21C
17:24 hours
Celestial palace
Sian
“Pack those files! Just shove them in a bag!” Colonel Dubrov worked as fast as he could, frantically emptying cabinets full of documents and stuffing them into whatever was at hand, clawing open drawer after drawer as fast as his hands could manage. One of the quirks of his department was that many records were still recorded on paper as a security measure. Hacking a manila envelope was, of course, impossible, but it also meant that moving them was far more difficult. It hadn't been considered a problem, after all, who was going to storm the heart of the Confederation?
“Get those interrogation reports!” He gestured sharply for one of his subordinates, his small squad of six people loading bags and boxes onto a trolley. “Forget the transcripts, just the key notes, first few pages of every file!”
The gunfire was still distant but it was definitely getting closer, the clatter of automatic rifles mixed with the hiss and sizzle of the attacker's plasma weapons. They had recovered a few from the EA transport ship and while lacking in range, the weapons were very nasty in close quarter battle.
“What about the...” One of his squad began to ask a question and then just stopped mid sentence, suddenly frozen.
“About what?” Dubrov turned to the man. “Mikhail, what? Spit it out!”
Mikhail remained totally still for another few moments, then in one unbidden fluid movement, unholstered his sidearm, placed the muzzle under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
The rest of the squad bolted for cover, crouching behind whatever desks or nearby office furniture, preparing their fight or flight responses. There was no enemy visible, just the sight of their comrade falling to the ground and their Colonel speckled with blood.
“He... he just shot himself.” Dubrov was saying the words, but hadn't grasped the reality yet. These people were his staff, interrogators or assistants to them. They were iron willed and in most cases, quite psychopathic. He had never expected one to crack and commit suicide so abruptly. Despite the unprecedented situation, they all seemed to be managing it. A distant rumble shuddered the office, a prompt reminder to him of the task at hand. “Keep packing! We leave in five minutes with whatever we've got!”
The squad turned back to their work, all but one who turned his back on the files and stood ramrod straight.
“Kay...” Dubrov immediately went on guard. “Kay, what is it? Don't you snap on me too!”
“I can't move, Comrade Colonel!” The trooper replied, terror edging his voice. “I can't... nothing is moving! I can't move my body!”
“Get a grip, it's a panic attack. You aren't frontline soldiers, I know this, but you must do what I...”
“It's not that, Colonel!” Kay shouted, eyes wide with fear. “I...I...”
Kay's arm moved without any prompting, again unholstering his sidearm and raising it to his chin. This time though, Dubrov acted, rushing forward and seizing the weapon. Kay brought up his other hand to the grip, the two men struggling against each other, the younger trooper slowly winning out as the muzzle inched closer to his chin.
“Colonel!” Kay screamed at his superior officer, his voice earsplitting at this distance. “Stop it! Stop me! I'm not doing...”
His words were interrupted by the passage of a large caliber bullet through his throat, the interrogator dropping to the ground in a heap of bent limbs.
That was enough for the rest of the squad. The remaining four abandoned whatever they were doing and bolted for the exits without looking back, shoving chairs and desks out of their way with grinding screeches. Dubrov called after them, but they didn't care. This was something far outside their understanding or ability to resist. They wisely chose to be somewhere else.
“Stop! Halt!” Dubrov yelled after the terrified squad, his own voice starting to crack as the situation spiraled out of his control. “Halt!”
To his particular surprise, they actually did, all four skidding to a stop. His relief was short lived.
“Squad! Form honor guard!” Corporal Elena barked sharply, the NCO's eyes showing a mix of confusion and abject terror. The three troopers lined up, Elena falling in beside them and saluting at nothing. Dubrov had no idea what was happening, no clue what these bizarre and deadly theatrics meant. He drew his laser pistol and gripped it tight, scanning for trouble, for some source of this madness. A moment later, he found it.
From the side of the room emerged a half dozen black shadows. Formless and amorphous at first, they resolved into human shapes, each wearing baggy black clothing. The closest one unfastened a covering over his face and drew back the hood over his head, showing black eyes locked in an ice cold smirk.
“Colonel Dubrov, Alfred Bester. Pleased to meet you.” He walked past the four saluting soldiers, suddenly halting. “Ah, of course, stand at ease.” He returned a theatrical salute and clicked his heels, the squad lowering their hands, bodies rigid and faces tight with panic.
“Who are you!?” Dubrov roared in fury born of fear. “Did you do this?”
“To answer your questions in order, I just told you who I am, and yes, we did this.” He gestured at the other still shrouded figures. “And we are still doing it. You and all your people are under our complete control. Don't believe me?” He stretched out his arms. “Take your best shot.”
Dubrov leveled his pistol and pulled the trigger, except he didn't. He made the motions, sent the command, willed it to happen, but instead he could only watch dumbstruck as his hand holstered his pistol against every impulse and command his brain sent it.
“I don't expect you to understand, and I don't care if you do.” Bester advanced. “I need you to answer a question. Where are the hostages?”
“Hostages? I have no idea.”
“Hmm.” Bester pursed his lips. “Byron, three.”
Bester didn't even turn around, entrusting the task to his unit. This time, the three troopers still standing in line in perfect unison took their weapons, placed them to their heads, and fired, leaving just Dubrov and Corporal Elena, the woman screaming at the top of her lungs.
“Silence,” Bester said softly, Elena's voice immediately dying, leaving her still trying to scream and shout, but creating no sound. “Colonel, we both know that isn't true. Where are the hostages? Oh, and if you lie to me again, the future will not be looking very bright for Elena here.”
Dubrov's eyes flickered between the corporal and Bester, his mind racing, trying to find a way out. If he admitted what he knew, he'd be admitting he was a part of this, and if he did that, he didn't fancy his prospects.
“I'm telling you I don't know!”
“Colonel, you really haven't figured out who I am, have you?” Bester sighed. “Fine.”
This time it was Corporal Elena who went through the motions, fighting vainly to resist, but utterly powerless. She pressed the gold gun barrel to her neck, eyes streaming tears as she looked pleadingly at her Colonel.
“Last chance to do the right thing.” Bester gave one last offer.
“I can't help you.” It was a lie, one he told to Bester and Elena simultaneously.
“Pity.” Bester raised a hand and clicked his fingers, the noise lost in the final gunshot. “But not unexpected. I wanted to know what kind of man you were, if you would put yourself above the lives of your loyal soldiers. Now I know.”
“If there was something I could do to...” Dubrov stuttered.
“Of course you know where they are. I pulled it from your mind five minutes ago and sent it to my allies. They are probably already storming the cells,” Bester waved away dismissively. “My official role in this mission ended after that message was sent. What I'm doing now, this isn't on the record.”
He approached the Colonel. Bester was considerably shorter and far less physically powerful, but he radiated absolute dominance in this situation. For all his cunning and ruthless brutality, Dubrov was utterly helpless.
