Michael A. Stackpole - BattleTech - Mechwarrior - Dark Age 01

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s

Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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1

Wise men think twice before they act once.

—Ancient Terran proverb

Leary’s Eyrie

Joppa, Helen

Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere

13 November 3132

Ionce heard someone complain that the two most abundant things in the universe were hydrogen and

stupidity, but she declined to say which led the way. I figure that in the random distribution of things

throughout the universe, hydrogen probably has the edge, but in Leary’s Eyrie stupidity was being

stockpiled at an alarming rate. This wasn’t unusual or even rare, but the pressure of it seemed to dull

even smart folks and fray nerves.

I’d come to the Eyrie hoping for a Tri-Vid beer ad. Not for a specific advert, mind you, but the sort of

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situation they depict: warm night, hot woman, cold beer, sweat—on the beer bottle and otherwise. I

wanted the full-on fantasy that had inspired generations of men to swill the liquid that gave them the

bellies they sucked in when such a woman appeared in their midst. I knew it was a fantasy, but that was

all we had out here in the hinterland of Helen.

Of course, I wasn’t looking much like a fantasy. Or an ad, unless it was one of those late-night ads for a

product that is guaranteed to make you feel younger, look younger and turbo-charge the parts you’d

need working if the beer-ad fantasy came through. The crew and I had just come off the line after

eighteen hours straight, and I’d not been near a bed for about double that time and a razor triple it. I did

have a clean shirt on, but the jeans and work boots could have starred in their own ads for miracle

cleaning products.

Or public service spots about toxic waste and hazmat dumping.

We’d been up in the forest, harvesting old growth, and having to pour on the diesel to clear a swath

before noon. The local courts had issued a restraining order pending the review of some endangered

species protection action filed by the People and Divergent Species Union. PADSU was the political arm

of the militant Gaia Guerrilla Front, which viewed the use of any tool against the earth or anything on it as

an assault that needed avenging. While they preached a sort of Luddite,

return-to-nature-and-embrace-peace philosophy, they were pretty good at wielding high explosives and

other weapons in attacking the forestry and mining industries on Helen.

Rusty, over by the pool table, sucked beer from a bottle. “What do you mean you don’t believe

PADSU and the GGF are behind the collapse of the communications grid? Good Lord, Pep, it’s

obvious. They hate technology, and that was huge technology. It goes down, they crawl out of the

woodwork and begin really going to town on us. One and one is two.”

Pep, who earned her nickname by being small and quick, pointed her pool cue at him as if it were a

rapier. “Problem is, you ain’t got one to add to one. The grid goes down, The Republic gets divided into

its various worlds. No news flows, so The Republic can’t react. Folks get fearful, opportunists take over

and groups like the GGF pop up. PADSU’s been around forever, always protesting and things, but

peacefully. Now that the Knights of The Republic can’t figure out where to tromp with big BattleMech

feet, the GGF forms up and starts getting nasty.”

“Not like the old days. They’d never have done that in the old days.” Keira-san glanced over from the

table where he sat watching a Tri-Vid program. It was a rerun of some ’Mech battle on Solaris. Looked

like turn-of-the-century stuff to me, with some kid who was supposed to be the next Kai

Allard-Liao—which every fighter there wanted to be, of course, and every fighter there got billed as until

the next Kai-wannabe flamed his butt. And in the nine years since Kai Allard-Liao died fighting for The

Republic in the Capellan Confederation, every titleholder dedicated his title to Kai’s memory—though

not one of them got out into the real universe and put his butt on the line fighting for something other than

a market share of audience.

Pep brought her cue around in a slash that passed bare centimeters over Keira-san’s brush-cut scalp.

“What do you know of the old days? Ain’t a one of us here wasn’t born in The Republic era. Devlin

Stone helped put down the Word of Blake attacks, then disarmed folks and established peace. In the old

days, as you put it, the local lordlings would have been out in their own personal BattleMechs, shooting

up the peasants, then claiming they were putting down a rebellion. Check any history of the time before

and after Stone, and you’ll see how good The Republic Peace has been for everyone. And will continue

to be once ComStar gets planets talking to each other again.”

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Keira-san slumped down in his chair and focused his attention on a fight he’d seen dozens of times

before. The biggest tragedy of his life had been the lack of new Solaris fights since the grid’s collapse.

The finer points of how a lack of communication between planets was creating pressures that were

allowing society to melt down were lost on him.

