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Bridge Mounains, Alphecca
Ryde Operational Area, Lyran Commonwealth
4 October 3029
I knelt my Dragon at the edge of the smoking crater in the middle of the red and gold forest. Metal glowed, liquefied, and dripped to the dark ground below as my lasers began to sever what remained of Andersen's Centurion's neck. He was possibly still alive in the 'mech's head, and our hope was that we could get him back to base alive. I didn't particularly love the guy, but I'd bet that Andersen could have tap danced his Centurion atop a landslide of logs and never twisted its ankle. That kind of skill doesn't particularly help you when your dropship falls flaming out of the sky, or when you join the ranks of the Disposessed, but there was a chance that Andersen could still live on and pilot for the Aces again someday.
Unfortunately, there wasn't enough dropship remaining to warrant any hope for finding anyone else alive.
My lancemates waited patiently as I cut. In the meantime, despite the danger of our mission, it was easy to become distracted once again by the beauty of Alphecca. It was a hot, red, and dangerous beauty that the artist in me appreciated. In the past months I had often found myself staring out across the planet's goldengrass plains as they wavered slowly beneath a dark purple sky. But now my gaze wandered long and deep into the Vermillion Forest that surrounded us. Up from the almost black, fertile-looking dirt thrust thick golden trunks which reflected the red of the dense leaves and vines which towered high above our 'mechs. It was all watched over from above by royal purple heavens that were vaguely visible through spots in the red canopy above. Despite being deaf to anything but the unnatural rumble of the ancient sixty tons of war machine beneath me, I could easily imagine the whisper of red clouds of leaves rustling gently, lulling me to calm.
But then a single, glowing, knife-thin beam of blue light stabbed violently across my view, slicing the scene. Now that color doesn't match, the artist within chided, only a split-instant before my body started and snapped violently to. Snakes!
Without saying a word to my mates or even looking up to gauge the threat, I released the laser trigger as I planted my Dragon's foot down onto the battered 'mech torso. A quick torso twist sent wire and myomer flying, bringing the dead Centurion's head free from its body with little resistance.
Mangold's calm, "Taking fire," and Jessen's alarmed, "Osski, go!" rang through my comm system at the same time. Jessen didn't have to tell me twice. I set my Dragon's legs moving and was thrust backward into my seat. Red leaves slashed at my canopy as I dashed into the forest.
It was only after a moment of adjusting my heading toward something that resembled a clear path through the undergrowth that I was able to assess the threat using the rear view screens. A brown Kurita Panther, one of the newer ones with a large laser instead of the stock particle cannon, had apparently gotten a little antsy and fired into its prey before the enemy's trap was fully set. Lucky for us, and unlucky for that pilot; would he commit seppuku if we got away? One could only hope.
Mangold, in his Trebuchet, was still in the clearing, covering my back despite the laser hit that had blistered across his 'mech's torso, lasers blazing. He managed to rake all three green beams into that brown Panther but was forced to move when a huge autocannon round narrowly missed him, demolishing a huge golden tree trunk. Using my rear view, I traced that round back through the thick undergrowth and spied the tiny head and giant autocannon of a Hunchback lurking there. Just as I began to mentally urge Mangold to flee, he duly did so, dropping his Trebuchet into a sitting position while simultaneously firing his jump jets. The 'mech shot up and back, punching a rough hole through the canopy of crimson, spraying a full salvo of missiles at the Panther as it flew.
Jessen, my second, cut wide and fast through the clearing, drawing fire from another unseen enemy in the underbrush. Although Jessen's awkward little Cicada always seemed to draw blizzards' worth of enemy fire, it never seemed to take lots of fire as it flitted about. He pulled up alongside me for a split second but then vanished off into the shrubbery.
I managed to snap off a rear-facing laser shot at what looked like the death's head of an Atlas emerging from the forest and into the clearing, but I couldn't be sure that it actually was one of the towering hundred-ton behemoths. I didn't take time to verify; the chase was on and speed was all that mattered. "Neda, we'll have enemies in the clearing at the crash site in a second, need some cover," I requested as I noted our last lancemate's presence ahead. We'd left her Blackjack on a far ridge overlooking the site for just this purpose. Even as the words left my mouth, Neda's stiff-armed mech's cannons came to bear on the clearing and spat fire. The smaller shells wouldn't do much to stop anything bigger than my Dragon, but it was better than nothing at all.
All the while, my mind remained acutely aware of the precious cargo that rocked gently back and forth in my machine's left hand. It was about a three-kilometer mad dash down the base of the mountain and into the plains below. It would take only one stray round or one violent jolt to put an end to Andersen.
"Trouble, boss," I heard Jessen say excitedly. "Two more Panthers dead ahead." Just as he said so, I ran almost straight into one. It wheeled toward me, but was too slow in bringing his particle cannon all the way around. Its bolt whizzed only a meter away from my head, but a volley of four short-range missiles took me square in the pelvis. Oh yeah? I chided inwardly.