“What happens now, Colonel, is very personal.”
“I... I don't understand? You pulled it from my mind?” Dubrov laughed nervously. “Well, whatever it is, you have what you want, yes?”
“I have what my superiors wanted, but I want something more. Do you remember Nigel Morrison?” Bester tilted his head. “You do, I see it, you know who I mean. He was only a diplomat, but he turned fourteen of your best commandos into vegetables. You were right to fear him, and you are starting to understand. He was different, more than human, just as we are. Nigel was one of my people. You had him killed, and I am not a forgiving sort of person.”
“I was just following orders.”
“Yes, but it was your idea to mutilate his body. Use his severed head as a negotiating tool. You can't hide the truth, Colonel.” Bester grimaced. “If you had simply killed him, then it would have cost you your life, but it would have been clean. Now, after this little showcase,” he waved at the dead squad, “it won't be clean.”
“We can negotiate, the documents here are vital, the secrets, blackmail material...”
“I don't give a damn for your mundane posturing and games,” Bester cut him off. “Nothing in here means anything to us. If we want your secrets, we'll take them.”
He took a step closer.
“Have you ever wondered what boiling in oil feels like, Colonel? To be cooked alive? Well, I have good news and bad news.”
“You can't, you don't have time to do that, you can't!”
“You tortured a few people to death that way, didn't you? Well, justice is about to start rhyming. I am going to make your brain think your nerve endings are telling it you are being cooked in oil, and the best bit is, I'm also going to interrupt the part of your brain that shuts down in shock. You get to feel it until you die. Which will be what? About three days?”
“The last one made it to five,” one of the shrouded men said.
“You'll die of dehydration, because you will be too busy screaming to drink,” Bester informed helpfully. “Funny fact, when we started doing this, our first test subjects ended up swallowing their own tongues and choking to death, far too quick. So Colonel, I'm going to need you to stick out your tongue. As far as you can.”
Dubrov battled with every ounce of will to resist, to keep his mouth shut. He failed.
“Good.” Bester stared directly into Dubrov's eyes, seeing the terror of all of the Colonel's past victims and making sure his crimes were at the front of his mind in these last moments of lucidity. “Now, Colonel, bite.”
“Fucking Hetzers.” Jaime backtracked hard as a streak of black and orange sailed past his canopy, an AC20 shell that took the top two floors off the building behind him, buffeting his Archer with the shockwave and clattering debris off his hull like rain.
“I got him, flanking right.” Natasha sounded as gleeful as ever, the joy of piloting her mech through the carnage still ever so slightly unnerving, even to a veteran like Jaime. He could appreciate the thrill of battle, understand the pride and satisfaction in victory, but he had never really gone so far as enjoying it. Not like that anyway. He caught glimpses of the jet black Marauder between the shattered buildings, the machine moving with a speed and precision it had no right to, Natasha deftly lining up on the Capellan ambush party and blasting them from the far side of a hotel, obliterating its glass facade.
“Good kill,” Jaime confirmed, the red dots on his screen blinking off as his sensors updated.
“Good kill? That was an amazing kill! Did you see I shot them through a hotel?”
“I saw.” Jaime broke a laugh despite himself. “I'm not reading anything else in this district.”
“Move on?”
“No, we're starting to get strung out.” Jaime looked at the bigger picture. “They might be trying to draw us further from the dropships. Hold here.”
“Aff.” Natasha pulled back, for all her fighting spirit, she was still in complete control. She returned to her post beside the Archer, guns constantly tracking. “Muskat is dead, ejected into a bridge.”
“Was he a newbie? I don't know the name.”
“Yeah, six months in,” she confirmed. “Going to need more after today, we've lost seven so far.”
The city was turning into a nightmare to fight through, the burning buildings laying black smoke over several districts, limiting their line of sight. The roads had been cracked and churned up by impacts, and the heavier mechs, coupled with the countless bricks and lumps of concrete, made traction extremely difficult. Just moving back and forth, Jaime had seen several mechs slip a little on the loose ground. It would be worse when the real fight began. On top of that, broken water mains and gas pipes sprayed water or flame from the streets at random places.
The water at least had some utility beyond making the ground even harder to navigate. His Lance took turns to stand in the jet of water spouting from a broken fire hydrant, the icy liquid cooling off their heatsinks faster than the air alone.
“Wolf Command, Agamemnon, are you receiving?”
“Wolf here, go.” Jaime switched instantly back on task.
“Movement in your sector, we're seeing a major attack forming up,” the radio voice from the warship relayed. “Updating your tactical displays.”
Jaime quickly checked, a mass of new red dots approaching from the west.
“Aggy, any chance of a little fire support?”
“Negative, rules of engagement forbid strikes within the city limits.”
“That's what I thought you were going to say.” He exhaled a long breath. “We'll hold them here.”
“Command reports we almost have the hostages, won't be long now.”
“No hurry,” Jaime quipped. “Appreciate the heads up, Wolf out.”
He closed the channel and took a moment to center himself, ordering his mind and aligning his thoughts. This was what they were here for.
“Alpha Regiment, consolidate your position and prepare for frontal attack. Hostile mechs on approach, approximately three regiments. Get into overlapping positions and stay mobile. They'll be expecting a static defense, don't get caught flat footed.”
His battalion and company commanders sent confirmation. No words were needed, just taps on their comms gear. The entire unit altered their posture, loosening up and finding suitable ground to engage from. He was outnumbered, but in urban terrain, that wasn't as bad as it sounded. If his units stayed mobile, if his line flexed and bent instead of trying to remain solid and brittle, if he gave ground and absorbed the momentum of the attack... they could do this.
“Three Regiments.” Natasha tapped into the images sent down from the destroyers overhead. “There's our Red Lancers, Prefecture Guards... Capellan Reserves in there too?”
“Looks like.” Jaime checked his missile status, flicking the master arm switch, and tapping the regimental channel. “All long range units, standby LRM salvo. Give them half now, keep half to cover the withdrawal.”
“No Imarra units though, I was hoping.” She sighed. “I guess they're too far away. Think some will get here in time?”
“Doubt it, if they try to march down here, Sheridan will atomize them as soon as they reach open ground.” Which Jaime was very happy about. “You'll have to make do with the Liao household guards.”
“Maybe next time.”
He had to smile at the pure confidence encased in that black Marauder.
“They're not coming in all at once, I'd guess they are converging as multiple small units,” she observed. “It won't be a disciplined attack, but I'll bet they give it everything.”
The red and orange sky was filled with a call of trumpets mingling with the rumble of machines, bugles broadcast from the incoming mechs sounding the charge. Like many old regiments, the elites of House Liao held many traditions and practices from the distant past, the piercing call of Chinese bugles among them.
“If I wasn't so well armed, that might be a little unnerving.” Natasha ran the servos and myomers to check for faults, the Marauder looking like a dog shaking itself out. “Where do we go?”
