BattleMech Training Facility, 2nd BattleMech Training Battalion

West of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Dominion of Canada

5 February 2016 S.E.C

25 November 3058 I.S.C.

 

     Another long and grueling day of training had ended, and not to soon for Kylie.  Stripped down to her bra and a pair of thigh-length shorts, she was laying back on one of the couchs in the company living room.  Across from her in the other chair, Jameson was flirting playfully with Misty, not seeming to see in Misty's jade eyes her growing desire to hit him.  Sitting beside Kylie in a black tank top and knee-length shorts, Gonzales was reading a letter, giggling and whispering some of the lines in it, enough for Kylie to tell it was Spanish.  "So, your parents?", Kylie finally asked, curious.

     "Oh, no, one of my old amigas back home in LA," Gonzales answered, still giggling to herself.  "She lets me know how the rest of the old gang is doing."

     "Gang?"

     "Yes."  A wry smile crossed Gonzales' face.  "I haven't always been a soldier, I was pretty wild as a teenager.  It hasn't been that long, actually, but sometimes it feels like it was over a decade ago."

     "Yeah, well, a lot has changed in the last six years," Kylie sighed.  "I never even thought of this.  I was going to go into accounting, find a cushy job crunching numbers in some accounting firm.  Better than this."

     Gonzales shrugged.  "Things happen that we have no control over.  I was going to find a handsome husband and settle down when I got out of..."  She paused for a moment before continuing, "...out of the service."

     "When did you enlist?"

     "It was a few years ago."  Gonzales' eyes looked forward distantly, hinting at her looking back into her past.  "I needed a clean slate from my gang days to get better jobs.  I was told that if I served for four years, I'd have a clean record.  So I signed up.  Left behind all my friends, and my family, to serve in the US Army.  Now I'm here."

     "At least you came of your own free will," Kylie remarked.  "I was forced to.  So was everyone else in my class."

     Gonzales shook her head slowly.  "When they start drafting college students, you know they're in big trouble.  Fortunately they tend to stick the smart ones in staff work, support duties, that kind of thing.  Boys and girls like me get put in the combat units."

     "Then why am I here?", Kylie scoffed.

     "Probably because they're in desperate need for 'Mech pilots," Allen replied as he eased into the seat on their right.  "I got yanked from tech support for this."

     Gonzales blinked.  "Tech support?"

     "You know, we keep the computerized stuff running," Allen remarked.  "They've starting to get a shortage of trained people like me ever since all of our guys got caught in the pocket in Ontario and lost.  The fact that they reassigned me, well, I can tell you that they're probably scrambling for people they can train."  Allen looked Kylie in the eyes.  "From Vancouver, right Kylie?"

     "Yeah?  You?"

     "Chilliwack," Allen replied.  His eyes went farther down.  "Keep in mind that we Canucks have to stick together, the Yanks are going to overwhelm us if we're not careful."

     "It's not that hard, Canada is pretty much the fifty-first state," Gonzales laughed.

     "Or so we make you think."

     "Yeah," Laird piped in from the counter, where he had been sipping on a soda and flirting with Quincy.  "What makes you think the US isn't really the eleventh province?"

     "More like the fourth territory, if you ask me," Kylie snickered.

     "Oh, keep it up," Quincy giggled.  "You're all virtually American as it is."

     "Yeah, but the important thing is that we're not actually American," Allen retorted.

     The door to the outside of the living area opened and Sinclair entered.  "May I have your attention please", he said, not so much a question as an order.  "I have spent the evening in discussion with our senior trainer, Colonel Radick.  And, I will say, the news is not so good as it could be."

     "First off, let me begin by congratulating you for being the company with the highest average score," he continued.  This prompted some hoots from the assembled.  "But we're still not up to the standard averages of the other training centers.  We're falling behind in multiple categories, not the least of which is external 'Mech operations."

     "They expect us to scramble up and down those rope ladders and run around in almost sub-zero temperatures wearing nothing but a cooling vest and light body suit?", Misty remarked.  "Hey, I'm used to these temps, but that's just crazy."

     "Yeah, we've already had what?  Twenty different cases of frostbite?", Quincy added.

     "Twenty-three," Sinclair corrected.  "And you're going to get more than frostbite if you perform so poorly when the real thing comes.  Those exercises are to keep you fit and able to get in and out of your 'Mechs as quickly as possible without the hanger aids.  Your lives could depend on this."