I had named my Dragon Bluntsnout for the somewhat ugly appearance my personal modifications had inflicted upon it. The typical Dragon's torso tapered gracefully into a fierce-looking snout that housed the muzzle of a long-range missile rack. But I'd had that rack replaced with a shorter-ranged version that packed a bit more punch. Because the missile system wasn't designed to be compatible with the Dragon chassis, the result was an abrupt, hatchet-faced appearance for my beloved war machine. I rather adored it.
I could almost sense the surprise of the Panther when instead of facing the typical light autocannon and long-range missiles, he rocked from the impact of a high-velocity gauss cannon round followed by six short-range missiles that landed directly into his own missile rack. Something seemed to pop within the Panther's belly as armor buckled outward from within, and thick smoke began to billow from the newly gouged hole there. The enemy did an almost comical about-face, as if to say never mind, lumbering for better cover.
I realized I hadn't even stopped during the exchange. So much the better. Lasers began to sizzle and streak around me from behind, narrowly missing, and I felt the ground shake as another huge autocannon round thundered down near me.
"Got this one, boss!" Jessen exclaimed, but I still twisted to put another gauss round into the other Panther he was tangling with.
And so the race went on. Changing my heading every few seconds and thanking Neda for the autocannon cover, I zigzagged among the trees as best I could in my big beast of a machine, catching the occasional fire but managing to elude what was apparently a slower force than ours. In the distance, Neda had already repositioned herself right at the edge of the forest, as it opened out onto the plains, right up on the last ridge of the gently rolling mountainside that we were gradually descending. Now and again, Mangold would pop up above the canopy and provide more cover with missiles while evading a lot of return fire himself.
And then my great acrobatic piloting skill came into play. I scoff.
Though I pride myself on being a pretty great shot, piloting had never, honestly, come naturally to me. I have heard talk of "feeling as one with the machine" and some sort of zen-like state that some other mechwarriors had achieved via years of neurohelmet-interfaced warfare. I knew of no such thing. Most of the time I still felt like a tiny man strapped into a giant machine, and though articulation of the hands and arms of 'mechs came more naturally, I could never get accustomed to the feel of the feet below me. Judging distances is difficult when there are fifty-eight tons of machine and a fusion reaction between yourself and the ground.
And so it was no surprise that when a wide natural ditch seemed to spontaneously crack the earth below me, I royally botched navigating it. Although my Dragon isn't equipped with jump jets, I somehow got it in my mind to try to leap the divide. Of course, sixty tons went straight down. Bluntsnout's feet caught on the opposite edge of the ditch and we went rolling feet over head over feet. It was all I could do to try to make the roll center around the disembodied head I still carried, and I managed to do so fairly well, considering.
Though the cockpit lighting didn't waver, I saw black and then bright and black again as my head was jostled violently. I tasted blood, spitting as I somehow managed to get Blunsnout to its knee.
And then klaxons and warnings went off as lasers burnt into my backside armor. The canopy was pelted loudly with dirt as an autocannon round slammed down right near me. Good thing the Hunchback wasn't a great shot, at least. I urged my 'mech on.
As I began moving, Jessen's Cicada appeared again, rushing up and then stopping, then pivoting quickly in place, then darting in a different direction, all the while managing to keep its bug-like torso pointed at the enemy and firing off lasers. He seemed to dare them to engage him, and they often took him up on it. Away he went again, but not after giving me enough time to gain some distance on the enemy.
Ahead of me, a great predator beast of the jungle-- a fraycat, they were called by the natives-- sprang forth from the underbrush, bounding directly away from my Dragon, as frightened animals often do when they suspect a predator is after them. My mind seemed to steal those three seconds from me as I studied the thing. It was long and lean, and was something like a mix between a great jungle cat and a kangaroo. Spring, spring, spring! Its powerful body coiled and uncoiled as it covered as much ground in one leap as my Dragon did in one step. Before I had time to wonder if it was the kind of animal that was familiar with running away from predators, it caught a stray laser bolt square in its side and exploded into vapor and sludge. This inspired me.
On we went, weaving away from the enemy. Moments became a blur. So did the forest as we entered the gray haze of smoke created by Neda's Blackjack's cannons. Almost there! Trees thinned, enemy fire became a little sparser.
And then, freedom. The forest ended, and I was out in the open. While there was no immediate cover, the lack of obstacles and surer footing enabled me to urge Bluntsnout to a full-on, consistent sprint. A few hundred meters away, I spied Mangold's Trebuchet already standing atop a lone, giant boulder. "Behind here," he directed.
Only a few particle cannon shots and laser blasts dug up dirt around our feet as Jessen and myself rounded the giant boulder's edge. I gently placed the dead Centurion head at the base of the boulder. We would make a stand here, and I'd need the lasers in that hand. Jessen and Mangold covered Neda's retreat to the boulder as I did so, but the enemy seemed to be regrouping even as we did so.
