Chapter 3

Ember of Hope

 

     "In war, the moral is to the physical as three is to one." - Napoleon Bonaparte

 

 

 

Grand Ballroom, Royal Court

The Triad

Tharkad City, Tharkad

District of Donegal, Lyran Alliance

26 January 2016 S.E.C.

15 November 3058 I.S.C.

 

     With slow and authoritative steps Anastasius Focht stepped onto the dais and toward the podium.  Arrayed around him, the leaders of the Inner Sphere waited to let him begin to speak.  On the opposite end of the octagon he could see the seemingly-disinterested Katherine Steiner-Davion looking toward him but not making any eye contact, a stark contrast to her brother's strict attention.  As he set down his notes for his briefing, Focht felt his right eye socket tingle a little, an annoying but manageable feeling.  He cleared his throat before he began to speak.  "We have become recently aware that Clan troops and material have begun building in ever-increasing numbers on the planet now referred to as Scorched Earth.  Smoke Jaguar and Ice Hellion forces have already won multiple engagements against Australian-led Allied forces in Timor and New Guinea, and it could only be a manner of time before the Clans attempt to conquer the Australian continent itself.  In terms of arming our respective planetary allies, the Clans are currently winning the race."

     Focht allowed his news to be absorbed by the political leaders, most of whom had not participated in the military planning sessions where this fact had already been highly discussed.  "We anticipate that the Clans will be able to launch offensives in North America by the end of the year, perhaps mid-January at the latest.  By then our allies will only have four battalions of BattleMechs to content with them."

     "What is the status of our own material deliveries?", Thomas Marik asked.

     "The first shipments from factories in the Lyran Alliance have already begun arriving," Focht stated, "and shipments from the ComStar and Rasalhaguan factories should be arriving this month.  The rest of your Houses, by virtue of the distance, will still be months in coming."

     "This is an impossible task," Sun-Tzu stated sullenly.  "I still do not see why we bother."  Sun-Tzu gazed cross the octogon at the Kells.

     "It is not your world that is at risk," Phelan retorted.

     "Perhaps not, but I do know that there are far more worlds in the Inner Sphere at risk than your's alone."  Sun-Tzu placed his fist on his table.  "I came here because we were supposed to be discussing on how to best rid ourselves of the Clan threat.  That must be our principal concern.  And, despite whatever feelings we may have over the issues that Khan Kell presented, we must not lose sight of the fact that this is a world of a few billion people.  How can we ask our peoples to put the benefit of one small population over the security of the entire Inner Sphere, the defeat of the Clan menace?"

     In response to his cousin Kai said, "May I remind the Chancellor that aiding this planet and defeating the Clans could be done together?"

     "How, cousin?  Our JumpShip fleets have certainly recovered in the past twenty-five years, but how can we mobilize our forces to annihilate the Jaguars, send material to this planet, and maintain our own domestic economies?  You would have us defeat the Clans just to have the Inner Sphere be plunged into poverty.  Do you want to tell the people of Epsilon Indi or Bryant that they are going to have to starve because we don't have enough JumpShips to deliver them foodstuffs?  How will Captain-General Marik explain to his Parliament that he must end their prosperity to send weapons to a few billion people on the other side of the Inner Sphere?"

     Victor looked over at Thomas Marik, who said nothing in reply to his future son-in-law's statements, but merely looked down.  Doubt clouded his eyes as his own realization of the difficulties involved clashed with his human desire to end the horrors they had witnessed first hand.  "And what would you do, Sun-Tzu?", Phelan inquired with his clenched fists on the table in front of him.  "Simply forget that Rebecca Harverson and the others who have suffered under Giuseppe's regime exist?"

     "What I would do is keep our focus on our objective.  That means we do not fight a meaningless crusade for a people we still know very little of.  The Clans come first.  After the Clans are gone," Sun-Tzu shrugged, "then any nation here can do as they like in regards to the planet."

     From her own seat, Candace Liao returned Sun-Tzu's gaze toward her table.  "Cold, heartless, and indifferent to suffering.  You are your mother's son, Sun-Tzu."

     Sun-Tzu's eyes narrowed but he did not reply to his aunt.  As much as it disgusted him, Victor knew Sun-Tzu had a point.  There were hundreds of billions of people in the Inner Sphere that were threatened by the Clans, and they had to come first.  Victor had been hoping that they could balance those two out, but the logistics seemed impossible.  The Jaguars were the only suitable military target for annihilation and they were on the other side of the occupied zones from Arc-Royal and the rift.  Which meant that the movement of the Inner Sphere's armies to the Jaguar Zone and the material needed to keep them fighting was opposite in direction from the movement of troops and material to the rift.  Such a mass movement, even with the support of all of the available JumpShips in the Inner Sphere, could significantly harm the civilian economies of the Inner Sphere.  And then the cold numbers came into play.  There were individual worlds in the Inner Sphere with a larger population than Scorched Earth; the population of the entire Inner Sphere dwarfed that singular world.  For Victor, it was a tough moral question on if he had the right to force the billions of people in the Federated Suns to sacrifice in the rescue of just a few billion people who, no matter how inhuman their enemies were, the Federated Suns were not beholden to.  He knew that at least some of his fellow countrymen would not mind sacrificing, but did he have the right to make them?  Victor might have been the unquestioned head of state but he did not like the idea of abusing his power, entrusted to him by the people of the Federated Commonwealth.

     But whenever he contemplated Sun-Tzu's path Victor could see the horrible sight again.  The young girl strapped to the table, trembling violently as an electric current tormented her, and men violating her.  It was madness that had no fathomable reason.  The pull her stern defiance had on him was irresistably strong.  It was something everyone could relate to, the stubborn refusal to submit to a conquering foe, the same refusal that had prevented Victor from submitting to fear of the Clans.

     Worst of all were the dreams that the sight had prompted.  Phelan had kept Victor from viewing the rest of the disc and, considering the nightmares just that one bit had caused, Victor could only fathom the terror of watching the entire thing.  On at least three nights his dreams had substituted Yvonne for the girl Rebecca Harverson, an invisible wall seperating him and making him watch his sister suffer.  One night it was not Yvonne but Omi whom was placed on the table and abused; just thinking of the effect that dream had on him made Victor's spine grow cold.  To inflict pain and humiliation on another human being in such a sadistic manner, for any reason whatsoever, inspired a cold rage within Victor, and he looked forward to the day when the criminals who had created that black-hearted government were brought to justice for their crimes.  He hoped to be present when they hanged the bastards.

     "You have a point, Chancellor," Focht conceded, "but there is something more to add."  Focht looked over at Morgan Hasek-Davion, who nodded silently, as he took a moment to get a breath before speaking again.  "Our ultimate goal is to force the Clans to understand the price of further war with the Inner Sphere.  To do so we are going to annihilate one Clan, and we have chosen the Jaguars.  But the liberation of their Occupation Zone is just but one tactic we can use.  We must reinforce for the other Clans that war is not the game that they have taken to viewing it as.  Our annihilation must be total, and as such, we must not just destroy the Jaguars in the Inner Sphere, but also strike directly at their core."  Focht drew in a breath and tried to give his next sentence extra weight.  "We must destroy their capital world Huntress."

     The assembled leaders had already known of this proposal from the military planning sessions; it did not remove any of the weight associated with the announcement.  The Inner Sphere was no stranger to destructive warfare but, even after centuries of such war, the human repulsion to organized destruction had not disappeared.  The prospect of willingly crushing an entire civilization into rubble was unimaginable.

     "I do not propose this lightly," Focht continued.  "But it must be remembered that the Clan way of warfare is such that it prevents the destruction we know here in the Inner Sphere.  The memories of their own Exodus Civil War and the horrible destruction it created still inspires terror in the hearts of the Clans.  Only once in their history have the Clans pursued such an open course and they have sealed or destroyed all records they have of that time.  For the Clans, warfare is more of an organized sport."

     "An organized sport?"

     "To a degree, Precentor Focht is correct," Phelan answered Sun-Tzu.  "The Clan bidding system was created to keep down the losses of manpower and material that war could create.  The Clans see war as a series of combat trials with their own rules and rituals.  They never destroy factories, supply depots, or anything that we would consider legitimate military targets during warfare.  They always leave infrastructure intact."

     "Thus, we must strike at that."  Focht folded his hands inside of his robes.  "There have been two suggestions on how to strike at Huntress.  The first suggestion came after ComStar secured a Clan defector who provided us with the Exodus Road, the route that Aleksandr Kerensky took when he left the Inner Sphere."  Focht nodded to an assistant, who brought a holographic stellar map up onto the central holoprojector, which drew a line out of stars deep into the Coreward Periphery.  "This route would allow us to strike Huntress directly."

     "I have seen the list of units you would send on this operation," Theodore commented from the Combine table.  "To send ten regiments with support at such an incredible distance while maintaining our other operations is going to stretch our ship resources to the breaking point."

     "This proposal, Serpent A, has the advantage of surprise," Focht replied.  "But it is not the only option.  There is another way to get to Huntress.  The rifts."

     There was a nod of approval from Morgan Hasek.  "That would work.  But the Jaguars will see us coming."

     "That is the one disadvantage," Focht agreed.  "The advantages are significant.  We can use the existing supply lines toward the rifts to move our troops into location.  And the postings in the Arc-Royal Defense Cordon can be excused as fortifying the region should the Clans make an assault through the rifts.  It should also be noted that we could deploy elements of units slated for the Huntress operation to aid in holding the allied lines on Scorched Earth."

     "I take it that Marshall Hasek-Davion would be in command of this force?", Katherine asked from her seat.  Her face betrayed her concerns; Morgan Hasek-Davion was one of Victor's best supporters and having him and Morgan Kell together was something that Victor was certain she felt wary toward.  Victor could very well send several Davion units "for defense of the border" and end up helping the Kells break away from her Lyran Alliance.  Although he had no intention of moving against her while the Clans were still a threat, Victor did not put it past his sister to see such a motive; it was something she would do given the chance.

     "He is our current choice, yes," Focht responded.

     "Very well, but I would propose that my military advisor General Nondi Steiner be given overall command of the operation."  Katherine did not turn her head to notice Nondi's smug expression at the proposition.  Nondi turned toward Morgan and seemed to be hiding the effort to smile with satisfaction.

     Victor opened his mouth to speak, but did not.  He restrained the impulse to roll his eyes in disbelief.  Nondi was unimaginative and arrogant, two qualities that did not mix well in a military commander.  She also had a vendetta against Morgan Kell and would likely disapprove of anything he did, perhaps even use her position to interfere with him.  Just what Katherine would want, too.  It would at least give her a degree of control over our deployments in the Cordon just in case Morgan did consider using my troops and his own loyal forces to break away.  I don't see how she'll be denied either, but I hope that Nondi won't go too far in pursuing her rivalry with Morgan.

     Morgan Kell was also obviously unhappy with the suggestion.  He sighed and nodded, "I would be pleased to accept the General's assistance."

     "This, in turn, would also allow us to increase aid through the rifts to Scorched Earth.  Indeed, it makes the war there even more important."

     "Yes."  Phelan crossed his arms and glared across the projector at Sun-Tzu.  "The Earthers can occupy the other Clans while we fight the Jaguars.  And, if they bloody the Home Crusaders enough, the other Clans are less likely to send support to the Jaguars on Huntress."

     "Put this way, I can see the wisdom in aiding these people," Sun-Tzu said from his table.  "In fact, I was intending to make a point on that.  I would like to call attention to the establishment of your training facilities on this planet.  So far you have established three in North America and one in Australia, with another still being assembled in Britain, but none in China.  I find this strange when reports state that millions of Chinese soldiers are still holding the nation's interior and a stretch of their coast.  Are they not in direct contact against the enemy?"

     "Yes and no," Morgan Kell answered.  "They are engaged against Armand Giuseppe's UN Army, but the Clans have apparently ignored that region.  It is immaterial as the key front on this planet is North America and the fate of the American defense industries."

     "I would say that such an approach is foolish, you are allowing your enemy to dictate your strategy," Sun-Tzu countered.  "It is fairly obvious to me that the reason you have not given them the same aid is not strategic concern but your own cultural prejudice.  Your cultures most resemble that of the North American and Australian continents, thus you have given them priority."

