Battletech counterattack.., p.21
BattleTech: Counterattack (BattleCorps Anthology Vol. 5), page 21
Cyril let his stiff parade rest slacken in surprise. What madness was this? Diplomatic support was a job for the Fifth Orloff Grenadiers, not the First. “So this isn’t a combat deployment, sir,” he said.
“No. This is a ‘wearing the purple’ mission, plain and simple. The captain-general and Duke Orloff want us solely for our reputation. We’re to go make some noise, not start any fights.”
Duarte thumbed the file folder open just enough to withdraw a single sheet and display it to his captains. Cyril recognized the black-and-white portrait immediately.
Son of a bitch, Cyril thought.
A soft, rounded face stared back at him from the photo: lanky black hair, deep-set eyes, a knowing smirk. Cyril almost swore out loud. He almost let his anger shine through his façade, but in the name of decorum, he bit his lower lip even harder to keep his focus.
“Our guest of honor for this trip is Ambassador Skylar Orloff,” Duarte said. “At his father’s behest, he’ll be heading up the Tsinghai delegation in his father’s name. In addition to redeployment, our orders are also to provide him with an honor guard while he meets with Prime Minister Jain.” His lower lip protruded with disappointment as he afforded each of his captains a look of commiseration. “I know you boys want some action, and I hate to disappoint. But these orders come straight from the top. I know we’re better than glorified babysitters for nobility. Duke Orloff knows it. Even the captain-general knows it. But we’ve got a job to do, and by God, we’re going to get it done, and in Grenadier fashion.”
“Better to have a well-trained army and not need it than to need one and not have it,” Cyril said, swallowing down his regret.
“That’s the spirit, De Milo. Any questions?”
Cyril wasn’t quite so sure about anything. He held his tongue and shook his head along with his fellow company commanders. Worse things could happen, he supposed. If the Capellans ever decided to mount a full-scale invasion of Orloff territory—or the neighboring Duchy of Oriente—the Grenadiers would be horrendously outnumbered, and the Free Worlds’ Parliament would probably deadlock over whether to give aid to the duchy or just let the Capellans claim it. Better to avoid war altogether than to never have a chance of winning in the first place.
“All right,” the major said. “Wheels-up at 0600 sharp. Dis-missed!”
Command Post, Fifth Confederation Reserve Cavalry
Ingersoll
Capella Commonality, Capellan Confederation
9 April 2996
Lin Wei Jiang inhaled behind closed eyes and silenced the entire universe beyond herself as she sat upon a mat in her office. All within was void and empty, a formless mass of clay ready to take shape. The clay, her future; she, the potter. Even her name was gone. In this state, she needed no name. She would remain nameless until her name was required once more.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Sandalwood incense filled her lungs, and she grasped onto the sensation of noiseless calm the scent brought her, clutching it to her like it were a phantom that could slip away at any time. These precious few moments of serenity were perhaps the last she would know for quite some time.
The superior man seeks what lies in himself, she recited. The small man seeks what lies in others. No matter what happened over the next few years, months, days—she would find her answer only through quiet reflection. She alone was the master of her own fate. The universe could throw anything at her, and she would refuse to budge.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Out with the bad. In with the good. Every little bit helped.
Or so she told herself.
Her inner void slipped for only an instant, but an instant was all it needed. The errant thought took shape as a seed of doubt that barged into her tranquility like an Atlas smashing its way through a corrugated-metal warehouse.
That doubt made her consider—not for the first time—retiring. Hanging up her uniform. Finding another, simpler vocation. She was certainly old enough to be eligible for retirement if she wanted it. She’d put in enough years of service and saved up a decent nest egg that would let her live comfortably for the rest of her days—however long that would be. But a good invasion from one or more of the Capellan Confederation’s neighbors could send that security toppling down on her head at any moment.
That calm surety she had first felt vanished like so much mist in Ingersoll’s morning sun. Her entire life was in tailspin, spiraling toward the ground, and she did not know if she would be able to pull up in time …
Through heady tendrils of sandalwood smoke, she descended back into herself in search of answers, delving into the darkness behind her eyes. No name. No form.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“Captain?”