“Anywhere the enemy breaks through.” Jaime tapped a few controls, the armored covers shielding his missiles popping open at the command. He stepped out from cover and into the rubble strewn avenues of the Forbidden city, the approaching Capellan mechs creating clouds of dust as they barreled through buildings in their path. “Still glad you came along?”
“This is where I belong.” Natasha spoke with simple truth. “Come on, let's take this up a notch.”
“Aff.” Jaime found he'd forgotten his nerves, the infectious confidence of his friend making him believe they might actually live through this. “Missile units, barrage pattern, open fire.”
The Archer's missiles ripple fired, tiny pulse rocket engines throwing them clear of the machine before the main thruster ignited with a tearing sound, pouring white smoke behind it. It was a little risky to salvo off half the arsenal at once, but today was a day for risk taking, the entire line shrouded as dozens of LRMs from an assortment of mechs filled the sky. Some came from Archers, some from the small number of Catapults and Trebuchets, the rest from whatever forward units had a few slapped on. It was a good barrage and, as expected of the Dragoons, fell exactly on target, but just as much of the earlier Capellan strike had been blunted by buildings, so too were the Dragoons' missiles.
The impacts were impressive, mushrooms of flame and black smoke shattering the target area, but the actual damage was limited, the brunt of the force absorbed by apartment blocks that crumbled into concrete dust. A few Capellan mechs fell, but most wisely took cover and let the missiles fall before advancing. That was good enough for the Dragoons, it gave them a few precious moments where the Capellan advance stopped.
“Alpha Regiment, move forward and engage! All units engage!”
While the strike hadn't done much damage, it did sow confusion. As the leading wave stopped or slowed down, the follow up units ran into them, creating knots and clusters of mechs. It wouldn't take long for the elite Capellans to shake themselves up and go back on the attack. That small window of opportunity was Wolf's best chance to maul the enemy and buy a little more time.
As one, the regiment attacked, the loose formation breaking from cover and closing the range as quickly as possible. The urban terrain had separated them into smaller groups, a lance or two in each cluster, with the by-now burning and ruined remnants of the residential district splitting the force and interfering with their lines of fire. It wasn't ideal, but was affecting the Capellans just the same, turning this from a regimental battle into instead a cluster of small unit actions. Jaime welcomed that, he was supremely confident that in these kinds of fights where skill counted for everything, his Dragoons would triumph.
The Dragoons seized positions close to the Capellans, within optimal firing range but outside point blank. They wanted a close range gunnery duel, not a melee where Capellan numbers would tip the scales. Instead, they picked their spots, levelled their weapons, and delivered every joule of firepower they could muster into the still reorganising hostiles. It was a ferocious fusillade, the sudden aggression surprising the Capellans, who had expected to meet dug in enemies, not an assault. Several units staggered and fell, the sheer weight of gunfire breaking them down and overwhelming their armour. The first casualties dropped smoking to the ground or collapsed into shot up buildings. It was a deadly opening salvo delivered with precision and fury. Most opponents would have collapsed then and there.
Not today. Not here. Not these warriors. Capellans were not renowned for their bravery, their reputation was more for cunning and underhanded deeds, but these were the defenders of the Chancellor, the custodians of House Liao itself giving battle in the Forbidden City on Sian. They were the elite, better than most and they fought under the eyes of the Daughter of Liao. They did not break, did not panic as they received the volley. They stepped over the dead and disabled and fired back with even greater fury, giving the Dragoons back their salvo with interest.
“Weight the flanks, they will try to get around behind us,” Jaime warned, keeping a very close eye on his tactical display. Smoke had rendered visual scans useless and the Agamemnon was now beaming down infrared pictures, but even they were starting to flicker as more fires and explosions erupted across the line. “Baker, wheel left a few degrees, there's a heavy company moving up.”
“Heavy Lance coming in, dead ahead,” Natasha called a warning. “I got it, Vordel, on my six, fire support.”
Jaime was too busy juggling formations to get involved at this point, much as he may have wanted to. Instead, that privilege fell to Captain Kerensky and Junior Lieutenant Hans Vordel's Victor, a pair quite suited to the task. Both advanced with speed toward the front, Natasha sweeping around a cluster of Dragoons blasting a steady chain of gunfire into some Capellan light mechs that had picked the wrong part of the line to attack. More dangerous though was the reinforced Lance trying to break through a public library and open up a new line of attack. That was Natasha’s target.
“Reading two Orions, two Centurions,” Vordel updated. “Do we need back up?”
Natasha answered with a laugh. “Just put some fire on those Centurions. No need to get close, I'll go tease them.”
They were already within two hundred metres. Vordel's idea of close obviously was not the same as Kerensky's. Still, he wasn't going to argue and pounded forward the last few strides down a torn up intersection and turned right to get a clean shot between the buildings at the incoming hostiles. The Capellans had successfully stomped through the library, pulverising countless works of indoctrination, and were forming up to flank the command Lance when they met a salvo from Vordel's Victor. His aim was true, a massive AC20 shell whistling across the short distance, hitting a Centurion at less than seventy metres, peeling apart its LRM launcher and triggering a magazine explosion. The pilot automatically ejected as the remnants of the mech fell sideways, serving to focus all attention on Vordel.
He immediately backtracked, loosing off a pair of SRMs that grazed an Orion, forcing it to duck as it opened fire, sending a brace of AC10 shots ploughing into the buildings beside him in showers of glass and bits of furniture. He returned fire from his medium lasers, but even a Dragoon wasn't going to land a hit on an evading target while sliding into cover himself. He managed to ignite a few piles of surviving books, so not a totally wasted shot, then soaked up a direct hit from another AC10 that rattled his teeth before he made it back to the intersection.
Vordel anchored himself and prepared to make his stand. He had tall buildings on both sides and was using one for cover. It wouldn't survive long, but it would absorb at least some hits while he fired back. Two Orions and a Centurion were steep odds, but a Victor was a beast of a mech in urban combat, and he just needed to keep them busy until Natasha did something stupidly heroic.
The Capellans were smart. The two Orions began blasting the building Vordel was behind, while the Centurion acted as security, guarding the flanks and defending the Orions as they carefully moved up. The Victor leaned out of cover to fire another shot from its monstrous cannon, a pair of well placed hits throwing off his aim at the last moment, causing the valuable shell to hit the ground and crater the road pointlessly. He cursed and pulled back, the two Orions advancing in unison behind staggered laser fire, making sure he didn't have any windows of opportunity. They were definitely better than the average Capellan.
He was contemplating giving ground and finding a better spot when a black shape skidded with a screech of metal on concrete into the hollowed out library in a shower of burning books that fluttered like embers around it. The black machine hadn't even finished sliding before it opened fire, a pair of PPC blasts striking the Orions from behind, while the top mounted AC10 barked at the Centurion. Natasha had finished her flanking move, dodging the battle, and was now in position to bracket the Capellan lance. A great idea in most situations, but with only two mechs, was extremely risky. The Capellans were skilled enough to simply concentrate on one target at a time and defeat them in detail. The forward Orion halted and shifted position to keep Vordel under fire, while the second teamed up with the Centurion to engage Natasha's Marauder.