Though it may seem impossible for multi-ton war machines to display any true body language, the fact that they were linked directly to the nervous systems of their pilots made them do just so. As we faced each other for that split second before setting up a defense, I sensed the nervousness of my lance. They all looked to me, and that nervous well, this is it feeling lingered in the air.
No time for a speech, though. "Jessen, you'll get started to base and report. You two are with me. We'll make the first thing that crosses over that last ridge pay and pay big." Affirmatives weren't needed. We took our places as Jessen sped off.
And make them pay, we did. The first 'mech over the ridge line that Neda had previously provided cover from was the overzealous Hunchback. It received a torrential rain of missile and autocannon fire, and one of my gauss rifle rounds shattered the actuator in its knee. It managed to stagger behind one of the last giant trees of the forest line before the next 'mech appeared, the brown Panther. It met nearly the same fate, but was a bit smarter. It managed to rake Neda's Blackjack with its large laser before quickly disappearing back below the ridge. Our fire narrowly missed its upper torso and head.
And then we waited for the next snake to surface, our weapon sights diligently covering the ridge line, searching the smoke for a sign of the enemy, ready to pummel the first thing that moved. Seconds stretched into minutes, and then the minutes stretched into one uncomfortably long, silent, intense moment. I forced a deep breath, consciously refusing to release the tension of my body from Bluntsnout's triggers. Minutes passed, and more minutes passed.
Nothing came. Along the tree line nothing moved but flames and leaves.
We'd made it.
* * *
On the way back to base, I counted our blessings, as few seem to these days. Nothing like a brush with death to make one realize his good fortunes, odd as that is. And just as the deadly forest trap was already becoming just a uncomfortable memory in our minds, something very odd happened.
Only eight kilometers out from base, there is an area of rocky badlands which features the occasional natural stone archway. As we neared one such arch, a solitary 'mech's head appeared in plain view above us, the rest of its body hidden away by the rocks. It had a dome shape, and above it, two long, thin, insectoid antenna twittered about nervously before jutting forward, directly toward us. We stopped and raised weapons, ready.
"Is that Osski in that ugly Dragon?" The thickly accented voice was rough and wheezing over the crackling comm. The torsos of Mangold's and Neda's 'mechs seemed to twitch a little in surprise. "Please ask your crew to hold their fire. I am alone and intend no harm."
Without answering, I lowered my own weapon, and my lancemates followed suit. It stood to reason that no force large enough to challenge us could have gotten so close to base without being detected. That fact didn't make me comfortable, but it did allow for a little leeway that would satiate my curiosity.
"Thank you," the stranger politely offered as he stepped his 'mech up higher onto the arch and into clear view. It was all long and slender legs topped by an egg-shaped torso and was painted entirely black except for the red Kurita dragon sigil on its torso.
Mangold immediately triggered his private comm line to me. "An Ostscout, sir. Most likely mapping the entire area. We could try to trap it and take him alive."
As much as I respected Mangold and his steel-cold objectivity, that seemed altogether unlikely. Fast though we were, the little thing could run circles around use. Jessen's Cicada as probably already near base, and even if he were with us, he lacked the flight-like jump capability that the little Ostscout had. We might nick the thing, but even an average pilot could elude us pretty easily.
That, and I was irresistably curious. "Stand down."
"I am privy to some information that you may find very valuable, Osski-san. It concerns Elena," the strange voice rasped. An ice-cold shiver racked my spine at the mention of that name. That very name turned curiosity to angry revulsion. "I would like to meet with you."
It was a long moment that I sat and stared through the digital display at the thin little black 'mech above us, and my eyes began to burn from not blinking. I closed them, and mumbled simply, "Where and when?"
"It is enough to know that you are willing. I will find you. A good day to you all." And without any further ado, the little black 'mech hopped down below the arch and disappeared among the rocks.
"I suppose I know better than to ask what that was about?" Mangold remarked. Neda stayed silent.
"I'm glad that you do know better, friend. I'm glad that you do."
* * *
An hour and a half later we were showered and debriefed, and Neda and I settled into our quarters. It was an understood ritual that after any combat action we put off all of our feelings of love and fear for one another until we got back to privacy, to this sacred moment, when we were alone together again.
Neda was not beautiful, except to me. Her short hair and hard nose made her look somewhat boyish, and she stood three inches taller than me and was some sixty pounds heavier. But when my hands slid softly around her wide and rounded hips and her arms embraced me more tightly than anyone who'd ever held me before, I felt for the first time that day that I was exactly where I belonged, as always.
She must have sensed the tension in my body. "We made it again, didn't we?" she asked with a smile and a reassuring chuckle.
"We always will." I met her eyes with my own, but her face was blurry through my tears, and my own smile evaded me.
"Elena? How could anyone know?"
"I'm not sure, but I'll find out. For both of us." We kissed, and that night I dreamed of drowning in a pool of black snakes and fire.
It wasn't until the next morning that we learned that Andersen had died in his cockpit, long before we had arrived at the crash site.
* * *
--to be continued...