The sound intruded on her silent world, shattering it into a thousand pieces, and Lin Wei gasped in surprise. Her eyes popped open to see her executive officer standing in the doorway to her office. Commander Myeong Park deflected her gaze with downcast eyes, and Lin saw him subtly cringing beneath his CCAF duty uniform, as if he knew exactly the kind of reception to expect from her.
“I said I was not to be disturbed, Commander,” she snapped, far more harshly than she intended. That Atlas-shaped seed of doubt still ran amok in the back of her thoughts, more so now that her name had returned to her so prematurely.
“Forgive me, Captain,” Park said, bowing his shoulders in deference, “but we have received orders.”
Lin sighed and shook her head. “Whatever Colonel Romanov wants, I’m sure it can wait.”
Park swallowed and held out a file folder marked eyes only. “Uh, according to Romanov, his orders came from Maximilian Liao himself.”
The chancellor? Lin leapt to her feet and snatched the folder from her XO. She scanned the outside; the seal said the file contents came from the CCAF High Command, but most Capellan officers knew the Strategios was merely a rubber stamp for the Chancellor’s military whims. She flipped through the folder contents. Some of the orders did not make sense to her, but that was of little consequence. As a soldier of the Capellan state, she had a duty to follow those orders regardless of whether she understood them or not.
One thing made perfect sense, however: Lin Wei Jiang was going home. Perhaps there she would finally be able to lose her own name until she needed it again.
Wasn’t time to hang up the uniform just yet.
Orloff Grenadiers Command Post
Sophia, Vanra
Duchy of Orloff, Free Worlds League
9 April 2996
While waiting in the ’Mech hangar for First Battalion’s techs to finish prepping for departure, Cyril sat on the foot of his Trebuchet, Peacemaker, and reviewed his orders with a grimace. He’d met Duke Reinhard Orloff a grand total of once, back when the duke pinned the Distinguished Service Award on his uniform and formally inducted him into the Orloff Grenadiers. In newscasts, Reinhard always struck Cyril as a genial and magnanimous individual truly committed to governing his duchy with fairness, and the moment Reinhard shook his hand at the ceremony, Cyril knew all of this was true. Reinhard’s only claim to infamy was his adamant usage of the title “duke,” even though he could only legally lay claim to the title of earl or banneret within the League’s nobility. Cyril thought Reinhard did that just to poke at Parliament, which made him like the duke even more.
Reinhard Orloff’s son, however—that was a different story altogether. Skylar Orloff was always showing up in some tabloid or other, parading around with more mistresses than SAFE probably even knew about and engaging in other vices Cyril didn’t even want to consider. The ducal heir was a piece of work, no doubts about it. Just looking at the presumptuous smirk in Skylar’s photo made Cyril want to slug the condescension right off his bastard face.
No, no, he reminded himself. Calling him a bastard only insults his father—who is without a doubt the far better man.
He should’ve looked forward to hobnobbing with royalty, even if Skylar was only the firstborn of a lesser noble in the League, but Cyril found no joy in the prospect. If it came down to the choice between drinking expensive wine with Skylar Orloff and Tsinghai’s prime minister or throwing back a cheap beer with his lancemates, he’d choose his lancemates any day of the week.
Cyril looked up from the folder to see a gaggle of snappily dressed men and women wandering through the ’Mech hangar as though it were a shopping boutique. Speak of the devil. The fat slob himself and his retinue were laughing to themselves over some private joke when they reached Cyril’s ’Mech.
“Excuse me—Captain, is it?” Skylar said in a patronizing lilt that set Cyril skin crawling. “I was told someone here might help me with my ’Mech?”
Cyril’s eyebrows rose. Most scions of the Orloff family served at least a tour or two of duty in the duchy’s military. Reinhard had served in the Fifth Grenadiers back when his mother ruled the duchy, but somehow Skylar had found some way to worm himself out of proper military service. In fact, Cyril was surprised Skylar even had a BattleMech.
