’Mechs and their pilots were still the kings of the battlefield, for their relative scarcity. But there was a subtle change in how they were treated. Now the tankers and infantrymen knew that battles were rarely won by ’Mechs alone, and with this knowledge came a growing sense of their own importance. A few, when well lubricated with liquor and when they thought they were out of earshot of any MechWarrior, would even voice the idea that they didn’t need ’Mechs at all.
It was a foolish notion, of course, though perhaps only a little more foolish than pining for days long gone. For the foreseeable future, winning battles would require a balance of forces, each playing their role. Even as Erik was nostalgic for the old times, he was a realist. These men and women who entered the battlefield without the awesome armor and firepower of a ’Mech well deserved his respect.
To Erik’s mind, the military was a unique social order. While there was a clearly defined chain of command, in a sense all warriors were, on some level, equals. They had all paid their dues of danger, pain, and fear. They had stood together, literally or figuratively, shoulder-to-shoulder on the field of life and death.
Even the greenest and most untested recruits had pledged their lives to that service, and the smell of death waited for them up the road. There was a brotherhood and sisterhood of arms that no civilian could ever really understand. From the lowest private to a battle commander, they were bound by blood.
Yet it was from the role of commander that Erik now saw this war against the Liao incursion, and it chafed at him. He longed not just for the days of old, but the freedom to fight as a true warrior. If ’Mechs were too rare to risk alone on the battlefield, his status made him even less expendable. He did not hold himself apart from the men and women under his command—not at all. Rather, he was held apart from them.
Erik checked his heading back to the DropShip, and started a wide turn that the formation would find easier to follow. A row of cracking noises worked their way up the side of his ’Mech, from waist to shoulders, the last making a loud report against the ferro-glass canopy next to his head.
Small-arms fire. Nothing to trouble a ’Mech, but close enough to be worth his attention. The squad was too close to the grounded DropShip, and he didn’t like to see this level of enemy activity. He thumbed his com to address the whole formation. “I’m picking up some plink, from the south-southeast I think. Bikers, watch yourselves. Let’s get the scout car out there for a look. I’ll watch your six. The rest of you group up and hug cover.”
“Yes, sir.”
He recognized the voice as Dallas, pilot of the formation’s Fox armored car. The unit moved past him on the right, hoverskirts flapping as it turned, sun glinting off its bubble cockpit. He throttled up to follow, taking a slightly different path to cover more ground and give him a clear shot at any threat.
The low rolling hills offered ample cover for enemies, allowing for attack from almost any direction. The flat expanses between had once been swampland, before the early settlers drained most of the planet’s two major continents through a vast network of trenches, dams, and artificial waterways. Small streams were everywhere, and many of the lowlands still flooded in the spring rains.
He saw movement along the horizon, but it was only a fleeing herd of Geef, thousand-kilogram grazing amphibians whose appearance fell somewhere in a combination of toad, buffalo, and alligator. These were probably from a commercial herd, escaped as the result of fighting, or perhaps released by their owners to fend for themselves until the hostilities were over.
New Aragon was no stranger to war. Agriculture, ranching, and the ecosystem itself had only just recovered from the damage done by Blakist chemical weapons decades earlier.
Now war was here again. It was unclear if it had come to stay.
The Centurion’s limp was more pronounced at this speed, making the cockpit lurch with every second step. He could hear the frayed fibers of synthetic muscle in the bad leg twang, like an amateur plucking randomly at some huge guitar. The heat indicator, which had been falling since his last laser shot, now began to slowly climb again. That shouldn’t be happening. Clearly there was damage somewhere that wasn’t showing up on his diagnostics.
His eyes scanned ahead, looking for the hidden infantry that was the likely source of fire. A stand of trees, most smashed and broken off to stumps by earlier action, offered an excellent potential hiding place, but a gully to his right and some rocks uphill beyond the trees were also possibilities.
He heard the chatter of a light machine gun in his helmet’s earphones, and sparks danced across the cockpit of the Fox. “There they are,” yelled Dallas, “in the rocks.”
“I’m on it,” said Erik, turning the Centurion to wade through the stand of fallen trees. He put his crosshairs on the rocks, but could see no obvious target. “Get me some infantry support here, and get the tanks in position to pound those rocks.”
There was a whistle as the Fox disappeared in an explosion of earth and shattered metal. Just that fast, Dallas was gone. “Artillery!” Erik swung the humanoid ’Mech’s torso looking for a target, but the artillery was likely out of sight behind one of the nearby hills. “Bikers, get out there and find those guns!”
“Incoming!” Cutler’s voice broke in. “Incoming!”
Erik pulled up a rear camera, and saw explosions around and among the armor. “Damn, damn. Spread out! Make them work for it!”
The column began to scatter, but it was too late for an M1 Marksman Tank that was nearly swallowed in an explosion. When the dust began to clear, he could see one front track flopping loose, the other track on that side apparently frozen. The unit spun helplessly in a circle, the still functional turret restlessly searching for a target.
A movement far below alerted him to a more immediate threat. From the trees, soldiers in Purifier battle armor swarmed. While several units trapped him in a circle of laser fire, two others fired their jump jets to leap onto his ’Mech. He managed to lash out with the ’Mech’s right arm, smashing one out of the air with a satisfying bang, but the other landed on his right shoulder, too high for him to easily reach. He lost sight of the unit. Then there was a loud hammering at the hatch behind him.
They’re trying to take my ’Mech!
Helplessly, he looked around. Neither his weapons nor his arms could reach his tiny tormentor. Then he had an inspiration.
His ’Mech began to run, breaking free of the circle, heading directly for the rocks that had been his original target. If the machine gun opened fire on him, all the better. They’d be more of a threat to the Purifier than to him. If not, he’d overrun them.
But that wasn’t his primary intent. Through the neurohelmet that controlled the ’Mech’s balance, he stopped fighting the limp and leaned into it, causing the ’Mech to lurch and stagger sickeningly with each step. He began flailing the Centurion’s massive arms, twisting the torso, swinging it forward and back. His stomach lurched at the chaotic motion of the cockpit. How much worse must it be for his “passenger”?
He couldn’t reach the infantryman on his neck, but he could slam the arms wildly against the ’Mech itself, making the entire structure ring like a massive bell. He cringed as the sound stabbed into his ears, overwhelming the noise-canceling effect of the headphones. He could feel it in his chest, in his bones.
He dug the ’Mech’s heels in, simultaneously whipping the torso from side to side, slamming into the stops at either extreme. Then he swung the Centurion forward at the waist, almost toppling it. Above him he heard a scrambling noise, followed by a thud, as the Purifier, its hold loosened by the movement and noise, flipped over the ’Mech’s head. The infantryman tried to fire his armor’s jump jets, but it was too late, and his attitude was all wrong. He landed at an angle and crashed hard into the ground.