That wasn’t really his fault, though, since Keira-san had been born on Helen and raised here as a part of

a minority community from the Combine. He’d never played well with others, whereas elsewhere on

Helen, old and new communities had really banded together under the leadership of The Republic. All the

old tensions that used to pit the successor states one against the other had vanished. Everyonewas living

happily ever after.

The Republic had used a carrot-and-stick approach to make that union work. People who worked to

bring divergent communities together were rewarded with land grants and community investments.

People who worked against that sort of thing were punished, either through neglect or being forcibly

relocated to other worlds within The Republic, and never got the incentives that made others happy to

move. Those who liked The Republic’s way of doing things found it to be “progressive” and “inspiring,”

whereas the victims found it to be “repressive” and “conspiratorial.” Regardless, it worked.

Then two things happened. Nearly three years ago Devlin Stone stepped down as Exarch of The

Republic. This shook the confidence of the people who had grown up equating peace and prosperity

with his rule. While Damien Redburn, his hand-picked successor as Exarch, had been doing a good job

and confidence had begun to rise, the collapse of the Hyperpulse Generator grid really knifed The

Republic in the gut.

“I’m telling you, it was PADSU who did it!” Rusty punctuated his remark by plunking his empty bottle

on the bar. “They didn’t want anyone seeing what was going on here, so no one could react to it. It

makes perfect sense.”

Hector sent the nine ball crashing into the corner pocket. “Game, Pep, you owe me twenty Rep credits.”

“Double or nothing.”

Hector gave her a broad smile. “Going for forty stones? You’re on. Brave girl.”

Boris, who in physical bulk makes up for what he lacks in wit, raised a hand large enough to palm a rack

of balls. “I had next game.”

“You have next set. Rack ’em, Pep.” Hector glanced at Rusty. “The filings in your lubricant there, Rusty,

is that PADSU is local. You’ve heard the rumors coming in from JumpShip traffic. The grid is down

everywhere.”

Rusty sniffed. “Noteverywhere .”

“Yeah, okay, so your mama did send you birthday greetings, but the last leg was made on a JumpShip

coming in from Towne.” Hector shook his head, then looked up at me with dark brown eyes. “Sam,

explain it to him, will you?”

“Uh huh, like I understand it.” I sipped more beer, and abruptly decided that talking was better than

swilling that crap. “Okay, here’s the deal the way I heard it. Someone coordinated a lot of strikes on a

lot of worlds, taking out the HPGs. No one talks to anyone. No one knows who is doing what to whom,

or who did the attack. It wasn’t PADSU’s doing, but Rusty could be half right.”

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“I could?” He sat up straighter. “Yeah, see there. You tell ’em, Sam.”

Pep concentrated on racking the balls so she wouldn’t bust out laughing. I gnawed the inside of a cheek

so I’d not join her. “Well, it could be, Rusty, that the GGF is part of whoever took the grid down. They

weren’t around before the grid went down. They might have arrived, made a deal with PADSU to help

them out, creating discord here so something else could happen.”

“Nothing is going to happen now, though, Donelly.” The bartender, Max Leary, replaced Rusty’s beer

with another sweaty bottle. “News came up from Overton. The DropShip that burned in last night had a

Republic Knight on it. Looks like the piece will be here keeping the peace.”

“Piece?” I shot the bald man a hooded glance. I knew he’d used the termpiece to rile Pep, since she’d

rejected more advances from him than I had fingers and toes to count—and that was just this afternoon.

Of course, with her being so small and him being so, well,round , they would never hook up. Save for

the lack of gun turrets and his wearing lumberjack castoff clothing, Leary could have been mistaken for a

Union-class DropShip.

Pep ignored Leary, so the bartender growled at me. “Yeah, some beauty-queen Knight was the main

cargo.”

“You catch a name?”

“Why, you looking to ask her on a date or something?”

I nodded solemnly. “That’s right. I am in powerful need of female companionship.”

I’d said that with a smile and braced myself for the barbs that would be flying in my direction, but then a

funny thing happened. Actually, it was a coincidental thing, which really led to an eruption of stupidity.

In through the door came two women. Gorgeous women, beer-ad gorgeous they were, and one was

even clad in the sort of baby-doll T-shirt and short shorts that’s the style in beer ads. Young enough to

look innocent, old enough to know how to use that look of innocence, with blond hair and a dazzling

smile, she paused inside the door and looked at all of us.