Ordinarily, this was a good tactic and the Capellans were flexible enough to make it work. Vordel was grudgingly impressed by how swiftly they changed priorities and adopted the new orders, but this was not an ordinary battle. This was a battle against Natasha Kerensky.
The Marauder moved with the speed and fluidity of a machine a quarter of its size, Natasha pushing the myomers almost to their limits. She lunged forward toward the Centurion, pounding forward and depressing the knees of the machine to lower her profile and throw off the aim of her opponent. The Centurion also moved, dodging to the left as she lined up on it like a shark fixating on its prey, the sleek hull of the Marauder a terrifying sight no matter the pilot. He managed a hit with his lasers that scored the upper armour in a flash of steam, but was far too close to evade retaliation.
Echoing Vordel's earlier tactic, she fired on the chest mounted LRM launcher, putting two PPC spears clean through the rack, peeling away its protection and following up with an AC10 into the now exposed magazine. Most pilots, even at this sort of range, would have been lucky to hit such a small target with one weapon. Natasha nailed it with all three, precisely timed for maximum effect. The Centurion detonated and wobbled but remained upright, a good quarter of its mass redistributed across the high rent district, with an arm hooking itself on the sixth floor of a luxury complex.
She was at the top of her game, moving on a combination of killer instinct and perfectly honed training. She knew where she had to be, had her position plotted several steps ahead, knew her firing arcs, her expected enemy responses, the optimal placement for gunfire, for evasion. She was already figuring out which part of the line to hit next. She just needed to mop up here.
That was when things got a little tricky. The lead Orion was piloted by an actual veteran mechwarrior, someone who deserved to be in that cockpit. Wolf's Dragoons were famous, and Natasha Kerensky in particular was well known as an Ace of Aces, piloting a signature Black Marauder. In those seconds, he understood who he was up against, hastily re-evaluated his position, and began ripple firing every weapon in his arsenal, heat build up be damned.
That sudden barrage caused Natasha to deviate from her plan, the sudden wall of LRMs something of a surprise. The range was, of course, far too short for the weapons to be a serious problem. They were inside their minimum arming range, so anything that did actually strike her just spiralled away or shattered in a brief flash of igniting fuel. It did, however, obscure her vision and rob her of a clean gun kill. Instead, she would have to get closer, past the exhaust smoke. It was risky, but she did not hesitate, grin plastering her face, digging the heel of the mech into the road surface with a crunch and making the best use she could of the relatively close confines to charge.
The Orion was expecting something like this. Natasha's reputation for aggression was not much of a secret, but expecting a threat and beating that threat were two very different things. He had rippled off his missiles partially to create a sixty thousand C-Bill smokescreen, but mostly to empty his magazines. He'd seen two of his brethren killed by precise magazine hits, that was a clear pattern of attack, and he had no doubt Natasha would try the same on him. It had filled up his heatsinks and the temperature in the cockpit had spiked to jungle conditions, but it didn't matter. If he made even one error, he wouldn't live long enough to cook.
He called in his last Lance member, the second Orion currently engaging Vondrel's Victor. Turning their backs on such a dangerous machine was a near suicidal risk, but neglecting to put all their guns on the Black Marauder was deemed worse. It was rapidly apparent this was turning into a no win scenario, but if they could at least take down Kerensky, it would be worth it. His brother also salvoed every remaining LRM, granting him the same obscuring smoke for a few moments from the Victor. Those few moments were probably twice as long as they expected the fight to last.
Natasha charged ahead, firing lasers blind into the smoke. It was pure guesswork, but her guesses were better than most warrior's calculations. The left hand laser hit the lead Orion, the beam causing little damage to the heavy armour, but providing a sudden burst of heat and light that gave the Marauder something to shoot at. She followed up with an AC10 round that cracked into the still obscured Orion, pinging pieces of broken armour from its hull, then ducked her warmachine into a crouch to avoid the inevitable return fire. The Marauder complained, its metal groaning but holding together as she abused the controls, massive grin still firmly affixed to her face. Gunfire from both Orions went overhead, missing by mere inches, and smashed into buildings, showering her with concrete. The retaliation was surprisingly good, if not for her sudden evasion, they would have caught her in a well placed crossfire. That gained her respect - bringing these two down would be a privilege.
She made a final lunge out of the smoke, bringing her level with the lead Orion, the second one about fifty metres further back and reloading. She put all her attention on the leader, the Capellan warrior already swinging an arm at the Marauder, anticipating exactly her tactics. She decided to absorb the hit, her forward momentum and the shape of the Marauder ensuring it was little more than a glancing blow that slid down the hull, in order to get in close behind the Orion.
This small fight was, in that second, over. They both realised it at the same time. Natasha had one arm pointed at the back of the mech's knees, the other close to the reactor, and her top mounted gun locked on the Orion's cockpit. She fired the arm guns together, the lasers cutting through the weak points while she held back the PPCs. It was enough to trigger an emergency shutdown and caused the mech to lose balance. She held fire with the AC10 for a long moment, locking eyes with the Capellan pilot, a grey bearded warrior just a few metres away. She gave him that moment to punch the ejection button, to save himself, an act of pure respect to a fellow warrior. He made no move to do so. Instead he chose his fate, gave Natasha a quick salute, and accepted his final defeat.
Natasha granted his unspoken request. Among the Clans, such an end was glorious, a honourable death in battle with a worthy foe, especially for a warrior nearing the end of his career. She admired his resolve and skill, this unnamed mechwarrior, and when she noted the kill in her logbook, she'd drink to his courage.
That left one more target. The final Orion had finished reloading and was bracing to fire. This one wasn't as experienced or skilled, but at least had the nerve to stay still and provide a steady platform for his AC10. Again, that earned a little respect. Standing fast after watching your whole Lance torn down in less than thirty seconds was no small achievement. She pushed the motors again, threw the Marauder into a sharp right swerve to try and bounce the cannon shot, but in the end didn't need to. The Orion was enveloped in an explosion from behind, Vondrel putting an AC20 into its already weakened back armour and hollowing out the torso.
“Good shot.” Natasha observed this pilot did eject, in another five or six years he might make a real opponent. “Anyone else?”
“Not here, command needs us to help Charlie Battalion.”
“With me then. You did good keeping up,” Natasha allowed. “These guys are as good as they pretend to be, watch your back.”
“Aff Captain.”
“Kill them quick, get in close and destroy them,” she ordered. “This is a fight for the history books, keep alive to read how awesome I am.”
