into effect.
Throttling into a forward run, Evan pounded down one street, over again, and then raced forward as he brought his Thunderbolt in among the armored infantry. They moved as one unit then, the Elementals scurrying around him like soldier ants. Turning back to the west, they paraded into a large intersection, gaining it just as the Shen Yi came up another block west with the Demon and Hauberk, and the slower Schmitt one long block south protected by Fa Shih.
And only two blocks short of the militia Fulcrums.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered to the computer, levering up light gauss to engage the closer Shen Yi.
His gauss missed again, careening off the angular shoulder armor and leaving behind nothing worse than a bright crease in the dark-painted metal. Missiles rained down on the Confederation machine, blinding it in a wreath of fire and thick, gray smoke. Taking their cue from his targeting, the Elemental infantry leapt forward, swarming toward the sixty-five-ton scrapper, letting loose with backpack missiles and the short-range stabbing lasers that replaced their left hands.
And on his HUD Evan saw the Fulcrum hovertanks finally begin to move forward, coming down the street behind him as the limited AI put them on self-preservation, proactive assaults. By his HUD markings, they engaged the Shen Yi.
“Yes!”
With his infantry and the Fulcrum hovertanks tying up one force, Evan was left to slow down the Schmitt with its Fa Shih entourage. The assault tank had paused, waiting at the far intersection in a yellow island of streetlamp light. It waited for not much more than a second, though, before it began its slow, unimaginative drive forward, weapons ready.
Missiles punched out from the Schmitt’s launcher, hammering into Evan’s Thunderbolt. A pair of warheads found the ruin of his torso cavity, scoring the reactor’s shielding and damaging more internal components. Vents dumped more heat into the simulator pod, raising fresh sweat on his legs and arms, stinging at his eyes.
Evan moved down the narrow street, kicking a streetlight post, which sheared off at its base. Missiles… gauss… missiles again. He watched his ammunition rates fall into critical levels. He needed another few dozen meters, just enough that his jump jets could put him over and behind the assault tank, but the Schmitt wasn’t giving it to him.
Missiles and lasers pasted his BattleMech, shredding more armor from the Thunderbolt’s right leg, side and arm. The tank slowed its advance, and then began to grind backward with the Fa Shih in tow.
Seventeen attempts at this scenario, dozens of spectator monitoring and hundreds—more!—in case study reviews and this was the first case Evan could think of where any member of the Confederation assault force retreated!
“No you don’t,” he whispered, pushing his throttle forward just a touch more. “Come back here and hold your ground.” He goosed his throttle again. “You’re the assaulting marauders. Assault!”
“Cadet,” a new voice bled over his comm network. Not Sergeant Cox. “Shen Yi has been taken. Demon neutralized and Hauberk falling back.”
No time to worry about what had happened to Sergeant Cox. “On my position,” he ordered. “Forward at the Schmitt.” He throttled into a full-out run that the assault vehicle could not hope to match. “Six… five… four…” Suddenly, he was pounding down the street at better than sixty kilometers per hour, kicking aside parked civilian vehicles and charging down on the tank’s position.
Right into the spread of mines laid by the Fa Shih.
The first explosion blossomed underfoot at the count of three, shoving him to the left. The Thunderbolt’s shoulder dug into the side of a building. A second mine detonated directly under the flat of his spade-footed machine, jerking the sim pod in a rough shake. Evan cursed his eagerness, having overlooked one of the basic functions of Fa Shih battle armor: their ability to pay out portable minefields.
Another explosion, and his wireframe darkened about the left foot. He had to get off the ground now, now, now!
Cutting in his jump jets, Evan rocketed up in his Thunderbolt, gliding forward on streams of fiery plasma. Up two stories… three. He leaned forward to get every last meter, trying to get behind the Schmitt where he’d drill into its back with one of his remaining Gauss loads.
He wasn’t going to make it.
The minefield had goaded Evan into his jump too early. The smarter move would have been to break off the attack and regroup with his support team. BattleMechs were fearsome machines, but a supported ’Mech using combined-arms tactics was twice as deadly. Evan knew that. But never before had the simulated Confederation forces used it to their advantage quite so well. Overwhelming firepower and ruthless tactics. That was their game, as programmed by Republic trainers.