     "We are not ignoring the Chinese," Focht assured Sun-Tzu in a neutral tone.  "ComStar has already begun aiding Premier Quan's government in establishing 'Mech training forces.  But it is difficult for their nation to locate and test prospective MechWarriors, as the infrastructure of the territory they still hold is less developed, and their population harder to access."

     "I see."  Sun-Tzu brought his left fist up to his mouth and coughed to clear his throat for a moment.  "Well, what I would recommend is that, since we have already established who gets aid from whom, that we all choose a region to arm.  The Capellan Confederation will arm the people of China."

     "Selective support, Chancellor?"

     "More along the lines of understanding, Duke Kell."  Sun-Tzu placed his arms before him on the table.  "Can your Kell Hounds speak Han Chinese?  How many Lyran or Davion trainers can speak the Arabic and Hebrew languages?"

     "The world's common language is English," Morgan Kell reminded Sun-Tzu.  "Even the UN has adopted it as one of their two languages of business."

     "Perhaps for the intelligentsia, but the average Chinese peasant-soldier will not know the language.  Neither will Arabic Bedouins."

     To head off further disagreements, Victor stood from his seat.  "I find myself forced to concur with Sun-Tzu," he said, much as it pained him to do.  "We will have to specialize in some areas.  For instance, Coordinator, Elected Prince," he looked from Theodore to Magnusson, "I believe that both of your nations have populations of Azami?

     "Yes," Theodore answered.  "I can arrange for one of the Arkab Legions to transfer to Scorched Earth immediately for operations in the Middle East."

     "Then we will pick and choose those we aid?", Thomas Marik inquired from his seat.

     "To a degree.  The major fronts are filled with English speakers, and they can be trained by virtually any force in the Inner Sphere.  But for the non-English speakers, that's where we'll have to specialize."  Victor looked at his sister.  "There is a sizable Spanish-speaking population in certain regions of the Lyran realm and in the LAAF that can be used for staffing training facilities in Latin America."

     "Yes," Katherine agreed.

     Focht cleared his throat to get attention before he spoke.  "Then we are decided to stage the attack on Huntress through the rifts?"  When he was answered by silent nods as gestures of assent, Focht nodded as well and stated, "Then, that order of business is concluded."

     "That still leaves the commander of the attack on the Jaguars here.  I presume you will take that position?"

     Focht responded to Katherine's question by placing his hands at the small of his back.  "I would accept such a posting if it were offered.  But I must remind this Council that I am growing in age, and as it slows me down I will rely more and more upon my aides and subordinates.  And, I will inform you that if chosen I will appoint Prince Victor Steiner-Davion as my deputy commander."

     It came of no surprise to Victor nor Katherine, while Thomas Marik did ask, "But, can Prince Victor acquit his duties adequately?  He is the leader of the Federated Commonwealth."

     "I have already begun to set up a Regency on New Avalon while I am away," Victor replied.  "My sister Yvonne will serve as Regent, and she has the full trust and support of myself and the advisors I have arranged for her.  In the case of emergency I could always be recalled to New Avalon, but somehow I doubt there will be such an occasion.  No one would strike at my realm while we are all fighting the Clans."

    "Judging by this list of your requisitions for the war effort," Sun-Tzu tapped his finger on his noteputer screen, "I doubt any of us will have the opportunity to strike at your nation."

     "You will understand, Chancellor, if I am not going to underestimate your abilities to cause trouble."  Victor turned his head and made eye contact with every leader in the room in succession.  "I feel that this is what all of the training I have received in my life has prepared me for.  This is the greatest responsibility, and burden, that I could ever bear, and if I do so successfully I can die content."

     Katherine finished looking down at her fingernails, an icy-tone of white color placed on their smooth surfaces, and put her voice into the matter.  "Despite our differences I know my brother is best-suited for this task, and he has my full support."  Katherine ignored the low hiss from Nondi.

     Victor at first wondered if he should be surprised, but then he began to see it from her point of view.  If he was on the front, he had a greater chance of getting killed, and that would remove the last obstacle to reunifying the Federated Commonwealth under her "benevolent" rule.

     Katherine's approval gave the issue momentum; one by one each leader signed off on it.  Happiest of all was Sun-Tzu, who gave the appearance of a wolf just let out of it's cage.  His expression made Victor apprehensive, he could not help but wonder just what mischief Sun-Tzu would perform with Yvonne in New Avalon.  An acclamation vote for the Bulldog and Serpent operations followed.  Placing his hands back on the podium, Focht said, "That leaves the final signing of the Constitution."

     "We still need to select a First Lord," Katherine reminded the Council.

     "The selection process was to be by lot," Magnusson said quietly from his table.

     "Yes, but we are also reforming the Star League to make a point with the Clans.  How will the Clans view a First Lord chosen by lot?  It would seem rather careless, after all."

     "An excellent point."  Thomas Marik thumped his fingers on his table.  "It is my hope that this Star League be something more than just a temporary alliance against the Clans, but appearances must be considered."

     Victor did not speak aloud, but he could not help but wonder, What are you up to now, Katherine?  What little trick weaseled it's way into your scheming mind?  He eyed her warily as Katherine said, "Because ComStar does not have a vote, I would ask that Precentor-Martial Focht chair the election."

     When nobody raised a voice in dissent, Focht asked, "Very well, does anyone have a nomination?"

     "I do."  Katherine stood up and eyed the room, but could not help but keep an eye on Victor to see his reaction.  "I would nominate Sun-Tzu Liao, Chancellor of the Capellan Confederation."

     Victor resisted the temptation to look completely flabbergasted, but his jaw hung agape from the pure shock.  "What?  Why Sun-Tzu?"

     With a calculated and cold look in her eye, Katherine turned toward Victor and answered, "Because, dear brother, Sun-Tzu is just as intelligent as either of us.  His realm is the smallest of the Great Houses and will have the least room for participation, so this gives him an equal share of responsibility.  And, as the husband-to-be of Isis Marik, he has further connections to the Free Worlds League, another nation which will have a lesser military role than our own."

     Sun-Tzu by now was beaming; his smile grew when Thomas Marik added, "I will second the nomination.  In the time I have known him Sun-Tzu has shown himself to be an intelligent and capable ruler.  He can meet the demands of this office."

     Victor could barely control his anger.  Sun-Tzu was just as much a schemer as Katherine, and had already invaded his realm once.  Surely he would use his influence as First Lord to promote seizure of the Chaos March, or even worse, use the office to hold undue influence over St. Ives.  Yvonne was still young and unexperienced and would be incapable of putting up opposition if Sun-Tzu tried to snap up a world here and there.  As Sun-Tzu and Candace exchanged barbs, Victor felt his rage boil over at the thought of Sun-Tzu becoming First Lord.  How could Katherine nominate Sun-Tzu?

     Or more important, why?    

     Why did Katherine nominate him?  It doesn't make sense, he's just as much a threat to her designs on the Chaos March as he is to the Federated Commonwealth.  Unless...  Victor's subsiding rage helped him subdue the impulse to grin.  Cute, sister dear, very cute.  You did that just to get me angry and prompt a fight.  Then you could play peacemaker again by withdrawing the nomination, and with me discredited you're the obvious choice for First Lord.

     And when Victor thought of it, he realized that Sun-Tzu's demands of office would also hinder his scheming.  Sun-Tzu had to act responsibility with the position, lest the rest of the Inner Sphere castigate him and make the Capellans into a hermit kingdom again.  And the position of First Lord was more ceremonial now than it was for the Camerons.  As a threat he could be dealt with easily.

     Well, Katherine, you should be careful what you ask for...  He raised himself to his paltry height and help up his hands.  "Wait.  This is pointless."  He saw Katherine smile; she was obviously waiting for him to make himself look like a fool.

     Victor couldn't wait to wipe the smile off her face.

     "If Sun-Tzu is good enough for my sister, he's good enough for me.  He's got my vote."  Victor had to fight to hide a grin of satisfaction at watching the blood drain from Katherine's face.  "Sun-Tzu Liao, I don't trust you farther than I could throw my 'Mech.  But I've got no real choice in this matter.  You'll either perform your duties for the good of the entire Inner Sphere or you'll abuse them and we'll be in such a shape that the Clans will literally walk over us.  I grew to hate you and it hasn't done me one damned bit of a good, and neither has it done you any good.  I suppose this is a better way of doing good for the both of us.  We'll be counting on you to supply and equip our forces and help us do our duties.  If you fail at that, we'll be the first to die, but hardly the last."

     Victor sat and winked at his terror-choked sister, who was holding her hands tight enough that Victor imagined her fingernails were pressing into her palms.  It wasn't over between them, it wouldn't be until Katherine was brought to justice for her crimes, but Victor could take satisfaction that her little scheme had been thwarted.

     Now all he had to do was hope that Sun-Tzu didn't doom them all.

 

 

 

BattleMech Training Facility, 3rd BattleMech Training Battalion

Orlando, Florida, United States of America

26 January 2016 S.E.C.

15 November 3058 I.S.C.

 

     Sweat created a haze in Penton's vision and distracted him a little as he pushed the solid metal bar off his chest, the bar laden with two hundred and fifty pounds of weight.  "Ten," he growled, prompting Farris to take the bar with his arms and help him up.  Penton sat up and flexed his stinging arms.  The muscles on his bare arms were visible but not quite as well developed as those on Farris, who was shirtless.  A tattoo just above his navel and below the lowest point of his chest hair depicted a red rose and the words "Nate and Michelle".  As Farris took a seat on the bench and Penton moved into a position to "spot" him, Penton asked, "A tattoo?"

     "Ah," Farris snickered, "nothing I really care about.  It was one of those peer pressure things, the entire team was getting them.  But there are worse tattoos than having one with the name of Michelle."

     "Your lover?"

     "Not technically, fiancee yes, but we haven't made love."  Farris rubbed his hands together and laid back.  "We're saving that for the wedding night."

     Penton, for a small moment, considered pointing out that they might not have a wedding night if the war turned south and one of them perished, but he decided that the couple must have already put that into their planning.  "Yeah."  He put his hands on the bar just inside of where Farris had gripped it.  He helped pull it up and over the hooks that served to hold it.  Farris lowered the bar to just above his chest and pushed it back up with less effort than it had taken Penton.  Penton looked across the weights section to see Barton and Hayal working on a couple of press machines, while the seven foot tall Shawn Wilson was standing in front of a mirror, doing some "squat" weight exercises.  A member of Beta Company, a young man named Matthew Schulter, was showing Danvers, Osmone, and a couple others some form of martial arts.  Virtually every member of the training battalion was somewhere in the gym or other areas, as one hour a day was allotted for physical exercise intended to keep them in decent physical form.  Penton's eyes traveled over to the boxing ring, where he saw Paravska wailing away at Victoria Taylor, with a small group of men and women around the ring either waiting for their turn to spar or talking casually.  Farris grunted, "Ten", and took Penton's attention just as he noticed Galvaeriz practicing on a punching bag.  Penton waited for him to straighten his arms before taking hold of the bar and moving it back onto the hooks.  Farris sat up and flexed his arms outward.  "Ah, that feels better," he muttered.

     "That's the daily lifting for us, then," Penton extended a hand and helped Farris to his feet.  "What next?"

     "I'll probably get on a treadmill or something."  Farris rubbed the biceps on his left arm.  "What will you be up to?"

     "I dunno."  Penton flexed his arms to keep the muscles loose.

     "Ah."  Farris's eyes twinkled when he noticed that Penton was looking at Galvaeriz more than the punching bags.  "Well, enjoy yourself.  I want to get the rest of my usual workout done before the hour is up."

