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Chapter Fifteen:Flexing Talons
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Vesox Endoiris
Several miles outside Sturmfeld City, Panzyr System
Deep Periphery
March 26th, 3025
Those motherfuckers.
Those sons of bitches.
Those cock sucking!- THEY KILLED HER!
There was nothing left of the goddess painted across The Egg’ save the charred, burnt tips of her toes, the edges scorched black and the paint bubbling in places from the heat.
Before, this was just business. A morally acceptable target that I could sweep aside in order to plant the seeds of my new Protectorate in the fertile soil of the Aurigan Reach. Nothing but a tin-pot dictator and his little fiefdom that no one would miss if, or when, they inevitably were burned alive by the flames of revolution.
But now?
Now it was personal.
An incoming radio call pulled me from my revenge fantasies. I answered it with a growl that a small part of me hoped my voice changer edited out, but the rest of me couldn’t give a shit about at the moment. “Go for command.”
“Command, this is Lieutenant Zakari–reporting in.”
The away team that had been sent ahead to secure the HPG building. “Lieutenant. You’d better have good news for me.”
While the distant sounds of gunfire and roared commands drifting through the receiver made it hard to tell, I think I was detecting a slight undercurrent of nervousness in the man’s voice. “Unfortunately not, sir. The Directorate’s already got the word out, paid the priority fee and everything. Coromodir knows we’re here.”
Damn!
It was always a long shot, but I was hoping to cut the Directorate off at the pass by smothering their call for help in the cradle. My only hope was that they were either too confident or too cheap to pay ComStar’s blood tax and expedite the HPG’s scheduled pulse. But no, I guess the sight of a LosTech DropShip with two escorts bearing down on them loosened the local government's purse strings.
“Very well then, were you at least able to send out our message?”
“Yes sir, ComStar wasn’t happy with us kicking in their door, but they were more than happy to take your money.”
Of course they were.“Were they cooperative, or will we have to deal with an angry ComStar going forward?”
There was a brief beat of silence, interspaced only with the distant sound of gunfire. “It was tense at first; we had a brief standoff with the ComGuard in the lobby, but we were able to talk our way in without bloodshed.”
“Good,” And thank the Spirits for small mercies, I have enough to deal with without a vengeful ComStar looming over our heads. “Then the first stage of the operation is complete. Head back to the ‘Talon, and proceed to phase line Beta. When the ‘Mech teams confirm the capture of the two triple-A sites, we will join you there. Command out.”
“Copy that, sir. Heading to phase line Beta, Seko out.”
As the radio fell silent, I turned my attention back towards the bridge’s holotable, where a crescent wave of blue triangles was slowly drifting across its surface–my army marching on Sturmfeld. As I watched, a lance of the smallest of them broke off, making a beeline towards a nearby massive ring filled with small red squares–the triple A site with its giant wall and small garrison of tanks and light ‘Mechs.
Crossing my paws behind my back, I stalked back and forth before the table’s gentle blue glow. Helpless to do more than watch as my triangles met the swarm of squares head-on, the battlenet exploding into roared callouts and angry screams as my army fought our first battle against a near-peer enemy.
These were no strung-out pirates, or fat and sleepy prison guards, but professional soldiers–hardened by a brutal coup and years of anti-piracy actions. While their tech was nowhere near as advanced as ours, their coordination was tight, and their tactics sound. The Directorate that sallied forth from the city fought a steady, organized retreat across the snow-swept plains, making us pay for every mile they surrendered in ruined armor and lost components. I could practically hear my wallet crying out in agony as the cost of this battle ticked upwards at an exponential rate.
Though as hard as they tried and as badly as they bit back against the inexhaustible hoard pouring out of my hangars, they couldn’t avoid losses. Squares on my map slowly faded one by one as reactors were SCRAM’d, or pilots were killed, sniped out of their seats with Particle Cannons and lasers, my triangles marching over the grayed-out ‘Mechs with apathetic indifference.There had been no deaths on our side yet, but it was only a matter of time.
I knew we would not be coming out the other side of this battle unscathed.
Finally, just as the main bulk of my force reached the last farm field separating them from the city, my two strike teams called in within minutes of each other–both AA guns secured, with only one Mongoose lost with a successful punch-out. Though, no one had found the ejected pilot yet. I ordered one of the Spiders on search and rescue, and keyed up the ship’s intercoms, this time borrowing the female avatar’s voice. “Attention all crew, prepare for a low-altitude combat hop, batten down all hatches and secure any loose gear, lift off in T-minus five minutes.”