She had luscious azure eyes.

By the way, my using the wordazure , that’s how you know this is literature. If it wasn’t, I’d have just

said blue. Sapphire could have worked, too, or lapis lazuli, but she had that sort of softness that doesn’t

make you think of minerals.

But I digress, which is another literary thing to do, just in case you were keeping score.

Her companion seemed a bit older and harder, so I could use minerals to describe her, except she had

nothing rocky about her. I could have called her hair rusty red, but that would be confusing, and her eyes

weren’t dark enough for emeralds, and there are so many shades of jade that just saying jade wouldn’t

really tell you what color they were. Nice green eyes, though, very much alive and wary, taking us all in

for more reasons than her companion did. She moved fluidly, stepping from behind her friend quickly,

freeing her to act if she needed to. Her red hair had been gathered back into a braid and I noticed it had

been tucked down into the collar of her shirt.

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This is where the whole explosion of stupidity thing began to boil over. They were both PADSU—if the

coeds-on-a-hike attire hadn’t told us that, the little info-disks the blonde held in her left hand did. And

while the blonde might be here to enlighten us, Red was clearly prepared to fight, and starting a fight with

lumberjacks is just dumb. You might beat them up, but at least one of them will hunt you down and his

ForestryMech will saw your house into a duplex.

Leary knew what was coming. He started to put the good liquor under the bar. Both bottles.

I turned on my stool and slid from it. “Excuse me, Miss.”

The blonde, who had been halfway to Rusty, reading him rightly as the most susceptible to PADSU’s

message, stopped and gave me the sort of smile that would have had me investing in a brewery a keg at a

time were a brand name plastered over her chest. “Do you want to help us save the Mottled Lemur?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Oh, you should.” She spoke in one of those little-girl pouty voices and, just for a moment, I felt my

resolve weakening. “There are only fifteen thousand mating pairs left on Helen. Their natural habitat has

been greatly reduced through logging and mining operations that have despoiled hectare upon hectare of

pristine nature. Hundreds of thousands of divergent species of plants and animals have perished.”

I held a hand up. “And bugs. People always forget the bugs.”

The blonde blinked and hesitated for a moment. “Yes, and insects, too.”

“Arachnids.” Pep smiled and chalked her cue. “And bacteria. No one ever remembers them.”

I nodded. “I seriously lament the death of slime molds. No one can remember if they are plants or

animals, so I think they should be mourned twice.”

Blondie stared at me, her face slackening. Her lower lip began to sneak out in a pout and her shoulders

sagged just a little. In a heartbeat I knew the lower lip was going to quiver and tears would gather in

those azure eyes. “This is very serious. We’re trying to save lives.”

“I know, darlin’, so am I. I’m trying to save yours.” I reached out and took hold of her left arm with my

right hand. “We’re not the audience you’re looking for.”

“Get your hand off her.”

I glanced past Blondie at Red. “You don’t want to be making an idle threat in here.”

Red had three choices. She could talk and just delay making a choice between the other two. She could

back down and they would leave. Or, like every other woman who dyed her hair Natasha Kerensky-red

and thought she was tough, she could act.

She picked number three, which did have the desired effect of making me take my hand off Blondie’s

arm. As Red took a step forward, planted her left foot and snapped her right leg around in a

kick—rather quickly, too, I’ll give her that—I, too, stepped forward. I caught her thigh in my ribs and

locked my left arm down on it. I sank my fingers stiffly into her hamstring, which added a gasp to her

snarl of frustration.

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Then I crashed my right fist down into her face. Twice. I think it was the second punch that broke her

nose. Iknow it was the first that broke her jaw. Then I pitched her off into a table, from which she

rebounded heavily and hit the floor hard but limp.

I turned to look at Blondie. Color had drained from her face, or had been washed from it with the tears.

“Oh, my God.”

“Rusty, help this young lady get her friend into their hovercar and down to the trauma center in

Kokushima.”

Rusty drained his beer, then stood, straightened his plaid flannel shirt and smiled. His smile wasn’t as

dazzling as Blondie’s, but she had more and whiter teeth than he did. Still, she reciprocated and he

helped her drag a moaning Red from the bar.