An assault vehicle did not retreat, and hold back its most damaging weapons until an overeager Republic warrior jumped into its trap.
Showing an almost casual confidence, the Schmitt powered forward again, tracking Evan with its rotary autocannon. Fire licked out several meters past the end of each barrel as it spat out long, lethal streams of metal. Catching him in the air, the slugs gouged new craters in his right arm, shoulder and down into the already mangled armor that protected his gyro and fusion engine. The pod hitched… stuttered… listed heavily to one side as Evan fought to control his jump, bring his arm around for one last gauss shot, and crouch into a semicon-trolled landing.
Far too much. Evan lost control of the Thunderbolt. Lost his orientation with the ground. He was still fighting vertigo when the autocannon cut apart his fusion reactor’s shielding and blew him apart like a New Year’s skyrocket.
Every screen went blank.
The cockpit pod quit shaking, settling back to its neutral position as the simulator reset itself.
Only the communications system worked.
“Nice try, Cadet.” Cox again, but his gravelly voice wasn’t as commanding as before. It had a tinny ring to it. Like… battlefield comms. “It might have worked, against programs.”
Cox had jumped into another simulator pod, and taken control of the Schmitt.
“So the enemy forces are only bloodthirsty Capellans when it suits you?” Evan asked, losing guard of his tongue for a few irretrievable seconds. Damn—
The sergeant let him stew with his slip for a moment. When he came back, though, it was with just as much good-natured mocking as before. “You want to give The Republic some spine in this scenario, then I’m going to give the Confederation a brain. Now get showered, Cadet, cool off and report to briefing. The class can learn things from your example.”
“Yes, sir.” Evan couldn’t pump much false sincerity into his voice.
No doubt the class would be shown once again how the Confederation had been a monster. A dark, Capellan monster, to be fought and eventually defeated. Except that Evan knew monsters only existed to those with cause to fear. For all its accomplishments and white-knight posturing, here The Republic feared the truth. That Liao was Capellan, too. And it would be free.
12
On Deadly Terms
Republic forces lost ground on Gan Singh when logistical support collapsed. Prefect Tao cited Bannson Universal for defaulting on several military contracts. CEO Jacob Bannson had this to say: “Lord Governor Hidic directed us to support humanitarian efforts on Palos, bringing relief to those fleeing the occupation. If the Lord Governor and Prefect do not coordinate their efforts, how is that the fault of Bannson Universal?”
—Cassandra Clarke, Reporting from St. Andre, 15 June 3134
Morgestern
Mă-tou-xī District, Palos
Prefecture V, Republic of the Sphere
18 June 3134
The Lazarus Lounge, located at the far end of Morgestern’s Interplanetary Sp
aceport E Concourse, was dimly lit and had an outdated sound system that played only maudlin techno-jazz that was fresh before 3100. There was very little glass to look outside on the more successful travelers and tourists. Patrons of the Lazarus flew coach or the modern equivalent of steerage.
And, surprisingly, there were no clocks.
Jacob Bannson noted this right away. Not because it was out of place for a bar—and the Lazarus was a bar, not a real lounge—but because it wasn’t. He’d expected such an intrusion. There were flights incoming and outgoing, people to be met and baggage to claim. Even the people who would be drawn to an establishment like the Lazarus still had to keep an eye on time. It fascinated him, as a curiosity.
Bannson liked a good bar. He liked a bad bar, so long as his money bought him safety. Not that he was a big drinker, he wasn’t, but there was something to be said for the feel of such a place. The ambiance. Dark, close and timeless. That was why you never saw clocks in a real bar. No timepieces, no windows to the outside world. When you walked in nothing else existed, and there you stayed (for several drinks, the management hoped) until you finally decided it was time to rejoin the real world. If you ever did. This was the kind of place envisioned by people who talked of clandestine meetings and shady, backroom deals. Smoke drifting up at the ceiling, pushed around by a slow-turning ceiling fan, and the scent of beer and stale popcorn.
By Temptations and By War mda-7 Page 10