     Penton nodded and walked over to the wall adjacent to the punching bags and boxing ring.  In the ring Taylor had finally bowed out and Paravska was now up against the elder Serbian woman, Mira Kojic.  Penton had found out that despite her appearance, Mira was well into her forties.  Physically she was fit, although obviously no match for Paravska, and Mira also possessed the most experience of any of the members of the battalion.  Her age had caused a handful to affectionately refer to her as 'Mom' or 'Aunt', titles reinforced by Mira's mentoring of the battalion's young women.  Even Paravska, in the few times she had spoken openly with Penton, had spoken highly of Mira's maternal side.  Not that her praise prevented Paravska from pummeling Mira mercilessly in the ring, the older woman barely holding her ground under the younger and more agile Paravska's onslaught.  At one section of the wall a few dozen pairs of boxing gloves of various sizes were hung; Penton found the largest size available and pulled them on his hands.  The fit on his large hands was a little tight but not uncomfortably so.  With a little apprehension he approached Galvaeriz.  Her light brown sports bra had a couple of darker spots to show where her exertion had led to profuse sweating, still launching jabs as quickly as she could at the battered punching bag.  Her lower body kept twisting and Penton noticed her legs were held together closely, making her adjust her body movements to keep her balance.  When he got within two meters he said, "You should spread your legs."

     Galvaeriz stopped punching and turned toward him.  She used her gloved right fist to move a strand of her dark hair out of her eyes, which twinkled mischievously as she replied, "I never do that on the first date."

     Penton chuckled at her gutter humor and replied, "Cute."  He pointed down at her feet.  "What I meant is, your feet are too close.  Spread them out so you have better balance, it'll help."

     "You a boxer?"

     "Not really, but I do have some common sense."  Penton assumed a boxing stance in the fashion he had recommended.  "Having your feet seperated improves your balance, you can swing more weight around."  He began punching at the bag to emphasize his point.

     Galvaeriz let her arms fall to her sides.  "You didn't just come here to help me with my balance."

     "Well, we've been here over a week and I haven't seen you around very often," answered Penton.  He lowered the strength of his punches to light jabs, making lighter impact sounds on the canvas punching bag.

     "That's because I had to finish basic training.  Just finished that a couple days ago."  Galvaeriz crossed her arms and looked up at his face while Penton continued hammering the bag.  "You know, you gave me a good lookover our first day here.  You wouldn't happen to be interested in me, would you?"

     Penton stepped back from the bag and shrugged.  "Interested?  Just as much as the next hetero male.  But it's not like I'm going to begin asking you out or anything."

     "Ah."  Galvaeriz nodded and grinned.  "That's re-assuring."

     "I'm sure it is."  Penton kept his eyes on her as Galvaeriz stepped back up to the punching bag, unable to help himself in admiring some of the more appealing aspects of her body.  "I didn't come here looking to get attached, after all."

     An angry roar erupted from the boxing ring, prompting both to turn.  Paravska was on her hands and knees, her gloved right hand clutching her throat, and standing above her was Nielson, clad in a navy blue T-shirt that held a golden Navy seal on the front torso.  Penton stomped over, Galvaeriz coming behind him, and became part of a crowd of about fifty people who were watching the new development.  He heard Taylor shout "Cheap shot, Nielson!" in an angry voice, while Mira and a younger blond-haired girl Penton knew as Rebecca Rogers helped Paravska out of the ring.  Penton forced his way through the crowd toward Paravska as Nielson exchanged barbs with Taylor and a couple other spectators.  "What the hell?!"  He got up to them and heard Paravska struggling for breath.  "Alex?"

     "Lieutenant Nielson hit her in her windpipe," Rogers explained with a high voice that made her sound six years younger than she was.

     "Help me sit her down," Mira ordered Penton.  Penton responded by bending his knees enough to take Paravska's right arm, reliving the small and weaker Rogers of that burden.  Penton tried to take as much of Paravska's weight as he could, while Mira hid whatever strain she felt from Paravska's left arm and weight.  They brought her over to a nearby bench, where Mira began to visually examine Paravska's throat.  A bruise was appearing from the blow.  "Aleksandra, you must force yourself to breathe," Mira said firmly.  "I know it hurts but you must breathe!"

     Paravska clawed at her throat while her face began to turn a shade of blue.  Without hesitation Mira slammed her palm on Paravska's torso, striking the edge of Paravska's pitch black sports bra.  "Aleksandra, breathe!", she shouted before slamming her again, trying to force Paravska to breathe.

     Seeing that Mira had the situation in hand, Penton returned his attention to the ring.  Nielson was still standing alone, looking over at them with a cocky grin.  Penton took a step toward the ring as if to wipe the grin off his face.  Before he could challenge the Navy officer, someone else stepped into the ring.  Calvin Schulter was shorter than Nielson, at six foot one.  Well-kept dark brown hair was now slightly-disheveled by the day's activities; his light blue eyes concentrated on Nielson's six foot five frame as Nielson considered him.  Schulter was clad in a plain white gi with a black belt around his waist.  The gi hid his solid build but added a bit of distinction compared to the tank tops and muscle shirts, or the complete lack of a shirt, preferred by the other males.  "That wasn't a very decent thing to do," Schulter said to Nielson.

     "It was an accident," Nielson insisted.  "She shouldn't have had her guard so low."

     "You could have killed her," Schulter rebuked in a quiet tone.  "If you had struck her hard enough you would have crushed her windpipe."

     Nielson shrugged indignantly.  "Hey, what can I say, I play to win.  If nobody wants to do that, they should not try to get in the ring with me."

     "So you wish to fight not as practice but to prove yourself better than the others?"  Schulter kept his hands behind his back and calmly added, "I'm interested in such a fight with you.  No holding back."

     "Hey, good, I can go with that."  Nielson pointed to the boxing gloves on the wall.  "Want to get those?  And a teeth guard would do well."  He opened his hand to show his own teeth guard.

     "I won't need either of those," Schulter said dismissively.  He assumed a defensive fighting stance.  "When you're ready."

     "Your choice."  Looking forward to an easy victory over Schulter, who was dumb enough to fight without gloves or protective head gear, Nielson slipped his teeth guard into his mouth and moved into his own boxing stance.  Without waiting he advanced on Schulter, keeping his guard up while preparing for his first flurry of jabs and hooks.

     In a quick motion, Schulter's right foot snapped up and caught Nielson on the upper chest before he could move his arms to defend the attack.  The force of the kick startled Nielson and caused him to stop, leaving him vulnerable.  The instant Schulter's right foot hit the canvas of the ring he hopped into the air and struck it out again.  His right foot made contact again with Nielson's upper chest, this time with enough force to knock him back into the turnbuckle.  Schulter landed back on the ground and moved back into a defensive stance.  Nielson recovered and shouted, "This is boxing, not kung fu!"

     "I never said that I'd box with you," Schulter retorted.  "I said I'd fight with you, no holding back."

     "Bastard!"  Nielson didn't want to admit he'd been so easily outfoxed, and his personal need to maintain his "suave" stature amongst the other trainees forced him to stay in the fight.  He went back at Schulter with an intention to land just one punch on the younger and smaller man's face.  Schulter purposely maintained his defensive posture, deflecting Nielson's swings.  When Nielson went for a right hook Schulter ducked under it.  His right hand shot up and gripped Nielson by the right wrist.  Schulter's right foot sprung up again, this time kicking Nielson in the abdomen.  Balancing himself on his left hand, Schulter kicked higher up with both feet, catching Nielson in the jaw and sternum with a second kick.  Nielson fell backward and hit the canvas hard, knocking the wind out of him for the moment.  Schulter got back on his feet and again took a defensive stance.  The assembled crowd of spectators began clapping.

     Before the fight could resume, the door opened and one of Drasche's subordinates, a LAAF Sergeant named Daniel Thompson, barked, "Okay, all trainees are to report to their assigned simulator rooms in fifteen minutes!"

     The crowd already dispursing, Schulter extended a hand to Nielson.  "We'll have to resume later."

     "Fuck you."  Nielson pushed away Schulter's hand and helped himself up.  "You did that on purpose."

     "All you had to do was specify boxing and I would have faced you like that," Schulter replied.

     "I'll remember that next time.  And," Nielson looked over at Paravska, who was being helped toward the locker and shower facilities by Mira, "I didn't mean to hit her in the throat.  Really."

     "Hey, I'm sure you're right."  Schulter winked.  "I just wanted to see how good you thought you were.  You think you're pretty good, but you need to tone down on the aggression a bit.  That's how I caught you so easily."

     "Noted."  Nielson nodded at Schulter again and went to get out of the ring.

     Schulter jumped out from the other side and found Danvers and Osmone waiting.  "Delilah, Kim," he greeted them, "you liked the fight?"

     "You're great!", Osmone exclaimed.

     "Cat's been waiting for someone to put Republican boy in his place," Danvers giggled.  "I can only hope I learn to fight like that."

     "Oh, I didn't do that much."  Schulter walked on toward the shower facility.  "We'll do some more stuff tomorrow, if you like."

     "Oh, we like, we like," Osmone assured him with a wide and girlish grin on her face.

     Danvers' grin was somewhat less wide but no less sincere; both enjoyed his company greatly.  "Last one to the shower will get to stink up the sim pods!", she laughed, rushing off to the female locker room with Osmone racing after her.  Schulter snickered at seeing them go before walking calmly to the male locker room.

 

 

     A simulated subarctic tundra stretched out over the false cockpit and holographic display in Simulator Pod 3, with nothing else in sight for Galvaeriz.  She blinked and kept her mind on the awkward task of maintaining the 'Mech's balance.  It was a part of her now, a strange and awkward feeling to have the 'Mech acting as her "second" body.  In either hand she had a joystick for controlling her weapons and targeting system, with a communication control console and computer system to either side of her front.  The neurohelmet felt blocky and cumbersome on her head.  Over her halter top Galvaeriz was donned with a cumbersome cooling vest that circulated coolant across the surface of her body, creating a strange worm-like sensation on her that would grow stronger as the cockpit's heating systems adjusted for the "proper" heat her 'Mech would be generating.  The worm-feeling was almost undetectable on her skin, the computer keeping her 'Mech cockpit at a likeable sixty five degrees Fahrenheit due to the subarctic environment that was being simulated.  Galvaeriz had already done one drone combat simulation in a desert environment; she preferred this cooler alternative.

     She looked at her weapon readout, displayed beside a 'Mech status screen that made a 2-D construct of her simulated Griffin BattleMech.  The Clan version of the venerable Griffin, which she had been told had been in service for over five and a half centuries, lacked the "gun" she had seen on illustrations of older Griffin models.  Instead it possessed a pair of small long range missile, or LRM, batteries on the two sides of it's chest.  In the center of the chest a single Clan-built extended range large laser sat, giving her forty metric ton BattleMech improved long-range accuracy.  To deal with infantry, or for an extra sting in close-combat, a Clan extended range small laser was mounted above her cockpit on the BattleMech's head.  Galvaeriz clenched her right cockpit control, which controlled her LRM batteries and large laser, as she imagined what it would be like in real battle in this machine.

     Galvaeriz made a mental command and the simulated 'Mech's spine and neck muscles turned to the right.  A simulated Enforcer BattleMech moved into her view, it's surface painted in the proper camoflouge colors for the tundra environs.  The warm voice of Kim Osmone crackled into her neurohelmet.  "Hello Rache.  Ready for the pair on pair combat?"

     "I just wanna see who we're up against," Galvaeriz responded.  "You've got a long range weapon on that thing, right?"

     "An extended range large laser.  But it's one of the Inner Sphere models, doesn't have the effective range of your's."

     "That doesn't make sense, Kim.  These are lasers, concentrated light, their range should be dozens of kilometers and with very little range difference."

     "Okay, let me rephrase, Brainiac," Osmone retorted.  "This Inner Sphere targeting system won't let me hit anything accurately from beyond five or six kilometers.  Jesus Christ you'd think that a society a thousand years in the future would have better targeting systems."

     "Well, they make up for it in other ways."  Galvaeriz spotted two more contacts, marked with red, show up on her 'Mech's sensor system.  She used her left hand joystick to "zoom out" on her holoviewer.  About three kilometers away she was presented with two contacts; a Gallowglas and a Clan Clint, piloted by Dane and Hayal respectively.  The voice of Hauptmann Gerts, their company's chief instructor, stated, "Okay, first combat test for your lance.  This is a two-on-two engagement.  Keep in mind that your Clan opponents adhere to an honor code in which battles degenerate into one-on-one fights, so you may want to experiment in fighting like this since it could give you an advantage in dealing with the Clanners."