From a distance, the battle was a lot like the simulations she had run, the view from the air conditioned cockpit detached from the visceral reality of the frontlines. Romano watched the smoke rising and noted the flash of weapons fire and billowing explosions. She could cross reference with her tactical displays and work out which unit was engaging where, how far they were advancing, how much damage they were doing. She could also watch the status displays of the mechs in battle, seeing the icons go from green to yellow to red and finally to black. Sometimes, it took minutes for a unit to gradually wear down, sometimes it was instant. She watched mech after mech turn black on the screen, sometimes matching it with a distant explosion, rarely with a fluttering parachute.
It was, from her position, no different from a simulation, but this time there was no reset button. Her icons didn't all turn green again at the end of the fight, ready for a repeat attempt, the city did not restore itself, the comrades she had met did not take their seats at her table to praise or chide her. While she had no responsibility in this fight, she still felt it, she carried the weight of her name and the knowledge that one day she would be the one directing fights like this. She would send those green icons forward and when they winked out, it would be her fault. This was just a small hint at what was to come, and the way things were going, future battles for the Confederation might end up very brutal indeed.
“Mistress Liao.” She snapped back to the present as Albemarle's voice crackled in her headset. “Are you able to bring up the next wave? They need to be organised for deployment.”
“Yes, I can do that,” Romano affirmed eagerly. “Leave it to me.”
Glad to have a task to do, she backed up her Highlander and walked away from the command lance, the leadership of the Red Lancers keeping her safe, but also recognising the value in letting Romano see them at work. They were professionals, confident in victory, but not arrogant. They knew they were going to win, not because they were the celebrated elite of Liao, but because they had the numbers, the training, and the motivation. Albemarle was throwing units into a frontal attack, but she wasn't been wasteful with lives. Her units were well supported and arrayed to apply pressure across Jaime Wolf's entire line. She had him pinned down, and the next phase was to deploy the reserves and initiate a break through.
This was where Romano played her small part, marshalling the break through force and bringing them up to their jump off points. It was straight forward enough but with three Regiments all mixed in together and with reinforcements arriving in small groups, rather than organized companies, she had to do a little juggling.
“Red Company, Green Company, assembly here.” She used her tools to try and sort the mass of inbound machines. “Tank units hold back, you need to deploy after the mechs go in. Don't get in their way.”
“This is White Company reporting in,” an officer checked in adding some more to her workload. “I'm missing a Lance.”
“Missing? Were they attacked?”
“Just lost, Ma'am.”
“How is that even... just march to the sound of the guns!” She grew frustrated. “Take what you have to Blossom avenue and wait for orders.”
“Yes Ma'am.”
“Red Company, you are slow! Our warriors are dying while you wander in circles! Blossom Avenue! Immediately!”
“I'm down a Lance too, Ma'am, and my scout group is somewhere with Blue Company.”
“Take what you can and assemble with the others.”
Romano was starting to understand the chaos and confusion of warfare. Without the time to prepare and properly deploy units, she was finding it difficult to arrange the attack group. If she waited too long and tried to get the different units organised, the battle would be over with unacceptable losses. If she just threw them in piecemeal, their impact would be lessened. She needed to ask someone, to seek advice, but her senior officers were either handling the frontlines or missing. This was on her shoulders to get right.
“All units, I need you to detach your assault mechs.” She had a sudden idea. “All companies continue to mass at Blossom Avenue, but I need all Assault Mechs to join me, form on my position immediately.”
She couldn't mass numbers, not quickly enough, but maybe she could mass some quality instead. She noted with satisfaction eleven mechs broke off from their parent formations and moved towards her, the biggest and toughest machines from the reserve formations. It wasn't much, but it might be good enough.
“Assault mechs, you will operate together in a temporary formation. Advance to Major Albemarle and act as the spearhead. She'll know how to deploy you. The rest of your unit will follow you once you split the enemy line. Go.”
They signaled their understanding and moved off, Romano hoping the Major would understand what she was doing. Romano had studied with the Warrior Houses and so understood about concentration of force. The Assault Mechs weren't a team, but in this situation it didn't matter. There was no need for clever teamwork, fluid formations, or ingenious tactics. All they had to do was charge ahead together and open a way for the rest to exploit by applying extraordinary amounts of violence.
What she had to do now was make sure that once they did break the Dragoons' line, there would be enough reserves to push through and finish the job.
“Green Company! On the double or the next guns you see will be those of your firing squad!”
“We're close.” Candace peered around a corner while she waited for her bodyguards to scout ahead for danger. “The command bunker is in the next building.”
“This is taking too long.” Jiang checked his watch for the hundredth time, acutely aware that every second this battle continued was costing lives.
“It would have been faster if your army wasn't ripping the palace apart.” She sneered slightly. “Thankfully, most of them seem to be withdrawing. Presumably they have what they came for.”
“Not yet, not until we get into that bunker.”
From up, ahead a Commando appeared and waved them over, the man wearing the blue strip of cloth that identified him as an ally.
“Mistress, the way is clear, we can cross the courtyard. Once we reach the building, we will be faced by soldiers loyal to your father.”
“I will handle that,” Candace promised firmly. “Come on Jiang, time to get this done.”
They darted out across the courtyard, Jiang only now seeing the signs of combat, smelling the acrid smoke in the air. The walls around were pitted and scorched by weapons fire, while the yard itself was scattered with piles of bodies. Some were wearing Liao uniforms, but there was at least a platoon of Earth Force Rangers there too.
“Wait.” Jiang made a detour for the fallen soldiers, causing the team to halt.
“Wait? We don't have time for this!” Candace snarled at his back. “My city is burning! We end this now with or without you!”
He knelt beside one of the fallen Earth Force soldiers. While the loss of a fellow soldier of Earth was painful, it was not sentimentality that drew him over. He detached the man's tactical commlink, a simple earpiece and microphone that reached across his cheek on a stalk. He brought it to his own ear and tapped it twice to activate it.
“Li, Jiang, EIA, authorise Rho nine, activate secure link,” he spoke into the device, a chime confirming his voice and DNA was recognised. “Ranger Command, this is Agent Li, EIA, respond on this channel.”
“Ah, I see.” Candace hovered behind him. “Secure communications?”
“Earth Force is jamming short range frequencies, my normal comms won't work. I need one of these.” He quickly searched through the trooper's gear, taking his rifle and energy caps. “Ranger Command, I say again, this is...”
“We heard you the first time, glad you're still in one piece, Jiang.”
“That you Groves?” He recognised the voice of his companion from the Tortuga mission, Ben Groves of Naval Intelligence. “What's happening?”
“We have the surviving hostages, but we're still looking for the Ambassador.”
“I think I have him, can you track this signal?”
“Already got it, need back up?”
“No,” Candace answered.
“Yes.” Jiang ignored her. “No need for the whole army.”
“I'll be there with my squad, five or six minutes.”
“We're not waiting.” Candace knelt down beside one of the other bodies for a second in curiosity, then stood. “Come on, chat later.”
