Neurofeedback works two ways: for the MechWarrior, when he can use his own sense of balance to help a stressed gyroscope; against him, when any personal dizziness or faulted equilibrium is translated into a signal that is then used to alter the gyro’s normal function.
Erik’s vision swam and his gut clenched up as the Hatchetman toppled over. He heard the shouts of alarm on the comms system, could imagine his warriors turning quickly to his aid, and opened his mouth to countermand their likely actions.
Then the BattleMech struck against the ground, keeling over on its side and jarring Erik most the rest of the way out of his seat. Scraping along, it rattled the hapless MechWarrior against his faulty harness. The world dimmed to gray tones and blurred angles. Not long. Only for a few seconds.
And by the time Erik had fought his way back to full senses, it was already too late.
San Marino Spaceport
Achernar
Star Colonel Torrent heard the alarm, that the Swordsworn had also turned on his warriors. Heard it, noted the expected treachery, and filed it away for future consideration.
Chopping the Jupiter down to size filled his entire consciousness, and he pursued that goal almost to the exclusion of all else. The militia tactics hardly mattered, and even the threat of two Yellow Jacket gunships thundering after his vulnerable aerospace fighters did not drag him away from his personal challenge.
Then his Behemoth crew reported that they had felled Sandoval’s Hatchetman, and Torrent was forced to take notice if for no other reason than to confirm that one of the Steel Wolves’ primary opponents on Achernar was finished.
Erik Sandoval was down, though far from finished. And Torrent himself became personally involved a few seconds later when two Swordsworn Jessies layered four score long-ranged missiles over his position. Blackened, smoking gravel pelted his ’Mech as warheads gouged the ferrocrete tarmac, and the Tundra Wolf shook with forced palsy as fire blossomed along his chest and shoulders.
Too many times today other units had forced their attention on Torrent, interfering with his second Trial against the Jupiter and against Raul Ortega, the only MechWarrior so far to walk away from him in combat. Anger twisted the star colonel’s face into a snarl as he dropped crosshairs over one of the Swordsworn Mining Mods. A flight of missiles and two slices with his Series 7 laser—left, right—and the Mod lost the arm carrying its rock-cutting blade.
More Swordsworn had turned against the Steel Wolf position, drilling lasers and streams of autocannon fire into their ranks. Torrent divided a few seconds in between his head’s up display and what he saw through his own ferroglass shield, then barked out his first of three orders.
“All ’Mechs, press the militia.” He might lose a Pack Hunter, maybe one of his modified IndustrialMechs, but Ortega’s people would know they had been struck. “Star Commander Orvits,” he called up one of his remaining JES carries, “swat those Yellow Jackets and protect the aerospace fighters.” He might need the air support after all.
“Star Captain Demos, destroy the Swordsworn and prepare to move on River’s End at once!”
By the time this battle was over, there would be very little left in their way. He would make certain of that, starting—and finally finishing—with the Jupiter.
River’s End/San Marino Spaceport
Achernar
“I think we’ve got them.”
Pulling back in the face of Star Colonel Torrent’s renewed assault, Raul targeted the advancing Tundra Wolf with PPC arcs while keeping an eye on his auxiliary monitor. He saw a few shots traded between Swordsworn and Steel Wolves, enough to put him on pins and needles until a Steel Wolf SM1 Destroyer led an entire star of heavy vehicles into Erik Sandoval’s flank.
“That’s it, Tassa. Now go!”
The Legionnaire surged forward on new legs, barely favoring its ruined left knee actuator. Tassa called to her side what was left of her squad—a Condor, Joust and Demon. No IndustrialMech conversions this time. And no APCs followed her. If everything had gone even half-according to plan earlier, the Trooper transports had dropped armored infantry squads near the HPG station and were already waiting in place.
This time there were far fewer defenders to stand in her way. The reconstituted lance drove back around the end of the Swordsworn line, caught their mobile HQ on the edge of River’s End, and blasted their way past it in less time than it took Raul to lose Torrent’s Tundra Wolf for what was likely his last opportunity.