Cyril bit the inside of his cheek to bury all the potential insults running through his head before he could voice them and be accused of treason. Maintain decorum, Cyril. It’s just for a few months. “Lead Tech Huerta’s over yonder,” he said, pointing in the general direction of the technician’s office. “She can take care of anything you need.”
Skylar frowned. “Captain, do you know who I am? I am Ambassador Orloff, heir to this duchy. I was told you would be taking care of me personally.”
Cyril’s stomach lurched. This was a trap; he just knew it. If he brushed off the heir, he’d land in hot water with Major Duarte or Colonel Polzin—or worse—but if he waited on Skylar like an obedient lapdog, the Grenadiers’ wheels would likely not be going up at 0600 sharp as planned.
The faux smile Cyril flashed nearly caused him physical pain. “Certainly,” he said, immediately regretting the words. “I just never knew you were a MechWarrior.”
Skylar hooked his thumb towards the hangar entrance, where a freight train had just arrived with last-minute supplies. “Wicked Witch is just outside. Treat her gently for me, Captain.” And just like that, he and his entourage wandered down the walkway, laughing at another private joke Cyril couldn’t hear.
“Of all the …” Cyril muttered on his way to the freight train, shaking his head.
If he passed this off to one of his subordinates after Skylar was out of earshot, he knew the ambassador would find out somehow, and the decision would ultimately come back to haunt him.
In all honesty, Cyril expected a training platform or a some light ’Mech secured in the train’s freight car—some piece of hardware a fool like Skylar Orloff could easily pilot without getting himself in too much trouble. Instead, the freight handlers directed him to a BattleMech that dwarfed everything else in the entire hold.
All eighty tons of AWS-8Q Awesome loomed above him—a brick house bristling with a trio of particle projection cannon. Even more surprising than the assault ’Mech’s presence was that Cyril found not a single spot of rust, wear, or carbon scoring across the entire ’Mech. Each armor panel looked like a factory job rather than field patches or refits. The metal beast’s paint scheme—lime-green torso with olive-drab legs—literally glistened in the overhead lighting, and the only indication of personalization was the hand-painted image to the left of the ’Mech’s cockpit: a beautiful, long-legged, green-skinned witch riding a broom in the moonlight. Cyril had never before seen such a pristine BattleMech outside of a Technicron Manufacturing catalog.
It was, in a word, gorgeous.
The green Orloff Grenadiers parade scheme immediately reflected the green monster in his chest. The Orloff family was rich, yes, but some lazy pretender like Skylar Orloff didn’t deserve a BattleMech of this caliber, especially not a ’Mech in such good repair. With the bulk of the FWLM focused on the Lyran Commonwealth border, Capellan border units—even prestigious brigades like the Grenadiers—received whatever leftovers remained, so the Orloff Grenadiers had to subsist on whatever the Quartermaster General provided them. Not even Colonel Polzin’s command staff could claim a working Awesome among its ranks.
Cyril sighed. Such a waste.
Scaling the cockpit ladder, he inhaled fresh-paint fumes and some other sharp scent he couldn’t quite place. It reminded him of the last new car he’d bought. “New ’Mech smell”? That was it. While the rest of the Inner Sphere sometimes had to field repair ’Mechs with chewing gum, baling wire, and duct tape, this rich bastard had a brand-spanking-new assault-class BattleMech that had never once seen combat and probably never would.
Unbe-liev-able. It was like putting lipstick on a pig. Watering a tree with a bottle of Timbiqui Dark.
Cyril slid into the open cockpit hatch to discover Wicked Witch’s interior was just as impressive as he had expected. It smelled factory-floor new, and only a few parts of the cockpit console—mostly expensive computer readouts that were difficult to come by—looked refurbished. He wanted to admire every little detail about this new war machine, but there was no time to waste. When he started the fusion reactor in maintenance mode, the huge machine thrumming beneath him sent chills down his spine. Never in a thousand years would he get the chance to pilot a ’Mech like this in the field.