Following my own advice, I hopped up into the command chair, jamming the neural jack into the port on the back of my neck and allowing myself to sink deep into the protective embrace of the Aerogel bed. Like all the times before, my senses exploded in a million different directions as my mind melded with the machine. My eyes became a thousand thousand pupils made of silicon and glass, each feed flowing into the next like the compound eye of a fly–showing the winding, arterial hallways and cavernous bays of my belly. Observing with their tireless gaze as the techs and marines rushed through my innards.
The roaring, thumping beat of my reactor pumped in time with my-
I viciously shook my head, forcing the growing mania down with a force of will. I couldn’t afford to indulge in the delusion of being a metal god, not with so many people depending on me.
When the five minutes were up, and everyone was safely tucked away on crash couches, I lit the fusion torches–angling the ship at a gentle incline as we broke the shackles of gravity with nearly two hundred meganewtons of raw force.
Fur Ball was quick to join me, the two of us gliding across the plains on careful, precise bursts of our fusion torches. We quickly caught up with the trailing element of our ground forces–lances of tanks and IFV’s, pushing forward in neat rows, trailing a thick cloud of snow in their wake.
The leading ‘Mech forces had only just stomped into range of the city’s defenders when we soared over their heads–slamming down with a cataclysmic roar in the dead-center of the battlefield. The ship hadn’t even finished settling when the blast shields lining the hull sprung open, weapon pods shooting out and opening up the second they cleared their bunkers. Each one carefully guided by my paw.
It was almost like a video game, and just as easy. All I had to do was point, mentally click, and another poor bastard was wiped from the face of the earth, leaving not enough of themselves behind to bury in a matchbox. This time, I allowed myself to sink further into the cold, apathetic embrace of the machine. These were not men and women with dreams and aspirations, or family and friends, or anything else that mattered that I was carelessly butchering by the score–No, these were nothing but favorable outcomes in the vast math of machine learning.
The correct answer at the end of a long chain of cold and crisp calculations.
My army flowed around the two DropShips, laying into the defenders in a hurricane of twirling missiles, scything lasers, and a hammering hail of Autocannon rounds. Darting to and fro beneath the stomping feet of these metal monsters, tanks and IFVs flowed from cover to cover, hulling down behind the hedgerows and ditches of the farmland and putting rounds downrange so their comrades could bound past them.
The battle had only raged on for mere minutes, and already we were taking losses.
One of my Goblin tanks took a bad hit–I didn’t even see what weapon got it, only the aftermath as the tank rolled lifelessly forwards, driven onwards only by sheer momentum and the last dying gasps of its engine. The turret spun aimlessly around as flames poured from the crew hatches and the gaping hole rent into the frontal armor. Men bodily threw themselves out of any exit they could–diving desperately into the snow to extinguish the flames clinging to their bodies.
Not far away, a Sentinel medium ‘Mech rushed forward to protect the stricken troop transport, only to take a round in the shoulder. Even from all the way up here, buried deep within The Bad Egg’s hull, I could almost hear the unbelievably loud p’tang! of a high-velocity round smashing into armor, but falling to find purchase. The brilliant yellow tracer flew off into the distance as the ‘Mech spun to the ground, crashing into the snow in a fountain of powder and topsoil.
After a long, protracted beat, lying perfectly still, the ‘Mech shuttered back to life, laboriously rolling onto its right shoulder, and levering itself back to its feet with its free arm. It stumbled forward far more cautiously this time, the pilot clearly hurt but not willing to abandon the marines still under fire. The Sentinel laid down suppressive fire with its Ultra Autocannon, every step accompanied by the thundering hatred of its main weapon.
The battlemech parked itself right in front of the ruined Goblin, shielding those behind it with its own body as the survivors helped each other back towards the ambulances trailing the fighting. I earmarked the mechwarrior for an accommodation and pay increase, before turning my attention back to the bulk of the fighting, where similar scenes were playing out all across the battlefield.
But, for every hit, every kill, every little last fucking scratch the Directorate managed to score upon us, they paid for it a thousandfold. The bunker that fired the shot that took out the Goblin was flattened by a concentrated hail of Arrow IV missiles, and the Rifleman that targeted my Sentinel barely took two steps, attempting to relocate, before I reduced it to less than iron filings in a hail of LRM fire. A lance of Javelins and Valkyries taking potshots at my rear support element with their missiles got the barest taste of my great displeasure as I sniped them all with precise use of my Gauss Rifles and Large Laser, specifically aiming for their cockpits. And if one or two of them ejected, only to be vaporised from the sky by laser fire? Well, then who’s to say it wasn’t an accident; It was a very chaotic battle, after all.