Erik Sandoval’s mobile HQ was not the only one in trouble. Torrent’s Pack Hunters had finally slipped their leash, leaping forward on jump jets to savage the militia middle, relying on their excellent speed to dodge back when necessary, and then bounding forward yet again.
Colonel Blaire was in trouble, but had nowhere to call for help. Diago had his hands full with a Catapult and an AgroMech Mod. Blaire’s hoverbike escorts held back a lumbering ConstructionMech conversion, but likely not for much longer the way both vehicles slewed around, spilling critical air from damaged lift skirts.
Raul waded in with PPCs arcing out manmade lightning and his autocannons blazing with extra-long pulls, hammering lethal metal into a Hunter again, and again. Both Pack Hunter BattleMechs spun around, kicking themselves up over one hundred kilometers per hour in order to close rapidly on the assault machine. Or at least, for one of them to do so. Blaire ordered his Tribune turned into the path of the second, stalling it for several critical seconds.
A mobile HQ vehicle is slow and awkward, never meant for tactical maneuvers, but as a temporary wall it served. Raul faced down the single, thirty-ton machine with something less than trepidation. He rode lightly on his triggers, still running high heat from matching earlier salvoes with the Tundra Wolf, but even so a single PPC and paired autocannons could be devastating.
The Pack Hunter shed armor the way a true wolf might lose its winter coat. Its return fire cut a dangerous swath of armor from Raul’s gyro housing to the left shoulder, but failed to penetrate into the Jupiter’s critical equipment.
Eight minilasers created more trouble for Raul, blistering paint and armor from half a dozen places and coring one weak beam directly into Jove’s head. Raul could smell the ozone discharge, and something more, caustic yet sweet. As he flushed with warmth, suddenly conscious of the sweat standing out on his chest draining down his sides, he realized that the Hunter had crippled his life support system, somewhere rupturing a coolant line.
With no time for niceties and not about to take another biting return, Raul risked the heat and blasted the Pack Hunter. Lightning scoured armor away from the other ’Mech’s chest and upper arms. If the Steel Wolf warrior thought that he’d get so lucky twice, though, Raul dissuaded him of that notion as autocannons ripped in and mangled the Hunter’s gyroscope into scrap. The Pack Hunter quivered, staggered awkwardly to the left, and then collapsed like an unstrung puppet.
Its companion ’Mech, having cut in jumpjets to sail over the Tribune, altered trajectory and landed between two APCs, one of which it overturned with a vicious point-blank PPC blast and the second with a well-placed kick.
The militia infantry was doing its part, providing a scattering of small, hard-to-hit targets. Raul saw two Hauberk squads sacrifice themselves in an assault against the Steel Wolves’ ConstructionMech so that a Cavalier Specialist troop could seize and take control of the Mod.
“Two!” Colonel Blaire called out over the officers’ channel. Two ’Mechs in as many minutes. And then in the next moment, the militia lost their final WorkMech Mod to the Swordsworn front. Still, “About even,” he judged.
Raul nodded. “Now let’s see if we can’t finally tip things our way for once.” He tied in a frequency routinely used by Customs Security. “Palos, is everything set?”
CSO Palos Montgomery jumped right in. “All set, Captain.”
“Do it,” Raul said.
A longer order wasn’t needed. Alarms wailed for attention, and Raul managed only half a turn before Star Colonel
Torrent finally caught up to him with full weapons blazing. A series of lasers, one large, blood red lance and four smaller, scarlet arrows, splashed away armor from all along Raul’s right side. Missiles exploded in a series of thunderclap detonations, walking up the Jupiter’s tall form, blossoming fireballs at the knees, waist, chest, and then finally slamming two short-range missiles into the BattleMech’s head.
Ferroglass squealed, fractured, and then burst inward as flaws and stresses finally gave way to the concussive warhead. Shards sprayed and struck Raul along the side of his neck and chest. One hand slipped from the Jupiter’s controls and the towering leviathan toppled off to its right side, surrendering itself to gravity and the tarmac’s rough embrace.
Raul had a split second to remember his promise to Jessica that he’d come through the battle safe and whole.
Then he didn’t even have that as the cockpit slammed forward and darkness swam over him.