She was right. Jiang fell in beside her again, her entourage picking up several of her loyal guardians as it approached the building housing the entrance to the bunker. It was respectably fortified. The Earth Force Rangers likely had no idea what it was and had been mauled by the strong defences and elite Death Commandos manning them.
“I'll talk.” Candace accelerated her pace to take the lead, her escorts fanning out. Jiang stayed close to Candace, but hung back enough to let her do her job. One of the Death Commandos stepped out from cover and greeted her.
“Lady Candace, you were ordered to a different bunker.”
“I am here to see my father. You may escort me.”
“I cannot, Madam. To have both ruler and heir in a single place is too dangerous. You must leave.”
He was maintaining formality, but had noticed her men setting up a kill box, his own commandos carefully taking up a defensive posture themselves. Both knew what was on the cards, but neither was quite ready to declare it.
“It seems you had some action.” She peered back at the courtyard filled with bodies. “You are down to four men, you should let my guards take over.”
“We are still strong enough to hold this gate against any attackers,” the Commando replied bluntly. “Any attackers at all.”
“You are a brave man, and obviously a skilled one. I think given the losses we have taken, there will be opportunities for men like you.” Candace smiled, it was her best expression, a mix of innocence and promise. “You could be a Colonel tomorrow. The Confederation has need of heroes like you. All you have to do is live.”
He stood a little straighter.
“You should leave, Lady Candace, before something unfortunate happens.”
“I regret we are past that point.”
The gunfire didn't come from her guards, nor from the commandos. It cracked out from the far side of the courtyard, from snipers Candace's captain had set up in the windows of the main palace before they even began the confrontation. The Death Commandos fell as one, none even raising their weapons.
“A waste.” She sighed. “But thank your commanders for me, Jiang. Without your Rangers whittling down their numbers, my guards would have had quite a fight on their hands.”
“I don't think it was intentional.”
“Never the less, their sacrifice was not in vain.” She stepped over the body of the commando and passed through the gateway. “Come along, the door needs Liao DNA to unlock it.”
“You're really going to do this then?” Jiang trotted up beside her. “This is a coup?”
“I wouldn't be a true Liao if I didn't otherthrow someone to get ahead.” She smiled, eyes burning fiercely. “My path is set. Once I am Chancellor, I will call off my forces if you do the same.”
“Once we have Sheridan, we're gone.”
“Good enough.” They headed down the ramp to the doors of the bunker, the immense armoured portals unbreachable by any weapon short of an orbital strike. “Give me a moment to get this all unlocked and we can bring this unfortunate series of events to an end.”
“Keep them here!” Jaime commanded, breathless and dehydrated from the intense combat, the interior of his mech heavy with the smell of cooked dust and burnt plastic. “Give some ground if you have to, but keep this line! I don't care if you bend, but we'll be damned if the Dragoons break!”
The Capellans were fully committed now, with three full Regiments pushing into the Dragoons. Mechs, tanks, gunships, artillery, nothing was held back. He could see suicidally brave infantry squads dodging around the mechs and piles of rubble to take potshots at his forces, light vehicles shrieking past, chugging gunfire, all of them just footnotes to the vicious clash of mechs. A gunship cartwheeled overhead, spewing flames and spinning wildly. Shattered tanks and fallen mechs created fresh obstacles while the surviving warriors blasted each other from almost point blank distances. The only reason the Dragoons hadn't been overwhelmed already was the urban terrain preventing the Capellans from concentrating their full force in one place.
It wasn't great, and to make matters worse, an entire fresh regiment was flanking the whole position and going after the landing ships, giving Beta Regiment something to keep them busy. This was the tipping point, the time when it was necessary to pull back and begin evacuating. That was, of course far, easier said than done.
“I'm down to three rounds,” Natasha informed with absolute calm in the midst of hell. “And my heat sinks are at eighty percent.”
“Can you handle a few more minutes?”
“It's me,” she chimed back, her Marauder taking position beside Jaime's Archer, the Black Machine dented and scarred by the combat, its heat dissipation systems shimmering the air behind the machine. “I could do to sweat off a little weight anyway. Where are we, you know, big picture?”
“Time to start heading back,” Jaime confirmed his decision. “We're going to fall back by lance, phased withdrawal.”
“Cappies ain't going to let us do that.” She pointed out the obvious. “They'll be on us all the way back. We've got to break them.”
“The dropships can cover the last phase of the retreat.”
“You sure about that?” Natasha was less convinced. “We need these guys broken and running to give us the space to get out. Get our new buddy Sheridan to glass them from orbit.”
“He can't drop fire inside the city. That's against his rules of engagement.”
“So is losing.” She made a fair point. “If you call it down and tell him it's the only way to get us out of this, he'll do it.”
“They'll Court Martial him.”
“He'd still do it, Sheridan's one of us.”
She was probably right, but Jaime wasn't quite finished yet. His response, however, was cut off by an urgent signal.
“Alpha Actual, Baker Scout Lance, new enemies inbound. At least two, possibly three Assault Lances!”
“Scout lance, confirm that was Assault Lances?”
“Confirmed! Atlas, Victor, Awesome class, massed and heading for the point Baker and Able battalions overlap.”
“Report received, keep your distance and engage targets of opportunity.” Jaime switched frequency. “Command groups form on me, standby for heavy contact.”
“Still say we glass them.” Natasha rotated the Marauder and dropped in beside Jaime's Archer. “This is going to suck.”
She was not wrong, but Jaime wasn't going to put his new allies in such a difficult position. Partially it was because they'd built a good personal rapport with John Sheridan, a man who seemed to be on an upward trajectory in the Earth Alliance Fleet, and that was a valuable asset to cultivate. But there was also the element that if they asked for help, it showed they were in over their heads, and while that might end up being true Jaime, didn't want to show it in front of Earth Force. The EA had shown its strength in getting them here, now the Dragoons had to show they were just as dominant in their niche.
He linked up with the Command Lances from Able and Baker Battalions, a motley assortment of machines built around medium and heavy mechs with outstanding warriors. Putting them on the frontline was a risk. It meant they had to leave operational decisions to each Company commander in turn, but Jaime had faith his subordinates had the training and courage to hold their own.
“Assault units coming in near the stadium car park, eight hundred metres west,” the scout team reported. “ETA less than a minute.”
“We'll be there,” Jaime confirmed. “Firing positions, let's put a kill box around that stadium.”
“Taking the right flank,” Major Chan of Baker Battalion confirmed. “I can give you about four minutes before the heat sinks fill.”
“I've got the left,” Major Yukinov of Able echoed. “We've also got about four minutes before we need to disengage and cool off.”
“That won't be a problem,” Natasha cut in. “I expect we'll all be dead in two.”
There were a few grim chuckles. As dead pan as her delivery had been, they were wizened enough to know she might well be right.