     I just want to learn how to fight and survive, Galvaeriz answered in her mind.  She felt her heart pace a little.  Targeting unarmed sim-drones was one thing, but this was the first time she would have to try and fight an enemy that would shoot back.  She cautiously tried to center her crosshairs on Dane's Gallowglas.

     Osmone's voice crackled through again.  "Ready Rache?"

     "You may fire now."

     The instant Gerts' words reached her ears Galvaeriz's left thumb pushed down on the top trigger of her left joystick.  An emerald beam struck through the digital air and raked the surface of the Gallowglas's chest.  The Griffin's missile batteries each fired their full salvo, sending twenty missiles streaking toward the large Gallowglas.  Dane reacted by firing his 'Mech's jump jets.  His 'Mech lifted itself into the air.  The last ten missiles tracked the movement and began adjusting their limited guidance capabilities to turn upward.  Five of those missiles struck the Gallowglas, blowing small chunks of armor off of it's legs.

     Galvaeriz stepped to the right just before a red beam flew past her.  Osmone's Enforcer moved in the opposite direction as a green beam nicked her left shoulder.  The muzzle at the end of her left arm retorted with it's own energy beam, spearing the lower left leg of Hayal's Clint with green light.  The partial hit melted through a quarter of the leg's armor on the leg's side.  Still locked onto Dane, Galvaeriz triggered her small laser.  A thinner sapphire beam reached out and went wide right of the others.  Keeping her mind on moving her 'Mech and trying to stay on target made Galvaeriz's head begin to ache lightly.  Not as badly as it had the first time they had done endurance practicing with moving and shooting, but enough to be slightly discomforting.  A light tone in her ear alerted her that her missiles had a positive lock again, this time on the Clint.  Galvaeriz moved her left hand joystick to create a secondary targeting reticle, which she centered on the Gallowglas.  As she did so Galvaeriz's fingers tensed on the LRM firing controls again.  A salvo of five missiles emerged from the lower right launcher and raced over the ground.  Galvaeriz fired another launcher a moment later as the first salvo reached the Clint.  Hayal lifted the Clint's left arm to protect his head as he brought his mech into a ducking position.  He did so a moment too late, allowing the missiles' individual avionics system to track his movement and lower their altitude.  Two missiles crashed against the arm, doing surface damage to it's tough ceramic hide with their explosive packages.  A third missile skirted the top of the Clint's head but failed to explode, twirling off into the digital tundra.  The last two struck the chest, their explosions chipping away some of the armor.  Hayal's right arm raised slightly and spat a couple of autocannon rounds toward Galvaeriz.  She jumped to her side to evade the oncoming submunitions, which pecked at the Griffin's armor.

     "Get closer," Gerts ordered from the control room.  "You're fighting beyond effective targeting range, you're not going to get any hits from there, and your larger autocannons can't utilize their full firing rate."

     That's strange, I thought I got a couple myself.  Galvaeriz ignored the Lyran officer's comments and pushed her 'Mech into a run across the digital tundra, keeping her distance to minimize the effect of Hayal's autocannon.  She turned to her right and tracked Dane's Gallowglas.  Submunitions from Osmone's autocannon sprayed over the larger 'Mech, adding to the damage Galvaeriz had created with her laser.  Dane responded with his PPC and large lasers even as Osmone leapt her Enforcer into the air with it's jump jets..  Only the PPC managed to connect; it's azure fury tore through the hip of Osmone's Enforcer and flayed off the armor on that side of the limb.  The simulator systems forced Osmone to adjust for the loss of half a ton of armor.  Galvaeriz watched her struggle to keep control of her Enforcer in mid-flight before she felt the strike of a HEAT round on her Griffin's shoulder.  Hayal's Clint was charging toward her, now in mid-air as he sought to close the distance to make his autocannon more effective.  Galvaeriz struggled to keep the reticle on the Clint and made the Griffin jump.  The jump jets on the 'Mech fired and raised her several meters into the air.  She began to fall down again as she reached an altitude of seventy meters.  Galvaeriz cursed at her slowness because their movements simply would not allow her to keep a stable lock on Hayal's Clint.  Galvaeriz kept her eye on him, easily evading his autocannon at their range and fighting with her controls to get a lock with her missiles.  The laser crosshairs turned gold for a moment and prompted her to pull the firing triggers.  The large laser struck him in the upper left hip and melted away some of his armor; the small laser missed completely.  A sharp jolt hit the pod as she landed and stumbled a bit, having been distracted by her efforts to target him.  Galvaeriz fought to regain her balance and plunged forward as she did.  She looked back to see Hayal still chasing her, having used her slowing pace to close to just over fifteen hundred meters.  Hayal's autocannon fired again, this time on a higher rate of fire, sending a round every three seconds.  The first struck the Griffin in it's right leg, tearing off armor from the impact.

     Galvaeriz centered her missile reticle on the Clint and fired just as the indicator indicated a targeting lock.  She unleashed her Griffin's full missile salvo against Hayal's Clint even as the Clint spat another round toward her, this one missing her by a meter.  Galvaeriz's missile salvo had a better effect this time.  Too slow to avoid the attack entirely despite a quick move to the right, Hayal lifted his left arm again to protect his head as the missiles flew at him.  The first two missed by virtue of his sudden move, but the latter eighteen acquired and hammered home on the Clint.  The onslaught of the missiles battered the light Clan 'Mech and nearly knocked it down.  Armor was blown away in several chunks and along the left hip she thought she could see the beginnings of an armor breach as a trio of missiles aggravated the damage caused by her laser.  Galvaeriz allowed herself a grin at the sight of Hayal's damage.

     Her simulator pod rocked suddenly and her damage display began blinking red in the center torso.  Galvaeriz could see the weakened laser beams and particle beam from Dane's Gallowglas, which had just shot right through her back.  The sim pod suddenly shut down on her.  "You're dead, Private," Gerts said to her through the radio.  "Reactor damage caused a meltdown.  You should've been watching your back, Lieutenant Dane had a clean shot even at that distance."

     Galvaeriz pulled her neurohelmet off and exclaimed, "Fuck!"  Not one to curse, Galvaeriz bit down on her lip to prevent the stream of angry profanities she wanted to scream.  She took a deep breath and went to work removing the medical sensors and cooling vest before putting them away.  She stepped out of the simulator pod and pushed her hair back.  Galvaeriz walked across the sim hall to the main room.  She entered and stood at attention, saluting to Hauptmann Gerts.  Gerts saluted back, turning away from the displays and the handful of his staff that were observing them.  "You showed some good maneuvering," he informed her, "and promise in your gunnery rating, but you still need to work on your situational awareness.  Lieutenants Hayal and Dane had that planned out."

     "How is Kim doing?"

     "Holding out.  But it's a two-on-one now, and..."  Gerts looked over at a holographic "map" of the simulated combat zone in time to see Osmone's Enforcer blinke out.  "Well, there she goes.  Managed to critically damage Hayal's Clint but that's about it.  She needs to work on her piloting and gunnery."  The Lyran MechWarrior sighed and scratched the back of his neck.  "This wasn't too fair, I imagine.  You and Private Osmone have very little combat experience compared to the Lieutenants.  I would prefer pairing officers and enlisted.  But I wasn't the one who arranged for roommate-based teams."  Gerts softened his expression and grinned a little at Galvaeriz.  "You look tense, Private."

     "I was hoping I'd succeed today, sir."  Galvaeriz kept her spine stiff.  Perspiration had started to form on her forehead and chest from the stress and heat buildup in the simulator.

     "We can't all do well the first time out, Private Galvaeriz," Gerts reminded her in a friendly tone while reviewing the battle readouts.  "You showed promise, I wouldn't be surprised if you turn out to be one of the better MechWarriors in the battalion."

     "Thank you, sir," Galvaeriz replied.  "I hope to live up to your expectations."

     "I noticed that you tend to engage from extreme range," Gerts added.  He looked over at her.  "All of you do.  You're engaging from three to four times the distance that we do."

     "Well, sir, combat's at that distance.  At least, for us it's been."

     "You do realize that at those distances the targeting systems can't maintain a hard lock and your accuracy suffers?"

     "Well, we're working on it."

     A thin smile crossed Gerts' face.  "It will be interesting if you engage the Clans from that range, even they aren't used to combat from beyond a kilometer."  He walked back over to her.  "Make sure you use that to your advantage, Private."  He looked behind her and saw Osmone toward the door.  "You're dismissed, Private, go take a shower and get some rest.  You're going to need it tomorrow."

     "Who are we up against this time, sir?"

     "Arguably the best two MechWarriors in the company.  Penton and Paravska."

     Galvaeriz's jaw dropped.  "The lawyer?"

     "He's no ordinary lawyer," Gerts chuckled.  "He and Corporal Paravska handed Nielson and Farris a bad defeat earlier this morning.  That was after taking down Devon and Taylor.  They're a great team."

     "I can understand Hayal and Dane doing well as a team, but those two?"  Galvaeriz shook her head increduously.  Paravska is a cold-hearted girl and Penton just strikes me as the egotistical type sometimes.  They're a match made in Hell!  "They never get along."  She did not turn when Osmone opened the door and stepped in.

     "Their success isn't so much their cooperation as their lack of it.  They're competing against each other it seems."  Gerts shook his head and chuckled.  "It's funny to hear them argue over the comms."

     "I can imagine."  Galvaeriz saluted again and stepped out.  "See you in the room, Kim," she said to Osmone before going through the door.  She heard Gerts begin to address Osmone before the door closed and blocked out the sound.  She exited the simulator building and walked out into the narrow walkway that led to the barracks area.  Winter air struck her bare skin and created a pleasing cooling sensation when combined with the sweat that had been created by the simulator exercises.

     The night sky was uncloudy.  Ordinarily Galvaeriz would be able to see the stars and constellations of the winter sky but the lights of the base obscured that beautiful view.  It did not stop her from looking up into the sky.  Galvaeriz drew in a breath and shook her head.  One year ago I was an academic.  Now I'm a soldier.  She clenched her fist at the change.  I didn't ask for war.  I don't want to fight.  Why should we have to fight?  People try to paint the other side as evil, but how different are they to us?  Truly?  We used nuclear weapons before they ever did, we used our economic and political power to dictate over other governments...

     "It'd be more beautiful if not for those damned lights."

     Galvaeriz turned around and saw Hayal walk up behind her.  "Lieutenant Hayal?"

     Before she could bring up her hand to salute, Hayal waved his hand down.  "No, please, out here it's Chris.  Your name is Rachel, right?"

     "Yes, it is."

     "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."  Hayal stepped closer to her.  "The night sky is different up in Gopherland..."  Hayal caught himself.  "Sorry, I suppose you don't..."

     "I had a classmate from Minnesota," Galvaeriz replied.  "So I get the whole joke.  Damned tired of it, actually."

     "Well, I won't bore you with it."  Hayal stepped up beside her along the walkway.  "You look preoccupied."

     "I guess I am."  Galvaeriz drew in a sigh.  "I was in college.  Not really looking for a degree, I just wanted to learn everything I could.  But this," she waved her hand over the expanse of the visible military base.  "This all called me away from that."

     "A school girl.  Hmm..."  Hayal snickered and scratched at a scar under his blue muscle shirt.  "I was a computer geek myself."

     "Computer geek?"

     "Computers, and science fiction.  And don't forget paintball."  He grinned at his old memories.  "Yes, Cat, Dannie, and I learned infantry tactics in paintball games.  Well, the rudimentary stuff, we didn't have to worry about getting killed after all."

     "Yeah."  Galvaeriz tried to laugh but couldn't.  "I... I don't think I could ever fight like that."

     "Dannie said the same thing.  But she does what she has to."

     "No, I mean..."  Galvaeriz rubbed the back of her neck.  "I don't want to kill people.  It's not right."

     Hayal drew in a sigh.  "You wouldn't happen to be one of those, y'know, pacifists?"

     "You say that as if it's an insult."

     "Because, in a way, it is, Rachel."  Hayal looked back toward the 'Mech hanger, where a Black Hawk was being guided into a storage position.  "Like it or not, the nation's in a fight for it's life.  Meaning we can't afford to not fight, otherwise we're dead.  And pacifists, well, I admit I'd love a world where nobody fought, but in the real world, it's just painting a big target on yourself."

     "Killing is wrong."