27
Serving Achernar
River’s End/San Marino Spaceport
Achernar
18 March 3133
The wire-frame damage schematic of Erik’s Hatchetman showed critical armor loss down the entire left side. Back on his feet now, he blasted several hundred rounds of eighty-mil into a nearby Steel Wolf Condor and continued his backward retreat to the city’s edge. He considered calling up the reserve force he had left guarding the HPG station, but then decided to hold them back as his final ace.
“Here they come again!” his remaining Mod pilot warned.
Running in pack formation, the five armored hovercraft bent around to continue their saber-dance tactics. Led by one of the deadly SM1 Destroyers, flanked by two Condors and another pair of JES tactical carriers, they would slice in at an angle, burn off a salvo of autocannon, lasers and missiles, and then turn out again to slip away before any concerted effort could be made against them.
Not this time.
“Grady, get in their way.” Erik ordered the MinerMech forward. “Stall them.”
Then he cut in his jumpjets, venting plasma down into the Hatchetman’s Luxor reaction chambers and burning skyward on glowing jets. The Hatchetman arced up in a short hop, falling just short of the SM1 while the gray and black Miner rolled forward on the far side to try and force a stand.
Just a little too late, Erik was forced to turn against one of the trailing Condors rather than taking a swing at the lead vehicle. His titanium hatchet cut down, smashing into the front of the hovercraft and forcing a stall.
With the glider’s momentum arrested, Erik trained in an autocannon and ripped several long stripes of hot metal into the Condor’s ruined front. He saw blood spatter over the interior cockpit ferroglass as his cannon tore holes through the forward shield and riddled the crewmen inside.
He would not be allowed to enjoy his brief victory, however.
The SM1, showing a veteran’s touch on the controls, swung around the backside of Grady’s MinerMech. Running forward on momentum alone, the Destroyer banked and cut its drive fan, rotating in a free-powered turn and using its assault-class weapon to show Erik exactly what an autocannon could do. A firestorm of flame and lethal metal burst from the twelve-centimeter bore, blasting into the Miner’s lower back and erupting out the front in a gut-coring strike that left the Miner dead on its feet.
With a kind of slow grace, the six-meter tall machine drifted to one side, then toppled over to lay still.
Permanently.
A pair of JES carriers rained several score missiles over the retreating SM1, but it sailed out from under most of the damage and then powered after its three remaining lancemates.
“We can’t compete,” Erik spoke aloud, but mostly to himself. Not spread out in a skirmish line, waiting to be picked off by the deadly Destroyer. “Fall back,” he ordered. “Regroup, regroup!”
No sooner was the order given than a new crisis erupted over the communication net. “Station guard, station guard. We are under attack.”
Erik stabbed at the comm panel, toggling for his reserve frequency. “Who is attacking?” he shouted. Who was left, not already involved at the spaceport battlefield?
“Sir . . . sir. Mix of infantry emplacements in the facing buildings. More on the roof. Armored tanks—militia vehicles, lord—have seized the intersection. Legionnaire! BattleMech on the grounds!”
Reading his HUD, Erik counted only one Legionnaire, and that one at the far side of the fighting from his position. “Where did it go? What happened to the Legionnaire we chased out of the city?” Caught up against the pressing Steel Wolves, he had made the dangerous assumption that it had finally fallen in battle.
His Behemoth driver—now the ranking second-officer on the field—answered. “Blasted the hell out of our Praetorian and escaped back into the city, Lord Sandoval. While you recovered.”
Erik had seen the battle-damaged Praetorian still moving in the backfield, but there had been no transmissions and he had written that off to Eus not really knowing what to say in the midst of such a heavy-scale fight. Thirty seconds. Maybe sixty. That was as long as Erik had been distracted, picking himself up after the fall.
Fortunes changed that quickly in battle.
Ortega. It could only be Ortega.
He spent several more critical moments trying to disengage, moving back for the city’s edge. A pair of Steel Wolf Destroyers cruised in, forcing him back, and then a lone Condor delayed him in a sacrificial run that eventually traded itself for one of the Swordsworn Marksmen.