One would think, of course, Leary’s Eyrie had been home to enough stupidity for one night, but this

would be because one was not taking into consideration Boris. Boris was frustrated because he was just

sitting around waiting, which runs contrary to his self-image as a man of action. His job driving a

ConstructionMech adapted to clearing underbrush runs contrary there, too, but Boris lives in his own

little world, which, unfortunately, allows him to emerge into mine.

“You didn’t ought to have did that, Sam.”

“I shouldn’t have did, er, done, what, Boris?”

Boris carefully set his cue down and waded across the bar floor toward me. His shadow fell over me

and I actually felt a chill. Leary might have been a DropShip, but Boris was a planet. “You hit a woman.”

“And?”

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“Uh huh. You missed that she tried to kick me, right?”

Boris shook his head, which, in a way, amazed me. He looked so like a granite statue, with strong

features and black hair that never seemed to shift out of place, that half the time I didn’t think he could

move. Fact was, that hair came out of his neurohelmet that way, which just is not natural.

“I saw that, but that was no excuse. You hit hertwice .”

I nodded and sighed. “And how would you have handled it?”

Boris moved far faster than I’d ever expected him to, which meant he was really steaming. He grabbed

me by the shoulders and spun me around, then dropped his arms around me in a bear hug. He squeezed

tight and lifted me from the ground.

I struggled for a second, then shrieked and went limp. A quick jolt ran through him, then his grip

slackened for a moment. He leaned forward to put me on my feet again, but my knees buckled, so he

grabbed me to hold me upright.

I pushed off the ground with my feet and smashed the back of my head into his face. Something snapped

and a warm fluid gush ran down through my scalp. Boris’ hands left my body to go to his face, which is

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why, when I snapped my right heel up between his legs and into his loose flesh, there was nothing to

protect his beer-buying brains. His previous howl of pain rose into the inaudible range, then he toppled

back with the slow grace of the tall trees we cut, and shook the ground about as hard when he landed.

Hector, our foreman, looked over at me and shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Sam.”

“He’ll be fine by morning, Hector. You won’t lose him for work.”

“I don’t care about that.” Hector jerked his head toward Pep. “He had next game. His paycheck was

gonna be mine.”

“Glad to know you have our best interests at heart, Hector.”

“He does, Sam, unlike you.” Keira-san shifted in his chair and gave me a venomous glance. “You just

messed up someone from PADSU. The GGF is working the area. You just issued them an open invite to

make our lives miserable.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, Keira-san.” I smiled. “Oh, well, working beats unemployment. Leary, another

beer, for tomorrow I may die.”

2

When you cannot clothe yourself in a lion’s skin, put on that of the fox.

—Spanish proverb

ARU Lot 47-6

Joppa, Helen

Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere

14 November 3132

Ididn’t wake up dead, which was all to the good, nor did I feel that bad. I had a couple of swollen

knuckles on my right hand, and a bump on the back of my head, but I wasn’t in jail and didn’t need

stitches, so I figured I was way ahead of other mornings. I crawled out of my rack and pulled myself into

crusty jeans and my work boots, then stumbled to the head to divest myself of my beer inventory and, to

use the literary term, attend to my other ablutions.

I found a mug, knocked dirt out of it, and poured myself a cup of something hot, black and strong. Since

I found no metal parts I decided I’d gotten coffee this time, not solvent, though it would have been easy

to be wrong. Still, it burned down into my belly and opened my eyes. Being as how it was still before

dawn, that was only a marginal benefit.

When we’d gotten back from Leary’s, Hector had gotten a notice that said the judge had given us a

twenty-four-hour extension before the restraining order went into effect. I’m sure PADSU would say

he’d been bought off, but I doubted it. The lumber company did everything on the cheap, and if he

couldn’t be bought off for a metric ton of sawdust mulch, they weren’t going to pay. Closer to the mark

was the fact that the Mottled Lemur wasn’t actually native to Helen and, for centuries, had been the

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object of summer festivals devoted to killing the little things before they could descend like locusts on a

farmer’s fields. And they were stupid, too—cleaning their mortal remains out of the guts of an AgroMech

after harvest is seriously bothersome, I’ve been assured.

So we thought of the lemurs as varmints and PADSU thought of them as “cute.” Cute becomes

something of a trump card, but I guess the judge wasn’t of a mind to be trumped, giving us another day

to decorate the forest with sawdust. Not the greatest of jobs, but it had me driving a ’Mech, so I was not

of a mind to complain.