     "Maybe so, and I've done a lot of wrongs that way, but sometimes it's a necessary evil."  Hayal drew in a breath and began to think of something.  "Rachel, think of it this way.  What if someone was trying to kill you?"

     Galvaeriz crossed her arms.  "I'd run."

     "But then you get in a situation where you can't run, it's either kill them or die.  What would you do?"

     "I'd try to find another way."

     "Rachel, life doesn't always have an out option," Hayal told her.  "There can be such a thing as a no-win situation, you simply have to choose the lesser evil.  Now, what is a lesser evil?  Dying and leaving your killer behind to kill others, or killing your would-be killer?"

     Galvaeriz opened her mouth to speak but remained silent.  Her reason told her that Hayal made sense.  But Galvaeriz's emotions still detested the idea of killing.  "I suppose killing the killer."

     "I'm not proud of killing people," Hayal admitted.  "I've seen too many people die, on both sides.  But when it comes down to it, I don't want to see my way of life die out.  I've heard all of the apologists for Giuseppe and I think they're so full of shit they stink.  The man's looking to create his own civilization and do it on our corpses.  I'm not going to stand for that.  I'm going to fight to prevent it."

     "Y... yeah."  Galvaeriz turned away and began walking to the barracks.  Hayal came into a slow walk behind her.  "Still following me around?"

     "We're going to the same place, so it's purely unintentional."

     "Sure it is."  Galvaeriz chuckled.  "Come on, Chris, I can see that look in your eyes.  I've dealt with my fair share of frat boys looking for a quick fuck."

     "Well, I'm not looking for that.  I'm just looking at a young woman who has caught my eye with her intelligence and beauty."  Hayal winked at her.

     "Ah."  Galvaeriz noticed she was unconsciously swinging her hips a bit in her stride, and began to control her movement to remove that.  "I figured you were an item with either Danvers or Barton.  I mean, the way you three act, you're pretty open with each other."

     "Nah.  We're friends, but there are a few things that stand in the way of a relationship."

     "Like?"

     "Well, for one thing, I'm their superior.  Big no no there."  Hayal lowered his head a little.  "But I'm afraid the second thing is too personal, I can't talk about it."

     "Oh, that's smart," Galvaeriz giggled.  "You're piquing my interest."

     "Well..."  Hayal stopped and turned toward her.  "For a kiss I might let you in on it."

     The offer brought a smile to Galvaeriz's face.  Briefly she considered it, after all, he was handsome and attractive, and the wide grin on his face was decently seductive.  But if she was anything, Galvaeriz was a woman who did not like being viewed as a sex object, which meant she put major effort to prevent herself from getting caught up in such antics.  She walked up to him and looked him straight in his blue eyes before pushing her right index finger up against his wide nose.  "You don't realize how many times I was asked for that," she snickered.  "A lot of college boys seem to think girls are only good for looks, and the smart ones usually offer info for some pussy.  I knew girls who took up offers like that for grades, so it always felt gratifying when I turned down the same geeks and nerds and beat their grades."

     "Strange."  Hayal turned away and resumed his stride toward the barracks, somewhat disappointed and trying to keep his mind off the lust he felt for her.  "I seem to recall most college girls being just as fond of sex as the boys."

     "Oh, we can be," Galvaeriz assured him.  "But I'm not a promiscuous person.  I'd prefer a relationship that means something more, personally, than just sex, y'know what I mean."

     "Of course.  Everyone wants that."  Hayal began to chuckle as they neared the door.  "But it doesn't mean we don't have sex for pleasure anyway."  He opened the door for her.

     "Naturally.  I understand that completely."  Galvaeriz looked over at him and winked.  "After all, who said I was a virgin?"

     Galvaeriz stepped in and left Hayal at the door.  Hayal watched her walk into a side corridor leading to the ladies' locker room and showers, and began shaking his head and chuckling.  "I'd love to find out," he muttered before walking in.

 

 

     The second floor rec room was quiet when Galvaeriz stepped in.  Behind the door, Rogers was standing with her arms stretching over her head.  Rogers yawned as she brought her arms down.  "Tired?", Galvaeriz asked her.

     "Oh, yeah, I'm tired."  Rogers brought her arms down.  "I was on my way to bed.  "I can tell."  Galvaeriz had already noticed that Rogers was pretty much undressed; a standard white bra and thigh-length shorts were the only things she were wearing, and dress regulations would forbid her from wearing such clothing anywhere save the barracks floor.  But what interested her was why Rogers had left her room.  "You're bunked with who again?"

     "Jessica Driver," Rogers answered.  "She was using the toilet and I really had to go, so I used the public one.  It's, well, after that..."

     The door opened behind Galvaeriz and admitted a short and stocky male that, upon recognition of his face, made Galvaeriz's skin crawl.  Dalton Nathaniel Forrest, an ex-Air Force member like Dane who had been a noncom in charge of a maintainance detail.  And, Galvaeriz had learned some time ago, an avowed white supremacist.  He glanced their way and sneered.  Rogers returned the sneer with her own cold gaze.  "Hello Dalton," she muttered.

     The sneer disappeared from Dalton's face, replaced by a dull expression.  "Do I know you?"  His voice was thick with a Southern drawl.

     "Maybe, in one time, you did," Rogers responded.  "But that was a long time ago."

     "Yes."  His glare hardened.  "I do think I recognize you now.  And I do not care for what I see."

     "And what do you see?"

     "I see a girl who betrayed her race by lying in bed with a nigger boy," Dalton accused her.

     "Ah."  Rogers returned the accusing glare he gave her.  "And I see a racist asshole who still can't see beyond skin color."

     "Can I ask just what the hell is going on here?", Galvaeriz interrupted.  She watched the two of them glare at each other continually.  "This had better not erupt into a fight.

     Dalton looked over at Galvaeriz.  "I thought they minded their own business in Puerto Rico?"

     A sly grin came to Galvaeriz's face.  She replied, "I wouldn't know, I've never been there.  I was born and raised here in the continental United States.  I don't even think I have any Puerto Rican ancestors, just Venezuelan, Italian, a bit of Greek..."

     Dalton raised a fist.  "Mongrel bitch, I oughta..."  He took a step toward her, prompting Galvaeriz to step back to the wall.  Rogers went to move between them just in case Dalton took a swing.

     "You ought to what?"

     Before Dalton could even consider attacking Galvaeriz, a second male stepped between them.  As young as Rogers and Galvaeriz, he had a pair of baby blue eyes and well-combed brown hair.  Clad in a muscle shirt and shorts, he possessed a solid build that outstripped Dalton's own build.  "Leave the young women alone," he told Dalton in a Slavic accent that Galvaeriz found similar to Mira's.  "If you wish for a fight I will give you one."

     The angry Dalton glared hate into all of their eyes before backing off and stepping through the door, muttering racial slurs and obscenities under his breath.  Rogers seemed to recognize the young man while Galvaeriz didn't, which prompted Galvaeriz to say, "Thank you, can I ask you for your name?"

     "I am Branislav," he answered.  "Branislav Kojic.  I hope the brute did not trouble you?"

     "I've seen blowhards like him before."  Galvaeriz smiled and offered her hand for a handshake.  She recognized that he held the same surname as Mira, not suprising since 'Kojic' was a fairly common Serb surname from what she knew.  "Rachel Galvaeriz.  You're in Becky's company I take it?"

     "Yes, I am."  Branislav looked at Rogers, who grinned at him with girlish admiration in her eyes.  "Becky is quite fond of me, I have found."

     "Of course I am," Rogers giggled.  "You're my knight in shining armor."

     Branislav shook his head and replied, "I do not think so," a blush forming on his cheeks.

     Galvaeriz looked over at the bar, and when she saw that the only person sitting at it was Mira, she turned to Branislav and said, "Want to sit down and have a little drink before going off to bed?"

     Branislav looked over at Mira, who looked back, and seemed to become a bit pale.  "No, no thank you," he said.  "I must be getting to sleep.  Shawn and I have a sim to run early tomorrow."

     "Oh, okay."  Galvaeriz stepped back and watched him go.

    Rogers made another girlish giggle.  "He's dreamy, isn't he?"

     "He's sweet, but too closed for me."  Galvaeriz grinned slightly.  "You know, Becky, you're acting like a love-struck sixteen year old."

     "Well, I don't think I ever got to be a sixteen year old when I was that age," Rogers confessed.  "So I'm making up for lost time."

     Galvaeriz nodded in agreement; despite the closeness of their ages Rogers acted much like Galvaeriz knew she had acted at that age.  Well, somewhat close, Galvaeriz had always been an intelligent and academic minded student, but in high school even the smartest girl was prone to a little boy-hunting.  When Rogers began to yawn again Galvaeriz commented, "Going to go to bed soon?"

     "Yeah.  I really should."  Rogers stepped up to the door.  "Bye."

     Galvaeriz nodded in reply.  She didn't want to tell Rogers that her girlish attitude was annoying.  She thought about getting some sleep when she noticed that Mira was still seated at the bar, staring into space.  Galvaeriz walked over and slid into the stool beside her.  "Mira?"

     "Yes?"

     "You look a little down in the dumps."  Galvaeriz put her arms on the table and let out a quick yawn before adding, "Branislav's got the same surname as you, I take it Kojic is pretty widespread in Serbia?"

     "Somewhat."  Mira crossed her arms over her chest.  Like Galvaeriz she was in a halter top and shorts, having just ended another late training session.  At this closeness one could see that her skin was slightly tanned, mostly as a result of living in Florida for the previous two years.  Galvaeriz inwardly hoped she would still look as fit and nice when she reached Mira's age as Mira did now.  Mira turned her head and faced Galvaeriz, allowing the younger woman to see her blue eyes.  Galvaeriz realized that the baby blue color of Mira's eyes was virtually the same as Branislav's.  Those blue eyes seemed a little dull from internal pain even as Mira made a weak grin and patted Galvaeriz on her partially bare right shoulder.  "You look tired, Rachel.  You should get some sleep."

     "I will soon.  And I could say the same for you, Mira."  Galvaeriz made a grin that matched Mira's.  "Did the guys ever flirt with you when you were in your prime?"

     Mira chuckled lightly.  "In their own way, yes," she replied warmly even as her grin disappeared.  "But, you have to remember the times back then."  Mira's grin vanished.  "Yugoslavia was in terrible turmoil following the fall of the federation.  The collapse of our socialist economy and the wars, the killings, it was so terrible."  Mira's eyes stared off into space again, tears beginning to appear at the outer edges of her eyes as old memories returned.  "My parents had siblings and cousins who were living in Croatia, they were lucky to escape with their lives.  I used to pray to God to thank him for letting me live in Serbia, where I was not in danger."

     "I can only imagine what it must have been like," Galvaeriz murmured.  "I took a course on East European politics during my sophomore year, they let us watch all of the old news reels, we read a lot of the reports that were made on the entire thing."

     "Yugoslavia was a mistake," Mira said.  "A horrible mistake.  It was a fantasy to believe that all of the different groups could live together in peace forever, it was inevitable that another war would break out."  She sighed.  "I believe that is why the West calls our home the 'Balkan powder keg'."

     "That's just what our geopolitics professor said," Galvaeriz said quietly.  "But how did it end up?"

     "I ended up meeting a young soldier in the Yugoslavian Army who was passing through my town," Mira answered.  "He was brash and full of pride, believing that he could get anything he wanted with ease.  I quickly made him realize that he was wrong."  A grin crossed her face.  "He was quite the romantic in his early days."

     "And this nameless soldier, what happened to him?"

     "Oh, I married him."  Mira crossed her arms and placed them on the table.  "And a week after the wedding his unit was called in and sent to Kosovo.  It took me three months to get to him a message that I was pregnant with our son."

     "I bet that was a shock."

     "It was.  I could not believe it myself."

     "I assume he survived Kosovo?"

     "Yes, he did."  Mira lowered her head a little.  "He was wounded by Albanian terrorists and was given a discharge.  His father helped him get a plot of land near the Sava River, just west of Belgrade."

     "Oh."  Galvaeriz leaned back in the stool to straighten her back.  "So, where is your husband?"

     "He... is gone," Mira answered sadly.  "He died making sure I could escape to America."