     "Considering that the Clans are going to eat us for dinner anyway, what does it matter?", Misty asked gloomily.

     Sinclair shot her an angry glance.  Before he could speak, Roland interceded.  "You want to die, girl," the Marine sergeant barked from the counter, walking up to her.  "That's fine by me.  But don't take us with you."

     There was no answer.  After a few moments, Misty looked toward Sinclair.  "Is that all, sir?"

     "For now, yes."

     "Then may I be dismissed?"

     Sinclair shrugged.  "If you want."

     "Thank you."  Misty gave a hesitant salute and made a direct beeline toward her room with Jameson.

     "She's quite the happy one, isn't she?", Allen remarked sarcastically upon the closing of the door.

     Sinclair opened the door to the small fridge and pulled out a soda.  While he pried it open, he answered, "She's been through a lot."

     "With all due respect, General, so have I."  Roland maintained a stiff posture with his back, a posture only matched by Harverson and Coyote amongst the company.

     "Yeah, and you're what?  Thirty?  Thirty-one?  She's a teenage girl, Gunny."

     "Sticking up for her, sir?", April asked.

     Sinclair took in a sigh and pulled up a seat.  "I think that's what she needs, Miss Harverson.  She's been through hell, completely unprepared for it, and quite frankly, our nation let her down and treated her like crap.  Now we've pushed her into this.  I don't blame her for being bitter, for being defeatist.  I think the girl's lost her hope.  That's dangerous, to let a young person lose hope."

     "Tell me about it."

     The remark came from an unexpected source.  Heads turned to a chair in the corner of the room, where Bergmann sat.  His ice blue eyes stared longingly into empty space, with an obviously crestfallen expression.  Nothing more had to be said, by his mere appearance Bergmann confirmed Sinclair's statement.

     "She probably just needs to get laid," Laird remarked with a grin.  Numerous sets of angry eyes set down on him, including Quincy.  "Hey, what'd I say?"

     "Very cute, Laird."  Quincy got up and walked toward her room.  "Coming to bed Marc?"

     Without a word, Bergmann stood and followed her in.  "Real smooth, you fucking idiot," Allen muttered.  "Does everything have to boil down to sex when it comes to you?"

     "Oh fuck you, you little piss," Laird replied in an angry tone.  "Made one fucking honest comment and you all act like I made fun of her.  Fuck you all, I'm going to bed."

     By this time, the remaining members of the company had already moved on in the conversation.  "Colonel Radick also supplied me with our progress reports," Sinclair continued.  "He even ranked us by how well we're doing."

     "So, General, what're you ranked?", Kylie asked.

     "Seventh."  Sinclair's smile was grim.  "And I find that disappointing.  I'm old enough to be your father, hell, when it comes to some of you, your grandfather," he leveled a gaze at Kylie, "and yet I'm in the middle ground?  We need some improvement, people."

     "Who's ranked last?"  Jenkins looked up from his table, where he had been reading his Bible.

     Sinclair looked toward Kylie and said, "That's for me to know, not you.  As for who's best..."  He drew in a breath.  "Private Verdes seems to be the best natural MechWarrior out of all of us."

     Roland let out a cackle.  Jameson simply blinked.  "Misty?  She scored highest?"

     "Yes.  She's the best out of all of us."  Sinclair placed his hands flat on the counter.  "So I think we need to be getting some hope into that girl, make sure that when the time comes she's willing to fight.  What do you all say?"

     April shrugged non-committally.  "She's going to be dead weight unless we do something.  I know I don't want to be fighting beside her until her head's in the right place."

     "That's cruel, April," Benjamin stated from beside her; like April and Roland, he was still in his casual uniform, complete with the dual chevron rank insignia of a Corporal.  His lower right arm, bare, showed entry and exit bullet wound scars.

     "It's the truth," April replied.  She leveled a gaze at Kylie.  "The girls here, the civvies, I wouldn't trust any of them.  They're still spoiled children and they've never seen any combat."

     "Neither have you," Gonzales stated before Kylie could snap a retort.  "So don't get holier-than-thou now, little girl.  Misty needs encouragement.  She needs to have friends.  If she doesn't want to fight for the flag, she'll fight for people she cares about."

     Jenkins turned in his chair to look at Gonzales.  "I agree.  Deep down, that's what a lot of soldiers are out there fighting for.  To protect their loved ones, their homes."