“Once in position fire at will, you know your jobs.” Jaime put his unit right in the path of the enemy advance. “If this goes bad, drop smoke and rally on Beta Regiment and the Davions.”
They took position among the ruined buildings, the destruction serving to level much of the battlefield by now. When they had started, the apartments and office blocks had provided a fair amount of cover, but by now the district was little more than skeletal facades and piles of concrete rubble. It had changed the nature of the fight from a mech sized game of hide and seek to a far more treacherous battle where the rubble hindered mobility, but left lines of fire open.
The Capellans again showed some professionalism as they arrived into position, coming up on the far side of the shot up stadium, carefully checking their surroundings. There was the obvious temptation just to come barrelling across the carpark and lay into the Dragoons, simply because they were manning Assault mechs, but whoever was in charge was marshalling their forces and making sure they maintained mutual support.
“Got a lock, opening fire.” Jaime started proceedings, lobbing some missiles across the few hundred metres, a few other long range units joining in. The Capellans instantly responded, the front line units scattering and immediately returning fire with respectable accuracy. The Dragoons gave some back, long ranged PPC shots whizzing back and forth across the sky, but with little effect.
“They're deploying against us,” Natasha recognised, sending off some staggered fire from her PPCs to keep her heat levels steady.
“Which means they aren't going for their primary target.” Jaime shuffled around some piles of bricks and burning cars, taking a little time to use the large robotic hands of his Archer to pile up some of the rubble into a very makeshift rampart.
“Unless we are the Primary target. All four of the Regiment's senior staff in one place,” She noted pointedly. “Hell of a gamble, Colonel.”
He didn't have time to ruminate, the Capellans began to advance, wasting no time and maintaining the pressure on Jaime's ad hoc company. The Assault force divided, five Awesome and Banshee mechs formed a loose firing line and laid down some intense suppressive fire while the rest of the group began to charge. From somewhere behind, in an effective bit of coordination, a platoon of mobile mortars threw some smoke rounds overhead to cover the attack, robbing the Dragoons of a clear shot across the carpark.
Jaime's unit held its fire. Earlier in the battle, they might have blindly sprayed gunfire into the smoke, but by now, they had to make each shot count. They had been so heavily engaged with no respite. Their heat systems were almost maxed with no opportunity to bleed off. It was going to be rough.
Nobody in the group was a raw recruit. Most of the command elements were hardened warriors, veterans of the Clans and their brutal rites and traditions. They had seen countless duels and battles, faced death several times, they were all but unshakeable. Even with all that, the moment nine Atlases came charging through the smoke, in unison, at point blank range might just have been the most terrifying moment of Jaime Wolf's life.
The Dragoons opened up with everything they had and it didn't even slow down the juggernaut, the Atlas group soaking up the assorted weapons, shrouding themselves in flame and steam. They smashed through any obstacle in their way, shouldering through the torn out remnants of office towers and pulverising the concrete beneath their feet to dust. Upon seeing their enemies they cheered, voices amplified and projected by speaker systems in their mechs, a deafening 'Ura' released from the mighty skull faces as they set themselves loose upon those who had desecrated their home.
Jaime backed off fast, a pair of mechs smashing through his simple rubble wall like it was made of foam pellets. He gave them a salvo of laser fire, his weapons about as useful as a garden hose against the solid armour of the closest Altas, which retaliated with an AC20. The shot barely missed, the ripple of air from its passing potent enough to rattle the blue Archer. Jaime sidestepped, metal gripped feet skidding on the loose ground as he drew on all his skill to stay upright. He fought to keep the closest Atlas between him and the second one, making sure he at least only had to deal with attacks from a single overwhelmingly dangerous warmachine and not two.
His enemy dumped a salvo of laser fire and an SRM into Jaime, the Archer taking the hits but not appreciating it, the armour cracking and buckling. He returned fire but was obviously not going to beat an Atlas in a gunnery duel. He bit his lip and charged, half running and half leaping into brawling range, which the Atlas warmly welcomed.
Both the Atlas and Archer were well suited to a brawling match, both carrying a pair of mechanical fists capable of smashing and tearing lesser opponents to shreds. The Atlas had the advantage of size and mass, the Archer had the advantage of Jaime Wolf. He rotated the torso of his Archer to evade the initial strike from the Capellan Atlas, the massive jab clipping off his shoulder, denting the now empty LRM racks. In return, he delivered a potent uppercut, the strike catching the Atlas' mechanical head in a sharp impact that knocked off a few plates and likely disorientated the pilot. This was his chance to do real damage. He was so focused he almost missed a Capellan Victor running straight at him from his right side.
It took all his skill to disengage and get some distance, abandoning his attack on the stunned Capellan to avoid a point blank barrage from the Victor. He barely survived, but by pulling back, he had now opened himself to attack from the second Atlas, which he had been trying to mask himself from. He was staring down three assault mechs at point blank range. It was absolutely not an optimal situation.
That was when his backup arrived, Lieutenant Vordel smashing into the second Atlas with a shoulder tackle that would have made any member of Clan Ghost Bear shed a single tear of joy. He bodied the machine, firing his last AC20 shot into its chest with enough force to knock out the Capellan's own autocannon and turn it into a fair fight.
On the other side was Natasha Kerensky, her Marauder's left arm a tangle of metal she now used as a club to unbalance the enemy Victor while delivering her last three rounds from the AC10 into its cockpit. The angle was too shallow to beat the armour, but it did at least send the pilot scurrying backwards, skidding on the debris and buying a little time.
“Call in the last line, Boss! They're our last resort, this is the last resort!” Natasha barked as she threw the beat up Marauder into a melee struggle with the Victor, something only she would commit to and expect to actually win. She was also right. Jaime had a few seconds until his target, that first Atlas recovered. He had to play his last card.
“Davion Lead, Wolf here. If you're done covering the Rangers, we could use you over here.” Which was Jaime's best effort at understatement. The Dragoons were on the edge of breaking, he was in the fight of his life, the entire line was collapsing, but he was damned if he was going to actually sound desperate for help.
“Colonel Wolf, I've been monitoring the situation, my people are almost in position already,” Hanse Davion replied, almost at once, with the slightest hint of glee at anticipating this moment. “Standby Dragoons, incoming on your left flank.”
Hanse didn't contradict Jaime. They could both see the situation was dire and both were well aware the Prince was now the only thing that could save the day, but it would have been dishonorable to crow about it. Instead, Hanse simply took his post on the right of his unit and watched as the last mechs took up formation.
“Third Guards, at the ready!” He started the ball rolling. “Staggered line formation, even numbers thirty metres forward! At the double!”
Hanse had brought his Guards mechs around the main fighting and set them up in a single line, virtually shoulder to shoulder, perpendicular to the Capellan attack. They had seen him of course, but his forces had easily swept away the screen of light mechs and tanks trying to stop the Guards. Now he was in place and about to demonstrate what the Third was best at.