     "Mira, I'm... I'm sorry."

     "We had a good and full life together, I have no regrets."  Mira swallowed to hold back some tears she felt coming on; the chunk of her soul that her husband's death had carved out ached.  To distract herself she asked Galvaeriz, "And why did this subject come to your mind?"

     "Well, I'm lost," Galvaeriz admitted.  "I mean, I... I want love as much as the next person.  Sex is fun and all but I want a relationship that means something outside of who gets to be on top next time."

     "I can sympathize.  We all want a meaningful relationship."  Mira grinned at her and stood from the stool.  "But I am confident that a young woman as smart as you are can find such a relationship."

     "That's easy for you to say."  Galvaeriz turned in the stool as Mira walked by her and toward the door.  "Mira, what about your son?"

     "My son?"

     "Yes.  I mean, your son would be about twenty right now, right?  Where is he?"

     Galvaeriz was surprised to see that Mira was visibly trembling in anger.  Her fists clenched into tight fists and she bit on her lower lip.  "Mira?"

     "My son went to Belgrade on the 18th of June in 2011 on an errand with his father," Mira revealed.  "The next day he vanished and never came back."

     The dates made Galvaeriz's heart jump.  "Oh my God," she gasped.  "The 19th of June, the attack on the Swiss Embassy."

     "Yes."

     "The attack that eventually started the war between Giuseppe's UN and Russia.  The war that led to..."  Galvaeriz swallowed hard at the recollection of the events.

     In June of 2011, years of tensions between Montenegro and Serbia exploded and finally led to the secession of Montenegro from the Yugoslav Federation.  This effectively caused Yugoslavia to cease to exist, with only Serbia remaining as a member.  The Serbs had reacted violently, guaranteed of aid from the militaristic and resurging Russia.  But neither of them, perhaps not even the Montenegrans, had expected for Armand Giuseppe, Secretary-General of the UN, to get involved.  Giuseppe used peacekeepers in Bosnia, Kosovo, and Macedonia to reinforce the Montenegrans.  The crisis mounted as UN forces, most of them from the European Union, actively clashed with the Serb-dominated Yugoslavian Army.  The crisis eventually exploded in Belgrade, where a mob attacked the Swiss Embassy before it could be evacuated.  What had happened on that day was an event that still made Galvaeriz's stomach turn; the enraged Serbian mob massacred the embassy staff in a fit of rage after the embassy guards had killed a number of the mob in self-defense.  It wasn't just murder; with their bloodlust in full gear and all prohibitions removed, the Serbs had methodically gang-raped the female occupants of the embassy and then murdered them.  They had even taped themselves doing it, and sent that tape to the other nations of the world in their vain belief that Russia would defend them.

     And they had been wrong.

     It was a widely accepted theory that it was that horrible tape that drove Armand Giuseppe into madness, and had prompted him to attack Russia with nuclear weapons from the onset of hostilities.  Which, by extension, meant that the indiscriminate savagery and cruelty of the Serb mob had led to the most savage and cruel war in human history, one that had consumed entire nations in bloodletting.  The war that had forced the academic Rachel Galvaeriz to become a MechWarrior-in-training.

     Galvaeriz stood up as Mira walked up to the door.  "Mira?  Was your son there?!"

     There was no verbal answer from the elder woman.  As an answer, Mira nodded stiffly.

     "And, where is he now?"

     "I do not care."

     "Mira?!"

     "He betrayed everything I taught him as a boy," Mira replied coldly, still refusing to face Galvaeriz.  "I taught him to be noble and kind, and instead he helped brutalize young girls and women.  I taught him to love and he decided to hate instead.  His actions helped lead to his father's death and the deaths of countless more."

     "Mira, he's still your son."

     Galvaeriz saw the older woman bow her head.  "Yes.  He is.  His sins are my sins too.  Which means that I cannot stand talking about him, because when I do I feel blood on my hands."

     "Mira..."  With only some inspiration brought on by a slight suspicion, Galvaeriz asked, "Mira, can you at least tell me his name?"

     This finally made Mira turned from the door.  Her face was a mask of anger and sadness, directed at herself and the son she had given birth to.  "My son's name?"

     "Yes."

     Mira's eyes flashed with anger.  "His name is Branislav."

     Without another word, the elder Serb woman stepped out of the rec room, leaving Galvaeriz to consider what she had just been told.

 

 

     Silent darkness pervaded the room Penton occupied with Paravska.  His head still ached dully as an aftereffect of the strenuous simulator exercises.  To go with the headache, Penton began to wonder just what they had gotten themselves into.  The Lyran instructors on the base constantly chatted up about the Clans, and their comments were not exactly full of confidence for Penton.  The MechWarriors of the Clans were supposed to be genetically engineered to perfection, built with resistance to the high-temperature conditions of a BattleMech cockpit and with superior mental coordination and speed.  Penton had a headache from maneuvering and using his weapons at the same time.  He felt it impossible to hope that he and the trainees could ever overcome such a difference.

     The voice of reason within him spoke out.  The Lyrans are terrified of the Clans, but how much of that is deserved and how much of that is hyperbole?  I've read many times in military history where one side was considered inherently superior by the other without good reason, merely conjecture and circumstance.

     Penton turned on his side and felt the sheets curl around his skin.  He felt a bit grimy, he had not been able to shower after his last sim run.  He was cramming as much sim time as he could into his daily life because whatever happened, he wanted to be ready for the day when he would actually be sent into combat.  That day still seemed far off but it made his stomach twist.  The mere thought of death was something that made him begin to sweat and, in turn, kept sleep from him.

     Finally fed up with the dirty feeling he held, Penton got out of the bed and went around Paravska's bed.  Paravska was curled up in her sheet and in a fetal position on the bed.  She was muttering unintelligibly in her sleep.  When Penton flipped on the light switch for the bathroom she groaned aloud at having the light shine on her, and turned herself around.  Because she was clutching that end of the sheet she pulled it partially off, exposing her bare back down to the top of her posterior.  Penton thought about fixing the sheet for her before he dismissed the idea and stepped into the shower.  He let the warm water flow over him while running a small bar over his skin, washing off the sweat that had so annoyed him.  He thought back to the last time he had slept in such a physical condition.  "Leah," he muttered to himself.  The memory of MacIntyre and their one night stand brought him a grin as he continued to wash.  He had heard that MacIntyre had been transferred to a JAG office in Portland and promoted to Colonel.  It made him feel sorry for his old staffmates in the Orlando JAG office since that increased their workload yet again, but he could not help but feel happy for MacIntyre, who was getting to return to her kids and the ex-husband she still loved deep down in her heart.  Penton felt a twinge of regret within him; he had never made love with such intensity as he had with MacIntyre, and it was that feeling of closeness that made him long for her even though he knew that she did not inspire the desired feeling of "love" that he was seeking.  Perhaps a bit too late, Penton wanted to make MacIntyre "his".

     He immediately corrected himself mentally and leaned his head against the shower wall.  She wasn't your's.  She was never your's.  Leah is her own woman.  That's what makes her so special, I suppose.  Whatever his feelings for MacIntyre, Penton knew he wanted a woman who was independent-minded but not domineering.  He didn't want a slave and he didn't want a master; he wanted an equal.  An intelligent and respectable woman with beauty and imagination to match.  He didn't know many outside of MacIntyre who met those qualifications, and most of those he did know where either passed on or already taken.

     Penton gripped the shower nozzle and turned it off.  He looked at the time and shook his head.  I'm going to be bushed tomorrow.  He quickly dried himself with a towel and stepped into the main room again, pulling on his dark blue and black cube-patterned boxer shorts.  Paravska had completely discarded her sheet now; with her arms spread to either side and her legs partially spread she was laid out naked on her bed, whimpering something in Russian over and over in her sleep.  Tears seemed to be rolling down her cheek as she continued to whimper pitifully, something very out of character for the strong-willed Russian teenager.

     Penton was not given to embarrassment.  Only the slightest hints of a blush appeared on his cheeks as he beheld Paravska's nude form.  Sighing at the sight, and specifically at the scars that marred her otherwise attractive body, Penton knelt over at the foot of her bed and retrieved the sheet.  He brought it up and over her, leaving it just below her neck.  Paravska began to ease her seemingly frightened crying at the feeling of the sheet again covering her.  Penton stepped up between their respective beds and picked up Paravska's discarded pillow, which he placed back under her head.  As he eased her head down onto the pillow she muttered, "Mikhail" and then began to speak in Russian again.  He took a moment to look down at Paravska's settling expression before easing back into bed.  He wondered just what was going on inside the Russian girl's mind, and came to the conclusion that he probably ddn't want to know.

     As Penton faded into sleep he felt something press onto his bed.  An arm slung over his left side and warmth pressed against his bare back.  The muttering in Russian was louder now, as if it were behind his ear.  Penton thought to turn but decided against it; with the sleeping and peaceful Paravska wedged behind his back Penton faded into sleep.

 

 

 

BattleMech Training Facility, 2nd BattleMech Training Battalion

West of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Dominion of Canada

27 January 2016 S.E.C.

16 November 3058 I.S.C.

 

     An arctic chill was settled on the Manitoban prairie and had created a frost on the grass.  Even though it was below freezing outside of her Crab BattleMech, Misty was sweating.  Not only from the tension in trying to keep her fifty ton war machine balanced, but from the heat that was being generated by her 'Mech's lasers.  To top it off Misty completely hated the sensation of the coolant circulating through her gray cooling vest.  It beats beatings and shocks, though, she mused while keeping her Crab in stride over the darkened prairie to move closer to their firing range targets, leaving three-toed footprints in the grass behind her.

     Painted in a dull brown to match the prairie terrain, a Thorn jogged up beside Misty's Crab.  Inside the light 'Mech, Shannon Quincy was grinning ferally at the sight of the demolished target on her holotank.  "Four out of five missiles," Quincy chuckled, "damn I'm good."

     A Timber Wolf in the Alpha configuration moved up between them, with Wolf Clan markings adorned on it's torso and the sides of it's jutting head.  "Well done," Star Colonel Radick stated from his OmniMech.  "That was at twice the standard range our MechWarriors engage from."

     "Lucky shot," Misty scoffed.

     "Perhaps so, Private Verdes," Radick agreed.  "But you have also shown some proficiency in long range targeting.  You fire your standard lasers from twice the range that Clan warriors use their extended range models, and over a kilometer beyond their own usual range."

     "And that's a problem?"

     "I am sure you've noticed the difficulties in aiming accurately."

     Misty nodded.  At the long ranges she tried to use, the targeting systems frequently scrambled, and would miss even if she had a proper lock.  It was something Misty was slowly getting used to, and she could honestly see why most MechWarriors from the Clans and Inner Sphere wouldn't bother with it.  The only reason she bothered was because Sinclair insisted.  It made sense, after all, that the Clans would be very surprised to see them engaging them from well outside normal range.  "Yeah, I've noticed," she said aloud into the comms.

     "That is it for you two.  Return to the hanger, it has been a long day and we still have some debriefing analysis to go over before it is over."

     Misty took her hand off one of her targeting joysticks and instinctively tried to wipe her forehead.  When her hand made contact with her neurohelmet's face plate she cursed under her breath and turned the 'Mech around.  She brought the Crab into a quick jog of about 70 kilometers per hour.  Quincy's Thorn ran past her, Quincy's voice laughing in the comm.  "Slow poke, hurry it up Misty!"

     "Shannon, try to remember that this thing is over twice as heavy as your little thing," Misty retorted.  She jokingly thought about firing her medium and small lasers into Quincy's back.  Not only would it be painfully easy at that range, but the Thorn's light armor would not be able to stand up to it.  Of course, the backdraw was that it could kill Quincy, who's sexual sense of humor appealed to Misty in some vulgar fashion that she could not actually comprehend.

     "Excuses, excuses," the older woman cackled over the comm as she broke her 'Mech into a run.  Misty considered pushing her 'Mech to it's limits in an open sprint but opted against it.  She slowed the jog and flipped on the Crab's front light as she approached the base, an outline of small dots and slants of light against the dark eastern horizon.  Her sensor display indicated an extra two contacts were on their way in.  She recognized the profiles of a lanky Vulcan and the curved Conjurer as they moved in front of her, just behind Quincy's Thorn.  She slowed down and keyed her comm system.  "This is Trainee Four.  Do I have room to enter?"