     "Then let's get working on it people.  And you, Miss Magnusson," Sinclair pointed a finger at the teenager, "I'll be having words with you tomorrow."

 

 

     Quincy pulled off the halter top and reached for her bra, conscious to keep her bare chest out of Bergmann's sight.  It was her custom, and a strange one, as Quincy was not very modest about being naked.  She had never been, even before she took to dancing, which she supposed had made her a natural for the job.  Growing up in a house of boys, the only daughter out of four children, had apparently had it's effects.

     Next she removed her necklace.  It was a silver chain, with a golden cross that was intended to hang on the front.  The necklace had been given to her by her teary-eyed mother the day Quincy had graduated from high school and was about to depart for the San Francisco area to attend UC-Berkeley.  "God be with you," she could still here her mother say softly as they hugged.

     Quincy had been raised a Presbyterian Christian.  And when she was young, she believed in God, Jesus, and the tenets of the Christian faith.  But as sometimes happened, the onset of adulthood and the maturity that came with it had prompted her previous faith to wane, she had never been much of a religious child anyway, and despite the objections of her parents and their friends she had taken up the life she did to try and support herself through college.

     Well, they also didn't like her multitude of boyfriends.  Quincy was somewhat of a promiscuous woman, although not dangerously so.  She was faithful to the men she had relationships with until those relations ended.  But it was enough that her religious relatives condemned her.  Her parents, for the most part, where her parents: disapproving but loving.

     Quincy clipped the bra into place and slipped the necklace into her back.  She looked back toward Bergmann, who was laying on his bed staring at the ceiling.  Quincy recognized the mournful look on his face, the pain he seemed to be carrying inside, and felt a pang of sympathy for whatever it was he was going through.  She always did.  Although sometimes his silence was infuriating, she liked Bergmann more than Laird, whom she hung out with mostly for the fun of flirting and teasing and, if they ever got the chance, the joy of sex.  Quincy had already admitted to herself that she had nymph tendencies and out of the entire group, the quirky Canadian was likely going to be the most fun once they got into bed.

     Bergmann, however, was a better man.  Gentle and calm, although distant as well, he listened whenever she spoke to him, had on occasion given some advice, and worked well with her in training.  He was also married, as the golden ring on his right ring finger indicated.  The fact that he never mentioned his wife sometimes made Quincy wonder where she was, if she had been killed or was still behind the lines.  Or perhaps, worst of all, if she had been taken prisoner.  Stories abounded about atrocities by the UN's armies against civilians, resistance fighters, and soldiers.  Nobody had forgotten the use of neutron warheads to depopulate portions of New York City and secure the city's surrender and the surrender of Boston and virtually every other major city that the UN took during it's campaign.  Quincy sometimes feared what would happen if she were taken prisoner.

     Now down to a white bra and underwear, Quincy quickly climbed into her bed and pulled the heavy sheet and blanket over her to get away from the cold air in the room.  She set her head on the pillow and looked over at Bergmann.  "Going to bed Marc?"

     "Yes."

     A smirk came across her face.  "You like those one word answers, don't you?"

     "I do."  Bergmann turned his head toward Quincy and noticed her expression.  "I know I'm infuriating when I don't talk."

     "A bit," Quincy agreed.  "Why don't you?  Everyone has to talk about something.  Even the leathernecks do."

     "Because I choose not to.  I don't want to talk.  I want to be alone."

     Quincy pulled herself closer to the edge of the bed and looked straight at him.  "What burden are you carrying, Marc?  I can see it in your eyes.  You're in pain.  That makes me sad, you know, because you have such gentle eyes, you're a really nice guy, too nice to hurt like you do."

     "What would you, a woman who has devoted herself to feeling pleasure, know about pain?", Bergmann snapped back.

     "Don't think I haven't felt any pain myself!", Quincy suddenly retorted with vehemence.  "Yes, I danced naked for men.  I enjoy flirting with guys, teasing them, hell, fucking them.  But I know what pain is.  I know the pain of having my friends and even my family denouncing me as a slut and whore and telling me how some barbaric God is going to send me to burn eternally when I die.  I've been forced, against my will I'll add, to come out here, subject myself to the humiliation of boot camp, and fight a war I didn't ask for and I sure as hell didn't vote in favor of fighting!  When I was a dancer, I saw it in the eyes of the men I saw.  You're not fucking alone when it comes to hurt!"  Quincy's left arm pointed over toward the door.  "Christian pines for his wife all fucking day, but you don't seem him shutting out everyone.  Misty, we can't even begin to realize how much she's been put through, and she still talks and acts like a human being!  Why the fuck don't you give us that benefit?!"