“Front Rank, alpha strike, suppression pattern. Ten second rapid fire, on my command!” Hanse rattled off the instructions, the forward half of the formation levelling their assorted guns at the mass of battling Capellans. Some were moving to switch targets, but disengaging from such an intense engagement was not a quick process. “Commence firing!”
The front line delivered a vicious volley of gunfire, a mix of lasers, PPCs, and cannons ripping into the Capellan flank. A lot of the initial shots were wasted on the last remnants of the various structures still scattered across the city, but they at least cleared the way for the next salvoes.
“Second Rank, advance sixty metres! Double time!” Hanse ordered sharply, devoting his efforts now to keeping the attack moving. This was all about timing now, balancing the weight of fire with the build up of heat among his units. His counter showed ten seconds had elapsed, the initial units ceasing fire just as the second group advanced between them to form a new front line.
“Front Rank, alpha strike, suppressive pattern! Make ready! Ten seconds rapid, commence fire!”
The fresh units now took up the attack, shooting across at the enemy. At this point, aiming was a formality, there was so much smoke from fires and screens that much of their barrage was going to miss. Hanse was hoping sheer weight and concentration of fire would inflict losses and sow confusion among the Capellans before the range closed and things became more bloody.
“Second rank, sixty metres, advance!”
Ten seconds wasn't enough to really allow the heat sinks of his units to cool off, but it at least gave them a few percent and that was worth it. If he had simply marched them forward under withering fire, his Guards would have arrived into killing range with heatsinks filled. If he had charged headlong into battle before shooting, the Capellans wouldn't have a chance to panic and break off from the Dragoons.
His lead units ceased fire and were replaced by the original frontline. It was a steady advance by fire drill pulled from ancient history, an example of the perfect discipline and clockwork drill the elite of House Davion could manage. No other force in the galaxy could maintain such clean drill in the face of such a vicious fight. Hanse was immensely proud of them, the clean lines stepping over hollowed out buildings with the red setting sun bathing them in its rays.
“Front rank! Ten seconds rapid, commence firing!”
“Redeploy! Get your tanks on the right and find a clear line of sight!” Romano was shifting units and frantically trying to extricate some form of defence from the confusion. It should have been easy. Relocate one lance from point A to point B, where it could hit the freshly repositioned Davion forces. But in practice, the roads were jammed with vehicles and collapsed buildings, vehicles and mechs were already in life or death struggles with Wolf's Dragoons, and the reserves she had been gathering were still not in position.
“Grenadiers, what is your position?”
“We're advancing on the Landing zone, heavily engaging the second unit of Dragoons,” the answer came. “Unable to assist.”
“Second Capellan Reserve Cavalry, status report?”
“First Company is engaged, other units approaching your position.”
“I'm sending you updated coordinates, get over there immediately!” Romano ordered. Albemerle was keeping up the pressure on the Dragoons, but inevitably she had been forced to pull units out of the drive on them to face Davion. It was infuriating, they had been so close!
Another series of tracers flashed by, a sign the Davion forces now had clear lines of fire across the Capellan positions. Return fire was heading back, a couple of the attackers already sizzling from direct hits, but any Capellan fire was immediately overwhelmed by the Battalion scale volleys hurled back. The Davions were advancing with each attack. As soon as they were close enough, they'd break formation and storm forward, surrounding her allies. Even with numerical superiority, as soon as that happened, it was over.
“Second Reserve, where is your commander?”
“I don't know, Ma'am.”
Romano exhaled, she had her assignment to marshal the reserves, but the situation was clearly critical. “I am assuming command, form on this position and prepare to receive a frontal attack.”
”Yes Ma'am!”
“Not one step back!”
“Commence firing!”
The steady routine of fire and advance, fire and advance ground on. Ahead, resistance was increasing as Capellan mechs and tanks were rushed into a hasty defensive line to meet the attack. This was fine, every unit here was a unit not crushing down on the Dragoons. A few more minutes and the Dragoons would be able to disengage, regroup, and rejoin the fight. For a while, it would fall to the Third Guards to confront the full weight of the Capellan elite, and that was something Hanse was ready for.
A mech to his left staggered and fell out of line, an arm sheared off and leg heavily damaged.
“Twelve, pull back to the landing ships, you'll do no more good here,” Hanse ordered. “All heavily damaged machines or wounded mechwarriors withdraw to the landing ships! You will be the last line of defence! Fall back and assist Beta Regiment!”
Another volley crashed, the mechs showing about sixty percent on their heat sinks, averaged out. That was going to have to be good enough. They were close enough now to pick individual targets and the utility or their rigid formation was vanishing. It was time to claim a little glory.
“Third Guards! Sound the charge!” Hanse gave his eager warriors what they had waited for. “Get in among them and let them know fear!”
His company commanders played out recorded bugle calls, the peeling notes firing the blood and linking every warrior to their glorious tradition.
“With me!” Hanse rushed forward, the Battlemaster blazing every weapon as it rushed the Capellan defenses. “Cry God for Ian, New Avalon, and Saint Robert!”
The two sides met in a clash of heavy metal, often literally as mechs collided with each other. The Capellans were good, but the fighting against the Dragoons had left them exhausted, overheated, and drained of ammunition. As courageous as individual warriors were, the powerful assault by fresh troops was straining them past breaking point. They began to give ground.
Jaime could catch glimpses of the situation changing, the balance of power shifting. His main focus though was still the Atlas, the Assault mech clawing at his Archer and hitting him with whatever weapon it could. Jaime had knocked out the AC20 as a priority, stuffing its barrel with a freight truck to neutralise it. The mech scale fist fight was hair raising, the Archer barely keeping ahead by sheer virtue of Jaime's superlative piloting skills. He used the terrain as best he could, kept the Atlas on uneven ground so it couldn't really lean into its punches, ducked and weaved as much as the mech would allow like an elderly prize fighter.
He finally saw an opening as the opposing warrior overextended, allowing the Archer to drive in under a punch and kick one of the Atlas' knees. As the machine staggered and wobbled, Jaime barged into it, throwing the full weight of his Archer into the push, leveraging the mech with every ounce of power to finally topple it. The Atlas dropped with a crunch into some sort of factory, the pilot knocked unconscious by the impact, causing the machine to fall still and motionless.
“Dragoons!” Jaime tried to sound authoritative, but by now was just so tired and breathless, he was happy simply to be audible. “Disengage and regroup at phase line delta. Withdraw by pairs, do not turn your backs.”
His Regiment responded quickly, the various lances taking some steps back while maintaining as much fire as they could. Normally, the Capellans would have advanced to take that ground, but not anymore, not with the Davions chewing up their left side. Some Capellans held their ground to make sure the Dragoons didn't try anything foolishly brave, while other units pulled back to face the Davion Guards.
“Davion lead, Wolf here. Ee're on our way to the rally point. Disengage at your convenience.”
“Copy that Colonel, we'll see you there.”