     A moment passed before a female voice replied, "Neg, Trainee Four.  Trainees Nine and Eleven are currently moving into berth position.  Give them another ten seconds before moving in."

     Misty blew a huff of air out in some frustration.  She wanted nothing more than to step into the shower and run warm water over her body to wash away the sweat from the long day.  Misty brought the Crab to a tip-toe pace behind the Conjurer, taking care not to accidentally bump the other 'Mech.  The Vulcan ahead of it stepped through the other side of the two-door temperature airlock.  After the door slid closed behind it the Conjurer took a step in.  "C'mon, hurry up, it shouldn't take that long to make sure the lock air temperature is high enough," she grumbled while the Conjurer stood inside the lock.  After another three seconds the inside door opened and let the Conjurer enter.  Misty flexed her right hand fingers and groaned loudly, growing sorely impatient.  The outside door finally whirred open and admitted her Crab, and it took Misty incredible willpower to not try and rush into the airlock.  The inside of the airlock was ten meters wide, six meters long, and seventeen meters high, built to accomodate even the largest BattleMechs.  Equipment in place began pumping hot air into the lock to raise the internal temperature to above twenty degrees Centigrade.  An indicator showed the temperature numeral, which was rising steadily.  When it reached twenty the doors ahead of her cycled open.  When the doors were clear Misty moved on to her berth, marked with a "4" numeral on the back wall.  She turned the Crab around and backed it in until she felt a jolt, indicating she had made contact with the support structure for the Crab.  After breathing in relief Misty pulled off the neurohelmet and the medical sensors.  She wiped her left forearm across her forehead and felt the sweat on both mingle and create a slippery sensation.  She reached to her left and opened the box drawer where the neurohelmet was stored.  After pushing it in she released her harness strap and pressed a button on her command couch's side to flush the last remaining coolant from her cooling vest.  That left the final step, which required her to pull a red bar to disengage her 'Mech's power plant.  The slight throbbing in the cockpit ended as the fusion plant ceased it's operation and deprived the Crab of it's power.  Misty threw open the side hatch for the cockpit and was greeting by a rising elevator, on which stood a lanky brown-haired man in a Clan "uniform".  Her 'Mech's technician, Devlin, opened the side rail and helped Misty step onto it.  "You are very impatient," he noted.  His hand gripped a lever and pulled it down, causing the elevator to lower.

     "I feel like crap, Devlin."

     "Five hours is a long time to be in a BattleMech cockpit," Devlin agreed.  "You are in need of a shower, quiaff?"

     "Yeah."  Misty pointed a finger at him.  "What is it with you Clan types and your strange words?  It's like I'm watching a bad sci-fi movie."

     Devlin chuckled and countered, "What is it with you Earthers and your strange accents?"

     "And why don't you use contractions?", Misty added quickly.  "That strikes me as really far out.  There's nothing wrong with a contraction."

     "Perhaps not to you, but it is a vulgarity for us because it demeans the use of our version of English."  Devlin put the lever back into a neutral position and opened the rail so that Misty could jump down to the ground.

     "A vulgarity to use contractions?"  Misty shook her head.  "You Clannies are weird."  She winked at him.  "Take care, Dev."

     "You should too, MechWarrior Misty."

     Misty was already on her way to the bathroom and shower, but Devlin's use of her first name prompted her to turn back around.  "Why my first name?"

     "More habit."  Devlin picked up a toolbox and lifted it onto the elevator.  "We of the Clans do not have the surnames you do, save for our Bloodnamed warriors.  So we always address each other by the given name."

     "Oh, I see."  Misty shrugged and walked on, eager to get to the bathroom and relieve herself.

 

 

     The female showers were not private but it mattered little to Misty; her old high school's showers had been virtually the same.  Misty chose the middle shower nozzle to wash under and ran a bar of soap over her skin, cleansing it of the day's dirt and grime.  She ran the soap over her left breast and up toward her shoulder.  A painful memory shot into her mind; it was the same spot Halbern had bruised the day he was killed.  The spot he had touched her at after the last time he had made love to her.  Misty slowly continued on while contemplating everything she and Halbern had enjoyed.  From intimate moments together to public escapades, life with James Halbern had been one laugh after another.  The pain in her soul from Halbern's death still agonized her.

     "You okay, Misty?  You seemed pretty impatient out there on your way in."

     The bright soprano voice cut through Misty's internal pain and brought immediate recognition.  The nozzle on her right had been taken up by the pilot of the Conjurer that Misty had followed in.  Kylie Misato Magnusson was of her age, although smaller, and possessing of an exotic appearance because of mixed Swedish-Japanese descent.  Her long blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a well-endowed bosom spoke of her Swedish descent; her short stature of five foot five and facial structure were distinctively Japanese.  Kylie was not athletic in her build, in areas she had minor but visible fat buildup, with mostly flat skin save for the curves of her breasts and where her shoulder blades were slightly visible.

     Misty looked over at Kylie and forced herself to grin.  "Yeah, I wanted to get out of that damned 'Mech and into a nice shower."

     "Me too," Kylie responded.  She rubbed her bar of soap down over her left groin.  "I hear you and Shannon shot up the range."

     "We did well."  Misty took a bottle of shampoo and poured a little into her hair.  "I wonder where Shannon went off to?"

     "Probably showering in the company quarters," Kylie snickered.  "They're coed, and you know how she likes to flash off."

     "Oh, yes."

     "I hear she was a stripper before she got brought into the military," Kylie continued.

     "It shows."  Misty scrubbed at her scalp with her fingers, twirling strands of her black hair around her fingers.  She opened her eyes just as a newcomer entered the shower.  "Hello Longhorn."

     A solid-built teenage girl, the same age as Misty and Kylie, stepped under the nozzle on Misty's left.  April Cheryl Harverson was a blue-eyed brown-haired Texan who had completed Marine Corps boot camp just before being transferred to the 2nd Training Battalion.  Of the three teenage girls she was probably the strongest physically.  Years of physical training in preparation for a military career had made her muscles fully developed and prominent on her body, from her shoulders and neck down to her calves and ankles.  Her body's low fat level was something that Misty knew most girls would envy, even though she lacked one of the more popular female physical attributes, with two small and compact breasts that appeared to be little more than small buds on her chest.  To top it off April was tall for a teenage girl, standing at five foot eleven.  Her height and size made her very imposing physically compared to the others, which Misty did not find as intimidating as the others considering that April was hardly an effective hand-to-hand combatant compared to Misty's extensive martial-arts training.  "Hello Gophergirl."

     Misty snickered while continuing to clean her hair.  "We were just talking about Private Quincy.  So, what do you think of Shannon?"

     April faked thinking about it before answering in a very blunt tone, "Slut."

     Kylie whistled, "She's direct."

     "If I acted like that," April continued in her Texan accent, "my Daddy would disown me."

     "Well, I admit that I think sex is pretty fun," Kylie stated.  "And it's so fun watching the boys fight over me."

     "I know the feeling."  Water fell on Misty's hair as she put her head under the nozzle, rinsing the soap out.  "Of course, I'm hardly as unique as you, Kylie."

     "And what about you, April?"  Kylie looked over at April.  "I mean, ever had a boyfriend?"

     "Nope," April replied.  "I didn't have time for a social life, I was busy studying and training."

     "Training?"  Misty smirked at the thought of having "no social life".  "Training for what?"

     "Service."  April picked up the bar of soap in front of her and began running it over her neck.  "My family's got a long history in the Corps, on both sides.  My sister and I were raised to join it."

     "That sucks," Kylie muttered.

     "I'll say."  Misty shook her head.  "My grandpa tried to brainwash me into Army service to the point that my parents stopped using him as a babysitter."

     April did not look toward them, instead staring at the wall.  "My sister and I were taught to fire guns after we turned ten.  My father let us practice with his AR-15 after we turned sixteen."

     "Poster family for the NRA, I see," Misty murmured, rolling her eyes.

     Ignoring her comrade's comments, April continued.  "Most of the girls in boot weren't ready for the intensive training, but I was.  It was fun."

     "Fun?"  Kylie snorted.  "Training is crap, it's too hard and it's dumb."

     April's head snapped over at Kylie, and her blue eyes narrowed a little.  "That training is what will save our lives in battle," April reminded her briskly.

     "Hey, I didn't ask for this," Kylie barked in return.  "I didn't exactly sign up of my own free will, y'know.  I got a little notice in the mail that pretty much told me to report for military service or get arrested and forced into it."

     "So you're another pampered bitch who thinks her freedom comes cheap."  April's nostrils flared.  "Thousands of our countrymen, your's and mine, have died in this war, and a lot more are going to die to try and stop Giuseppe.  My sister Rebecca is probably in a shallow grave somewhere in Maryland right now.  So stop thinking of yourself!"

     "Perhaps Miss Patriot likes the thought of getting shot, but I sure as hell don't!"

     Misty held up her arms in both directions.  "Girls, let's not fight in the showers, okay.  Let's at least wait until we're in the quarters area so we can charge the guys viewing fees."

     Kylie and April exchanged glares for another moment before breaking them off.  Misty shook her head and finished rinsing herself off while Kylie began washing her own hair.  "You two try and get along," she muttered, reaching for the shower nozzle control.  "I'm going to dry off and go to the quarters."  She turned off the water flow and briskly stepped over to the towel shelf.  She took a single white towel and draped it around her nude body, covering herself from her cleavage down to her thighs.  After drying herself off Misty walked over to her assigned locker and drew out, in succession, her blue halter top, a pair of panties, and a pair of thigh length jogging shorts.  She had gotten the panties pulled up and was adjusting the halter top and her breasts to make a comfortable fit when she saw movement to the side.  From around the corner a woman of about her size and build came into the locker area, still clad in her 'Mech duty uniform of a halter top and shorts.  "Hey Isabella," Misty called out as she pulled on the shorts.

     Isabella Juanita Gonzales was one of the five females in Misty's company.  A Los Angeles native with a more stereotypical Mexican-American accent than Misty had sometimes been expected to have, Gonzales was more along the lines of Kylie in how she was built.  She did have the rank of Corporal and, unlike any of the other females in the company save Misty, had actually been in a combat situation, and numerous times at that.  Gonzales was the daughter of a fifth-generation Mexican immigrant father and a second-generation Mexican immigrant mother.  Her eyes were a light shade of brown while her short hair was almost as pitch black as Misty's.  Gonzales' personality was probably the most mature of the five women of the unit, despite April's upbringing and Misty's sobering experiences.  "Heading up?", Gonzales asked while pulling her jogging shorts off with one hand and opening her locker with the other.

     "Yeah, already showered.  You're late in."

     "Yeah.  My instructor wanted me to do some more practice runs in my Wyvern."  Gonzales shook her head.  "You know, I get tired of those Clanners calling me a freebirth.  It sounds..."

     "Corny.  Weird.  Even stupid."  Misty pulled her shorts up to her waist and looked up with a grin.  "That sounds like the Clans all right."

     "They gave me a real bitch."  Gonzales' hands gripped the bottom of her halter top and pulled it upward, revealing her bubbly breasts.  On the upper right corner of her right breast, Misty could make out a circular bullet wound from where Gonzales had been shot.  It prompted her to reach down with her left hand and touch the bullet scar on her bare midsection.  "'You stupid stravag, move that 'Mech faster!"'," Gonzales said in as whiny and low a voice as she could manage, an unflattering impersonation of her trainer.  "I replied, 'Va al infierno usted pompous hembra'.  She didn't know what the hell I said, but that ain't my problem."

     "I don't know what the hell you just said," Misty said.  "I don't speak a word of Spanish, remember?"

     "Oh, yeah, basically I told her to go to hell and that she was a pompous bitch."  Gonzales placed her discarded underwear into her locker and began walking toward the showers.  "Anyway, I'll see you back in the quarters, Misty."

     "See you back there too.  And," Misty turned her head back even as she gripped the handle for the door out of the locker room, "try to make sure April and Kylie don't kill each other."

     "Oh, don't worry about it," Gonzales called back.  "I'll keep you teens in line."