Like stomping on a particularly disgusting spider, and then dragging your foot across the concrete to just be sure it was dead, all the little, annoying, frustrating red squares infesting my holotable winked out, one by one. Some tried to flee, to run–desperately trying to disappear into the urban jungle behind them, but my Arrows and my LRMs stopped them before they could escape justice.
After what felt like an eternity and a half, but according to my chronometer, had only been a little less than twenty minutes, the main line of the Directorates’ defense collapsed, breaking in one final wave like a collapsing dam. My army, smelling blood in the water, surged forward, nipping at the fleeing battlemech’s heels as they quite literally stomped the lagging vehicles and infantry flat.
With the battle finally moving away, my medics and first responders were free to push closer to the fighting, loading up their ambulances with the dead and dying, spinning their wheels to rush them back to The Bad Egg’s awaiting infirmary.
As the last enemy ‘Mechs either surrendered or were cut down from behind, the battle moved from open fighting to what everyone was dreading–clearing the city out by hand. My battlemechs would be of no use here. They couldn’t kick in doors and secure buildings; it was now entirely up to the marines to see us through, and I could only hope that the equipment I gave them would be enough to get them through the hell of urban warfare.
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The fighting raged on through the night, with the Directorate attempting to transition to guerrilla warfare to resist these strange invaders, ones who hadn’t even declared their intent as they fell from the sky. But in order to wage a successful resistance, one needs the support of the local populace. Either for just places to hide and for crowds to blend in with, or even material wealth like food and weapons.
But, as the Directorate had only just conquered this world and usurped its rightful leadership not three years ago, the populace was less than willing to accommodate the defeated remnants of their oppressors. Civilian collaborators willingly made themselves known to the roving bands of my marines, eagerly guiding them directly to safe houses and weapon stashes.
The biggest victory of the night came just before dawn, when Max’s men were able to talk their way into the Panzyr News Network building. PNN, the premier local news station, had been co-opted by the regime to broadcast their new and approved messaging. Under the orders of propaganda officers, they had barricaded themselves in, halting our advance under the threat of destroying their own equipment if we tried to storm the building.
The standoff lasted until some of the employees cracked open a back door and allowed the marines to sneak in and take them by surprise. One very short gunfight later, and the propaganda machine of the Panzyr system was ours to command. I didn’t have the time to think up some elaborate message, so I just left the station broadcasting a call to shelter in place for now.
Beyond that, there was… something that hit closer to home.
The casualty list.
Fifteen dead, five missing, and more than fifty critically wounded–a number climbing by the hour. All of the dead lay with the infantry and vehicle crew, as, mercifully, we hadn’t lost a single MechWarrior, only two of their Mechs. The Mongoose that fell, taking on the AA gun, was going to be down and out for months, as the techs would have to replace much of the internal chest cavity. The other one, an Archer, was a total write-off after an unlucky shot went internal and cooked off its LRM ammo bin. The Mongoose’s MechWarrior was found with only minor cuts and bruises, but the Archer’s one had a severe concussion and needed to be airlifted back via hovercraft. The pilot, after regaining consciousness, has so far refused to speak to anyone, just curling up in bed and staring at the wall after learning he was now, once again, dispossessed.
He should be on his knees, praising whatever god he believes in that he wasn’t one of the poor bastards currently being scraped out of the burnt-out Goblin tank, or any of the others who fell taking the city. I’m sure we’d find him a salvaged mech to stick him in at the end of the battle.
In all honesty, only fifteen to twenty casualties on the scale of conquering an entire planet is… an insane feat, one that is already being celebrated by most of X-COM, with many pointing directly to the ‘LosTech’ armor I gave them as the main reason that we lost so few.
Personally, I thought that the fact that we dropped practically a full-blown hospital right onto the frontlines was what kept casualties to a minimum.
Damnit.
The Protectorate training regiment had prepared Vesox for many things. To fight, to command, to kill, and even to handle losing. Both battles… and men. But, no amount of seminars, or classes, or any other of the shit he went through could have possibly prepared him, prepared us for the sinking reality that your actions directly resulted in the people who put their trust in you dying horrible, inglorious deaths.
Sure, our relationship was transactional in nature, trust for money, their guns for my wealth, but it was trust all the same.
Another growl slipped from my belly as I leaned over the rim of the holotable, glaring daggers at the system map before me. While Panzyr had many small outlying towns and villages dotting the planet, the rest of the major cities went the way of the Dodo in the fires of the Amaris Civil War, leaving only the capital of Sturmfield as the last real bastion of civilization. And now that we control it and its spaceport? The rest of the planet will be forced to fall in line if they want to survive the winter.