Heaving a heavy sigh, he began walking the Awesome out of the freight car like he was nothing but a common technician.
DropShip Divine Thunder
Zenith jump point, Ingersoll system
Capella Commonality, Capellan Confederation
22 April 2996
Lin Wei and Commander Park crowded around the holotank with the rest of the Fifth Cavalry’s senior staff. Bad enough that they all had to cram into such an uncomfortably small space, but Lin’s nerves were shot through like wires melted in an electrical surge. For the past nine days of transit to the jump point and four additional days of waiting in a holding pattern, she had been unable to burn incense in her DropShip berth—safety regulations, the skipper claimed—so she was forced to meditate without it. The nameless serenity still came, but each time she spent longer and longer trying to find it.
The cautious seldom err, she quoted to herself and took a deep breath.
Colonel Romanov was running this show. Had this meeting taken place on the ground, Romanov would’ve paced in front of the holotank, arms folded at the small of his back. Here in microgravity, he couldn’t pace, and Lin saw the frustration on his face that every other officer in the Fifth Cavalry mirrored.
“You’re all probably wondering why we’re still in a holding pattern,” the colonel said at length. “I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Suffice it to say that phase one of the operation has run into some snags, so we’re basically stuck here until I either receive positive word to continue or someone sends the abort code.
“That said, I have full authorization to go over the mission plans. Since we’ve got nothing but time waiting out here, we’re going to review it, poke holes in it until it leaks like a sieve, then patch up the holes as best we can. Because goddammit, we’re the Fifth Confederation Reserve Cavalry, and patching holes is what we do best. Am I right?”
Lin joined in the resounding chorus of “Sir yes sir!” that echoed throughout the cabin.
“That’s what I like to hear. Now, here’s a flyover of our target.” The holotank lit up, displaying the topographical terrain near the planned LZs. “We’re the cleanup crew, so we’re landing last. Our LZs are here, here, and here, site Gamma being our fallback in the event of …”
Lin watched the holotank with interest, but she found herself tuning Romanov out. Wasn’t that she didn’t want to focus on the briefing. Something distracted her. Something internal. She could feel it creeping up inside, threatening to drag her away. She needed to find her center again, needed to find some source of inner peace. A sudden lightheadedness washed over her, and nausea twisted her insides into knots.
Before she could throw up, she silently excused herself and floated into the corridor outside the meeting room to fight down her last meal. The sensation subsided, but she still felt too weak to present a strong face to the rest of the senior staff.
Half an hour later, a loud, fearsome fist pounded on Lin’s stateroom door before her CO, Major Petrowski, let himself in. The frown in his piercing, ice-blue eyes wasn’t quite angry, but it certainly didn’t look pleased, and his head of close-cropped gray hair shook with disappointment.
“What the hell happened back there, Jiang?” he demanded. “Looked like you’d seen a ghost. Some of the crew are a little spooked.”
Lin closed her eyes for a moment. The nauseous, peaky sensation hadn’t returned, yet all her attempts to relocate her fragile center since had met with futility. “Just a bit of space sickness, sir,” she said. “Not used to being stuck in zero-gee for this long. Starting to drive me batty.”
“And why haven’t you been using the Silk Road’s perfectly functional grav deck?”
“No time,” she said, shaking her head, “especially considering we might get the call to jump at any moment.”
“I don’t give a damn about that. Go spend a couple hours on the grav deck. That’s an order. If you’re not 100 percent, maybe you should sit this one out.”
“No, I’ll be fine.” Lin swallowed and looked away. “To be honest, sir, I’d probably feel better if I could just burn some incense. It helps me meditate.”
Petrowski crossed his arms. “You know that’s against safety regulations.”
Lin twisted her expression to show what she thought of that.
Petrowski’s frown lightened on one side of his mouth. “Tell you what,” he said. “Go down to the cargo bay and look for freight container 31C. It’s a sealed freight container that’s not completely full, due to cutbacks and all. Me and the boys’ve been using to have a smoke now and then. You burn anything outside of that container, it’ll be your ass, all right?”