     "I'll remember you said that," Misty replied before stepping out of the showering area entirely, letting the door close behind her.

 

 

     Misty stepped into the open living area for her company and found a surprisingly quiet scene.  It was something completely unexpected, considering that the company included the loudmouthed Leo Donalds and Kevin Jameson and argumentative types.  Donalds was sitting back in the sofa, his legs partially spread and his arms on the back of the couch, which was directed toward the main entrance to the quarters area.  He had removed his shirt and was sitting in a pair of shorts, and Misty wondered for a moment if the oversexed Donalds was trying to hint anything to the company's five women.  Bergmann was similarly dressed and laid out on a side couch, arms under his head, and his eyes staring at the ceiling.  In front of one of the doors, another one of the unit's pilots, James Allen, was speaking with arguably the second-oldest member of the company, Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Jonathan Roland, who came off as bulkier and stronger than the thinner and athletically-built Allen.  Both were in tank tops and shorts.  So was Jenkins, who was at the desk writing a letter; Misty persumed it to be to his wife Toni.  Misty walked up behind him and set a hand on Jenkins' bare left shoulder.  "Hey Christian, how's it going?"

     "I'm doing fine, Misty.  Long day?"

     Misty nodded in reply.  "Yeah, long day."  She noticed Jenkins looking at the picture of his wife again and sighed.  Out of everyone in the company Jenkins was the only man Misty felt she could talk to.  He was talkative if you prompted him into it yet he did not show the same enthusiasm or mischief that the other talkers did, nor the cold shoulder that Bergmann, Roland, and the Native American Marine Benjamin Coyote tended to give people.

     She had other women, of course, but Misty had found that it was preferable to have a male perspective to compare to her own.  Halbern had showed her that much.

     Misty went to open her mouth when the door on the opposite side of the living area opened.  Coming out was Shannon Quincy, her blond hair still a little wet from using the shower in that portion of the living area.  More importantly, she was dressed only in her underwear.  All eyes turned toward her save Bergmann, prompting Quincy to grin widely.  "Oh, hello."

     Donalds' mouth dropped opened.  "Daaamn... you know how to turn a guy on, eh?"

     "Oh, I do," Quincy replied in a hushed voice that Misty supposed was intended as seductive.  Quincy stepped across the room slowly toward Donalds, who couldn't tear his eyes away from her.

     Behind Misty, the door to her quarters opened and a barechested Jameson stepped out.  He found himself looking at Quincy's naked breasts from the side and his jaw dropped.  "Holy shit..."

     "Some things never change," Jenkins muttered, keeping his attention on his letter.

     Allen and Roland both watched in surprise, and a bit of disgust for Roland, as Quincy stepped up to Donalds.  "So, do you like them, Leo?"

     "Oooh, hot mama..."  Donalds winked at her.  "Of course I like 'em, Shannon.  Well, I like how they look."  He began flexing his eyebrows up and down.  "However, I need to know how they feel before I can say how much I like them."

     "People, please," Allen snorted.  "Take it to a room."

     "Abso-fuckin'-lutely not!", Roland shouted.  "I'm not letting Leo fuck her in my God damned room!"

     Quincy ignored their conversation and Jameson's mesmorized stare.  She went straight to the coach where Donalds was seated and slid into his lap.  Quincy spread her legs over his so that her knees were on the couch and straightened her upper legs enough so that her breasts were eye-level for Donalds.  "Go ahead, get a feel."

     Without waiting for confirmation Donalds brought up his hands and used them to each grip one of Quincy's breasts.  "Ooh, firm, God damn I'm getting a hard-on already!"

     Without waiting for anything to begin Misty shouted, "No fucking on the couch!"  She could not believe her eyes; she had gone from the totalitarian Wilkens to a training company where a couple of people were apparently moments away from having sex on a couch that everyone frequented, and she did not like the idea of sitting somewhere that had been the place of such an exchange of bodily fluids.

     "Oh, don't worry, Misty."  Quincy looked down at Donalds and smiled widely.  "Leo's only going to get a little taste of my titties.  Poor guy's been eyeing them for over two weeks now, I figured he deserved a little fun with them."

     "Oh Jesus Christ, get a room," Jameson muttered.

     Without pause Quincy replied, "You want to have one?"

     Jameson rolled his eyes.  "I'm going to bed," he said to Misty before entering their room.

     As Jameson slammed the door behind him, the door opened again.  This time it admitted General Sinclair himself, who was closely followed by April and Kylie.  All three looked on at the sight on the cough with surprised expressions before Sinclair shouted, "Now you two knock that off!  Private, get something on!  This is a barracks, not a whorehouse!"

     A very disappointed Donalds opened his arms and let Quincy go.  Quincy winked at him and retreated into her room, leaving Donalds with a very embarrassing bulge in his shorts and a quickened heartbeat. 

     Allen looked up from the wall where he was standing.  "You know, sir, I think the Canadian regs don't say anything about fraternization."

     "We are a fighting unit, Private Allen," Sinclair replied as he moved to allow April and Kylie into the living area, "and that means there is to be no sex."

     "Besides, Leo, if you wanna fuck her, you could at least wait until nobody's here," Misty added from her position behind the back of the third couch.  She looked over and down at Bergmann's face.  "Hey, Marc, you there?"

     "Yes."

     "Not very talkative tonight, are we?"

     "He's never talkative, you should know that by now," Donalds said.  "Hey, uh, Marc, do ya mind if I switch rooms with you?"

     "Yes."

     "Damn!"

     "Nice try, Leo," Allen chuckled.  He began applauding sarcastically, and was quickly joined by Roland, April, and Kylie.

     "Mister Donalds..."  Sinclair moved around the bar seperating the living area from the exit and the kitchen.  "There will be no cases of you and any woman in this company making out.  Is that clear?"

     "Crystal clear, sir."

     "Good.  Now, I would suggest that we all get some sleep."  Sinclair rubbed his hands together.  "Mister Bergmann, if you would be so kind as to get off my sleeping couch."

     "Yes General."  Without any hesitation Bergmann sat up and got to his feet.  He walked straight for his room.

     "Bergmann's such an automaton," Kylie muttered, walking past Misty toward her room with Gonzales.  "I need my beauty sleep."

     "She's cute enough already," Allen snickered.

     "Yeah, if it weren't for the chink blood at least."

     Sinclair groaned and Misty rolled her eyes at Roland, who found himself under a withering glare from Kylie.  "I'm half-Japanese, not half-Chinese, you racist fuck," she spat.

     "Is there a difference?"

     "Yes, there's a world of difference!"

     "Well, you all look the same, so I don't give a shit about any small shit differences."

     Frustration and rage contorted Kylie's expression.  All she could manage to say was, "Fuck!"  Without any other words, Kylie stomped into her room.

     Misty clicked her tongue and folded her arms over her chest.  "Well, Leatherneck Johnny, that was a fine show of tolerance there.  I suppose I'm the next one to get laughed at?"

     "Oh, hell no."  Roland shook his head.  "I've got no problems with Hispanics.  Think they're kinda sexy myself, in a foxy way."

     "I'm sure Isabella will love to hear that."  Misty opened her door and went to step inside.  "I'm going to bed," she muttered.  "And maybe, just maybe, I can regain a bit of my patience, which you types are constantly eating away at with every fucking word out of your bigoted mouths."

     She slammed the door behind her.  Roland looked at Allen and then Donalds before shrugging.  "Hey, she must be a liberal weenie, I can't help it if she's too politically correct."

     "Maybe not, Gunny Roland."  Sinclair came up toward Roland and Allen.  "But I will not have ethnic slurs in this battalion.  Is that clear?"

     Roland saluted.  "Sir yes sir!"

     "Good.  Now get to bed.  All of you."  Sinclair walked over to the couch and began pulling off his uniform jacket.  "We're going to have another big day tomorrow.  I want all shooting scores to improve."  While the others began to disperse, Jenkins continued writing faithfully on his letter.  Sinclair sat down on the couch Bergmann had been occuping, opposite of the side that would be closest to the desk.  "Mister Jenkins?"

     "I'm going, sir," Jenkins promised.  "I just have one more word..."

     Sinclair thought about making Jenkins go on, but considering that he had been given free reign to use the base commander's office to write his own correspondence to his wife and family, he felt he did not have the moral right to force Jenkins to stop.  "Then please finish as quickly as possible."

     "Yes General."

     Sinclair slid back onto the couch and rested his head on the arm.  The position did not bother him and so he did not ask for any pillows from the other.  And since it was not very cold he did not get a blanket either.

     That did not stop Misty from emerging from her quarters, stripped down to a bra and panties, and with a pillow under one arm and a blanket under another.  She handed them to him, prompting Sinclair to say, "That isn't necessary."

     "It is."  A crafty smile crossed the teenager's face.  "You're so much older than the rest of us that I think you need these more than I do.  Besides, I'll just go down and get some spares."

     "Are you sure?"

     "Yeah, I'm sure.  Who's walking around the base at this time of night anyway?"  Misty stepped away from the couch.  "You go to sleep sir.  And don't thank me, I owe you too much for that."

     Sinclair almost asked Misty what she owed him, but decided not to.  He slid the pillow under his head and closed his eyes.

 

 

     The only sound that broke the silence of Misty's room was the gentle breathing of Jameson, who was asleep across from her in the other bed.  Misty was curled in her sheet and alone in the otherwise quiet darkness.  The defenses she kept around her tortured soul lowered and tears rolled from her eyes onto the pillow she had just retrieved from the base storehouse.  She felt her left shoulder muscle spasm for a moment.  It brought back the memories of that terrible chair, the vile and evil Wilkens and his sadistic brand of "discipline".

     And with that painful memory came other memories.  Memories of other forms of abuse in the stockade, the pain of the brutal fighting circuit she had joined for some insane reason that she could not remember anymore.  Misty wondered if, deep down, she was hoping Wilkens would finally arrange for her to be "removed".  Death still terrified her but what good was life with the pain she held in her soul?

     Weeping on her pillow, Misty wanted Halbern.  With him the future had been secure, even in the midst of turmoil and war.  But now nothing was secure for her.

     Then again, Misty now realized that nothing had been secure to begin with.  Her "secure future" had vanished on the day that the Halberns had been brutally murdered.  That morning she had not even said goodbye to her parents, thinking she would see them when they got home.  But she had been so horribly wrong....

     "Why, James?", she whispered to herself.  "You were supposed to be here for me.  You weren't supposed to die, not like that.  Not like that!"  The despair of watching Halbern's life slip away gripped Misty's heart and slowed it's beat to a crawl.  She missed Halbern's strong grip, yearning for him to hold her close and warm her with his body.

     And if she couldn't have her lover, Misty at least wanted to be with her parents again.  The two people who had raised her and shown her such love and affection, and now were in immeasuerable danger, and had been for months.  She had absolutely no communication with them and was terrified by the thought that they had been killed by the UN.  The uncertainty and anxiety over her parents' fate increased Misty's unsettled feelings.

     Unable to sleep, Misty sat up in her bed.  Wary of Jameson's presence in the other bed she used her right arm to hold the sheet over her chest.  Feeling an incredible agony in her soul, Misty began weeping softly and eventually curled her knees up, put her arms around her legs, and set her forehead on her knees, burying her face in her lower thighs.  The sheet fell to her waist, just above her navel and underwear, but it went ignored; Misty was too busy crying.  "I don't want to be here," she sobbed.  "I want to be home, with Mom and Dad and James.  I don't want this, it's too much, just too much."  She sniffled before speaking again.  "Why God?  Why did this have to happen to me?  What did I do wrong?  What did I do to deserve all of this?"  In the darkness Misty's strength fled and a truer side came from beneath the cold and strong exterior; that of a frightened teenage girl who was desperately hoping that the last two months had been a horrible dream and nothing more.

     But they weren't a dream.  The nightmare was reality.  Her lover was dead, her parents were out of reach, and Misty was stuck in the military, forced to wear a uniform and obey superiors that had turned a blind eye to her misery.  The uniform that might still succeed in cutting her down in her prime.

     Beginning to feel tired as tears rolled down her cheeks, Misty laid back down and pulled the sheet up to her neck before burying her face in the pillow.  She was still weeping "I want to go home" when she fell asleep.