I wandered out to the hangar and mounted the ladder to the cockpit of the ForestryMech I’d been

assigned. It still had that ugly, factory shade of yellow paint on it, but had been scraped down to bare

metal in a number of places. Aside from Alpine Resources Unlimited decals on it, the only decoration

was a finely scripted name, “Maria,” above the cockpit. The story goes that one of the other pilots

named it after his wife. That sounds romantic until you learn that it was the shrieking of the chainsaw that

most reminded him of her.

I secured the hatch behind me and settled into the command couch. My coffee mug went into the holder

beside the right joystick, freeing my hands to pull on and snap closed the cooling vest. It was bulkier than

others I’ve worn—“Cost cutting begins with YOU,” being one of ARU’s more endearing motivational

mottoes—but it did the job when I plugged it in. It had a ballistic cloth cover that wouldn’t stop a bullet,

but might soak off a few splinters.

Reaching up and back, I pulled down the neurohelmet and settled it on my head. It, too, was bulky and

heavy, but the extra padding in the cooling vest helped there. I made sure the brainwave pickups were

seated in the right places and snug, since the last thing I wanted was having the machine lose track of my

sense of balance when things got rough.

Punching a few buttons, I brought the secondary systems on-line, then waited to initiate the engine start.

The computer flashed me a check code, which I replied to, then a mechanical voice asked for my

personal activation code. I always opt for a voiceprint check as opposed to something keyed in, so I

said, “There once was a fair lady Knight, whose smile was so very tight . . .”

I won’t continue because I suppose you’ve heard it before. So had the computer, so the huge engines

began their popping, gasping and smoky journey to life. Maria shook like a house on a fault line, but no

coffee sloshed from my mug. Across the command console all the systems came live and were green.

Up against a real BattleMech, a ForestryMech like Maria wouldn’t seem to be much of a threat. The left

arm ends in a grabbing claw, which could crush light armor or snap off some small weapons. The

chainsaw that is the right hand can do some serious grinding, and the pruning laser mounted above it

might melt some ferro-ceramics, but it was a jury-rigged laser rifle and so would probably only bubble

paint. I’m not saying Maria could put a BattleMech down, but anything that came to tangle with her

would have scars to show it had been in a fight.

And if you don’t believe me, there are plenty of tree stumps in the forest that would say otherwise.

I stepped on up and out, guiding Maria past Black Betty, the ConstructionMech Boris drove. I keyed

my radio and greeted him, but it looked like he wasn’t talking to me. Or, it could have been that his

broken nose was making him talk funny enough he couldn’t get his ’Mech started. I laughed at that idea,

then began the trudge up to the worksite.

Pep raced by in her hovercar, hauling a butt-cart full of trimmers. They are the folks who swarm over the

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trees we fell, trimming off branches and affixing the chains we use to lift the logs into another cart for Pep

to drag back to the loading station. They’re actually the ones who are in the most danger from GGF

attacks. Hitting an iron spike driven into the trunk of a tree won’t even nick Maria’s chainsaw, but it will

destroy one of the handhelds these folks use. That leaves a lot of chain shrapnel flying about which could,

as moms everywhere warn, poke an eye out.

The base of our work area was about three kilometers up the mountain, though taking the road we’d

carved out made the trip a bit longer than that, what with all the switchbacks and everything. The road

was actually looking pretty beaten up, with ’Mech tracks frozen in mud like fossilized dinosaur footprints.

The piled mud squished down pretty easily under Maria’s heavy tread, but it was as difficult for her to

make headway as it would have been for me to go mucking about through a swamp. Maria was using my

sense of balance to control the gyros and keep her upright, and I was fighting the controls with every

step, sloshing coffee all the way.

I finally reached the clearing and saw Hector over at the trailer he used for his command post. I keyed

the radio. “The road sucks, Hector. If Rusty told you he graded it, he’s lying something serious.”

“Good morning to you, too, Sam.” Hector’s tone was a bit testy, but I could see a smile on his face, so I

just listened. “Rusty’s driving Black Betty today. Boris is down in Kokushima getting his nose set.”

“He should have them make it smaller. That way the next time he sneezes his brain won’t fall out.”

“What brain?”

“Good point. So, where is it you want me waging war on trees this fine morning?”

He punched a couple of buttons on a datapad and beamed the coordinates to me. “Gonna have you

plunge in, cut a swath due west, then down to the south, isolating a patch for us to clean up later.”