     "What the hell is your problem anyway?", Bergmann asked in an agitated tone.  It was actually refreshing for Quincy to hear his emotion in his voice.  "Why do you care?"

     "Because it irritates me!  It irritates me to see you just staring at the ceiling, never answering us when we talk to you!"  Quincy laid back on her bed in frustration.  "Just forget I said anything.  Good night."

     As was usual, she was answered with silence.  And Quincy fell asleep very soon thereafter.

     So soon she didn't hear the slow weeping across the room.

 

 

     It was all a dream.

     That was the realization feeling Misty's mind as she felt Halbern's loving touch again, their arms wrapped around each other as they made love in a bed.  She wasn't sure yet whether it was her's at home or his; all she knew was the euphoria filling her mind.  She looked into his face and felt the intensity of their love as their bodies warmed each other.  Their breathing grew in intensity as their hearts raced faster and faster to the moment of release.  It felt deliciously good compared to the months of suffering she vaguely recalled.

     "So good.... James... please don't leave," she moaned, hoping to never have to live in the nightmare she remembered.

     "Never...", came the exasperated reply.  He lowered his lips by her ear and whispered, "Never again."

     A shower of blood erupted from his chest and sprayed over Misty.  Lifeless, he fell to the side, and three unintelligible figures appeared on all sides of the bed.  She couldn't make out their faces.  She didn't have to.  She knew the uniforms.  "No," she said in a frightful tone.  "No, go...."

     One by one, they got on top of her, and she felt their hot breath, their sharp claw-like nails raking her flesh, and their forceful penetration of her, a contrast to the pleasureable feeling she had just held.  She cried histerically, from both pain and fright, demanding and then begging them to let her go.

     One pulled out a knife, and with murderous intent, or so it seemed to her, ran it along Misty's face.  A trail of her blood from split flesh followed the cut from her lower lip down over her neck toward her heart.  Her fear was overpowering as the assailant pulled the knife up and in a quick downward motion stabbed it into her heart.  As the glint of the steel passed by her eye she felt horrible pain in her heart.

     Misty screamed.

     Her attackers disappeared, and with them the pains of rape and of the stabbing.  The bland room dissolved and the bed became smaller, conforming to the small double-sized bed she had been bunked in.  Misty rose from her bed to a sitting position, still screaming from her fright and the imagined pain of her nightmare.  The darkness made it hard to see anything at first.

     A hand touched her bare shoulder, prompting her to look over.  Jameson plopped down on her bed to her left, wearing a T-shirt and trousers.  "You okay?  You were screaming."  Without hesitation she threw her arms around him and held Jameson tightly, weeping histerically.  "Woh!"

     From outside their room, there was commotion, while Misty only managed to mumble lightly "I lost him again" over and over.  "Come on, it was just a dream," he said, having correctly assumed her problem to have been a nightmare.

     The door flew open and a partially un-dressed Sinclair was there, his face obscured by the darkness of the room while the light from the central living area flooded in.  "What's going on here?!"  From behind Sinclair, Jameson could see April and Kylie peeking in.  Jenkins' head soon appeared as well.

     "Sir, I think she had a nightmare or something," Jameson replied.

     Sinclair nodded and turned.  "Okay everyone, show's over, back to bed!"  The door closed behind him as he stepped back into the central room.

     Having partially composed herself, Misty loosened her hold on Jameson.  "You look like you've seen a ghost," he commented to her.

     "I have," she said hoarsely.  "Did I wake you?"

     "Well, not exactly."  He gestured toward his clothing.

     A quizzical look appeared on her face.  "Where were you?"

     Jameson smiled sheepishly.  "There's this technician-in-training.  Melissa Hannover.  We had a little date tonight."

     "Oh," came the reply.  "Well, okay.  I'm... I'm going to go to bed."  Now conscious that she was bare-chested in front of Jameson, Misty placed her left arm over her breasts and reached for her sheet.  Jameson began pulling off his clothes as she slowly calmed and went to sleep.