Finally, turning for the city’s edge and throttling up to the Hatchetman’s full running speed, Erik gazed over some of the large industrial centers nearby at the top crescent of the HPG compound’s titanic dish. If he moved quickly, sent his faster hovercraft ahead and left the Behemoth on guard at their backs . . .
A solid plan—it might have worked.
It all fell apart as the first eruption of fire and smoke rose up into the sky, climbing the HPG superstructure.
“Stone’s blood!” someone swore. “Was that . . .”
. . . the spoilsport charges Erik’s people had rigged to the HPG equipment.
Another series of explosions blossomed on the antenna’s upper structure, and lazy swirls of dark gray smoke rose from all around the neighborhood. As easily as that, the entire Swordsworn position had been rendered moot. Erik throttled down to a slow walk, shaking his head at the militia’s stupidity. They hadn’t left things well enough alone, and now what had they wrought? He sat back hard against his command couch and read his future in the black, thickening air.
A future that would no longer include Achernar.
River’s End/San Marino Spaceport
Achernar
Lost!
Star Colonel Torrent stared over the battle scene at the pall of angry smoke hanging over the southeast industrial sector of River’s End. Through the haze a lick of tall flames could be seen, running up a red-orange flag of defeat next to the charred and scarred HPG dish. Everything the Steel Wolves had fought for, all that he personally had challenged to accomplish, ended in just a few short seconds of treachery.
No victory. No honor.
He rounded his Tundra Wolf against the rising Jupiter, white-knuckle hands gripping the control sticks. The Jupiter regained a shaky footing and teetered in place. “Your doing! Like a jackal vomiting over what it cannot eat, you would deny the prize to the victor.”
“It was never about a prize,” Ortega said, his voice shaky but growing in strength. “This was about Achernar. If you didn’t see it that way, it’s no fault of mine.”
With each use of debased language, Torrent’s rage doubled. He felt a flush of crimson warmth on his face, the tremble of anger in his muscles. “So you expect us to simply leave?”
“There’s nothing for you here anymore, Star Colonel.”
Torrent smiled, thin and cruel. If the militia Mech Warrior had seen it, the star colonel felt certain he would have cowered away. Deactivating his targeting system to p
revent any warning, Torrent pulled dark crosshairs across the Jupiter, aiming by dead reckoning.
“There is still you,” he said, then toggled on full targeting and pulled into his triggers.
River’s End/San Marino
Achernar
In between his shaky dialog with Star Colonel Torrent, Raul muted his voice-activated mic and coughed, clearing his lungs of acrid smoke. The taste of burnt plastic coated his mouth and his tongue felt thick and swollen from dehydration. A stabbing pain had lanced into his right shoulder with every movement until he managed to pull from it a long ferroglass shard, dagger-shaped and bloody. The wound bled slowly, trickling red paths down his bare arm.
Another minute, Raul asked silently. Keep him talking.
Four hundred meters off of the Tundra Wolf’s left side, one of the lowered DropShip landing pads flashed warning lights as massive machinery warmed to life and raised the platform. For the service-tunnel workers to choose that moment for a test, or to pop their heads outside for a look, would be too much of a coincidence for Torrent. It might warn him that something else was afoot.
Not to worry. The Star Colonel had eyes only for the Jupiter.
Raul couldn’t say for certain what had warned him of the impending attack. A shift in the Tundra Wolf’s stance, or the malice that bred in Torrent’s voice the longer they talked. At the last moment he ducked Jove to the right, protecting the shattered side of his cockpit’s transparent shield, and leaned forward into the brunt of the assault.
Missiles chewed away at his legs, cracking apart welded seams and clawing through for myomer muscles and control circuitry.
The Tundra Wolf’s large laser cut at one arm, splashing armor into a dark, molten mist, and a trio of smaller lasers stabbed into his chest and left shoulder.
Only Jove’s impressive armor had kept Raul alive for so long, allowing him to wade through some of the heaviest fighting of the day, protecting him while he learned both the subtle and not-so-subtle nuances of fighting such a massive war avatar. It protected him again now, although the wire-frame darkened to black in several areas, warning Raul of thinning reserves.
A Call to Arms Page 27