“Great. Trailblazing. Thanks.”

He shrugged. “Orders come from above my pay grade.”

“What did our masters say about the chances of GGF taking out their own restraining order?”

“Same as always: no damage to personnel or equipment.” Hector scratched at his cheek. “You thinking

on what Keira-san said last night about GGF doing some pay-back for you decking that girl?”

“Maybe. Keira-san isn’t right often, but when he is . . .” I shrugged. Maria didn’t. I raised the chainsaw

up and then brought it down again. “Those of us about to die salute you.”

“Go and die if you want to, Sam, just don’t dent the metal.”

“You’re all heart, Hector.”

“You know better than that: I’m management.”

I laughed and started Maria trudging off to the place where we were supposed to start working. As the

sun came up I was figuring it was going to be a pretty uneventful day. Despite PADSU’s rhetoric, the

forest we were cutting in had been harvested fifty years earlier, so this wasn’t old-growth forest in any

true sense. ARU might well have been cheap in terms of the equipment they bought, but Pep spent as

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much time hauling reseeders and seedlings up the mountain as she did dragging logs back down, and nary

a splinter went unused. Unlike most corporations, ARU did better than abide by The Republic’s rather

stringent land-use regulations.

I got to where I was meant to be and sized up the job. It was pretty much notch and cut. When looking

at a ForestryMech a lot of folks think we hold on to the tree with the grabber and cut it, sort of the way

one might trim a sunflower. The problem is that the trees can mass more than my ’Mech, and even when

that’s not the case, a falling tree will rip the claw right off. The claw’s useful for lifting and shifting or

leverage, but not much more than that.

The chainsaw does make pretty quick work of harvesting trees, however. I notched on the east side,

then cut from the west, which dropped the trees to the east as pretty as you please. Kind of mindless

work, but you get into a rhythm and pretty soon you’ve cut a swath twenty-five meters wide and a

hundred meters deep, with a river of trees pointing back the way you came.

Pretty soon, in this case, meant nine in the morning. My stomach, having once more survived ARU

coffee, was rumbling. I turned the ’Mech back around toward the base camp and radioed in. “Hector,

you sending me out some trimmers, or do I have to come back there and get my own breakfast?”

“Sam, just hang there. The mud is slowing everything down. Rusty couldn’t get Betty rolling, so he’s

grading the road now. Pep’s stuck behind him. Be about an hour.”

I frowned on behalf of my stomach, which couldn’t. “Geez, Hector, I thought our mid-morning repasts

truly meant something to you.”

“You only love me for the sweet rolls. I’ll have Pep bring you extra.”

“Deal. I’m so easy.” I turned Maria back around to continue my cutting, and that’s when I caught the

glimpse of the guy. He had just flitted behind a tree and had been coming at my six. Someone had been

reading old Gray Death Legion adventures, because he was hauling one huge old satchel charge and I

was pretty sure he’d planned to sneak up on me and tag Maria’s heel as I trudged off to breakfast.

I pointed the chainsaw toward the tree he’d used for shelter, then flicked on the external sound gear.

Before I could say anything to him, voices boomed, this time coming from the north. Men in black

combat fatigues, carrying sub-machine guns and looking very lethal, moved forward toward my quarry.

“Halt! This is Commander Reis of the Overton Constabulary’s Civil Defense Reaction Force! Don’t

make us do something we don’t want to do.”

I really do require another digression here. Commander Reis thinks he’s the next coming of Morgan

Hasek-Davion and might be, save that he’s too short, too fat, too arrogant, too ignorant and, despite his

girth, utterly gutless. The people in his CDRF were dedicated, but were trained on a shoestring budget

while being given all sorts of gadgets and other stuff they never really learned how to use. The CDRF

were all heart and brave, but in combat that means you don’t really know when you are outgunned and

need to retreat.

The situation was pretty simple. The GGF had come to blow up a ’Mech. They knew that the ’Mech

might not be crippled by their attack and that the pilot, being me, might take it poorly that I had been

attacked. For that reason they’d brought their commando troops up on a couple of hovertrucks that

were mounted with heavy machine guns. Reis’ warning alerted the gunners. Had he said nothing, his

people might have been able to take the bomber quietly.

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Michael A. Stackpole - BattleTech - Mechwarrior - Dark Age 01 - Ghost War

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