Sure, it was a small planet in the grand scheme of the Inner Sphere; barely better than a backwater wasteland in the eyes of the rest of humanity, but it, and the nearly one billion souls that called it home, was now mine.
And the map reflected that.
The dot signifying the Panzyr system was now a deep blue, surrounded by the sickly green of the Directorate. Coreward was the triple-threat of the Taurian Concordat, Federated Suns, and the Capellan Confederation–three looming, existential threats that had the power to run over the micronation of Aurigan Coalition like a speed bump.
I had to end this fight quickly and decisively, or any of the three superpowers could decide that the Coalition would look far better flying their flag than its own.
In canon, Kamea Arano faked her death during the coup and fled to the Magistracy of Canopus to petition the royal family for support. What she promised, and what she sacrificed to make such a deal, is never elaborated on, but in the end, the royal family secretly pledges their support and helps her secure the Argo with the aid of the player’s mercenary company.
Lady Arano’s survival would only become public knowledge during her dramatic reveal during the liberation of the Icebox. Something that, if I didn’t come in and dropkick the timeline with a LosTech powered dynamic entry, would have happened sometime later this year.
Either way, her survival, and the liberation of all of the Directorates' hostages, is what galvanized the various rebel groups that had formed in the face of Santiago’s actions to rise up and make their own existence known–pledging their support to the ‘true’ heir of the Coalition.
I could not afford to wait for the information that the prison had been liberated to spread naturally, lest Kamea jump the gun and reveal herself early, hijacking my rebellion. If I wanted to build a nation capable of supporting the Protectorate, then I couldn’t allow it to slip back into being just another agrarian neo-feudal microstate.
Thus, the liberation of Panyzr and its invaluable HPG.
The first part of the message I had Seko send out was obvious: unedited footage of the liberation of the Icebox, along with a list of those confirmed to be rescued and those who we knew to be dead. The second part was for both the rebels still hiding in the shadows and for those from the aforementioned superpowers, people who might be watching the situation with far too much interest.
It was a simple video, with the Spokesman as the face, talking directly into the camera. Painting our actions so far to the Inner Sphere as benevolent heroes who just so happened to ‘stumble’ across a great injustice, and have now declared a righteous crusade against this villain lurking in the shadows of the Periphery.
Pure tripe, of course. Self-aggrandizing garbage, but it was the type of self-aggrandizing that got our story out first, before the Directorate’s propaganda machine could spin us into terrorists and up jumped pirates.
It was our declaration of war, and casus belli all rolled into one.I paid the full price to get it expedited to all three of the other planets within the Aurigan Reach, and all the nearby nations. Those greedy bastards charged me a full hundred and fifty grand just to get the message to the royal palace in Crimson City.
But man oh man, to be a fly on the wall when the Magestrix opens up that video with Kamea by her side.
With a small laugh to myself, I turn the holotable off and walk to a nearby porthole, gazing out over the still-smoldering battlefield as my salvage teams pick through the wreckage. In the distance, the city was silent and empty. Towering spires of steel and concrete, stark and cold against an overcast sky–as if all of Sturmfield was holding its breath, waiting to see what these strange invaders had in store for them.
That would be my next immediate step: Winning the hearts and minds of the people. Panzyr was the perfect fortress and staging area to conduct my revolution from. The debris field made a natural, nigh impenetrable shield. Or at least as long as we protected the orbital radar stations that calculated the debris’s paths, it was. If I wanted to keep said fortress, then I’d need the full, unwavering support of its citizens, or else this planet would be nothing but a ball and chain shackled to my ankles, weighing me down with rebellion and sabotage.
Therefore, the next few weeks would be dedicated to undoing the damage the Directorate did to these people, as I waited for any particularly rebellious fish to bite the bait I just cast out and contact me. I was also prevented from making any proactive moves, as I was forced to split my JumpShips. The Wayward Stork, formally the Capricorn, recharged its drive first and was sent back to Weldry to fetch Den Mother, whom we had to leave behind due to DropCollar constraints. When they returned, I could shuffle off the worst of my injuries to recover there, along with sending up some of the common citizenry to hopefully win some goodwill on that front.
After that? Well, that would depend on what happens first. Either the rebellion starts in earnest, and they are willing to work with me, or I’m forced to fight off the Directorate’s inevitable reprisal attacks.
Plan in place, I nodded to myself and turned back towards my command chair. I had work to do, and not a lot of time left to get it done before the war truly begins.