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Chapter Seventeen:Ruffled Feathers
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Vesox Endoiris
The Bad Egg, Panzyr System
Deep Periphery
April 4th, 3025
The terminal screen hummed, the hyper-resolution CRT monitor flashing in the low light of the bridge. On it were twenty-seven names.
The final casualty count.
It was a very simple list; Neat, tidy even. The folks down in Operations did a good job putting it together. It had everything: their names, their rank, their occupation, and their next of kin, if they bothered to provide one.
Idly, my talons fiddled with my tail, rubbing the feathery tuft on end in self-soothing circles. I kept reading the names, over and over again, yet they kept slipping from my mind and vanishing into the ether the moment I moved on to the next one.
Damnit.
Leaning away from the screen, I glared a hole into the ceiling above me. Going into this, I was hoping to retain a small part of who I, who we used to be. Before Phecda, before the Protectorate–back when I was just a–
–Software Engineer
–Mechanical Engineer
A normal person, who saw the simple value in the individual, and the tragedy of a life cut short.
But no.
The Protectorate’s training was too good, too thorough. During basic, Vesox was told time and time again that he would kill in the name of the greater good. Desensitized to the point where the very idea became abstract. A prophecy guaranteed to come to pass. That sometime, somewhere in his, my, immediate future, he would kill in the name of the Protectorate and their ideals.
Though it went further than that. Not only was Vesox molded into a killer, he was also well prepared for the inevitability of losing men under his command. Before the wound could even be formed, it was already protected by thick mental calluses.
What should have been a sickening, disgusting feeling was muted and distant. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t muster up the horror that should accompany getting people who trusted you killed. All that was left was the distant satisfaction of finding the expected answer at the end of a cold and calculated equation.
And the math was good. A whole planet, with all its industry and infrastructure intact, all for the low, low price of twenty-seven nameless, faceless, mercenaries. That had to be some kind of record, a military achievement that would go down in history, and be studied as a shining example of how a smaller force could overcome an entire planet, if the technology and experience disparity was great enough.
Now, there was only one Directorate holdout left, some SLDF bunkers high up in the mountains. I had some plans to smoke them out, but we were too busy digesting our current claims for a protracted siege. All we could do for the moment was place some seismic and motion sensors around the known exits and be vigilant for enemy action.
As to the civilian population, they had been shockingly supportive of our mission. I expected a few notable individuals to come forth to act as liaisons between us, but it seemed like every Tom, Dick, and Harry–along with their mothers–couldn’t scramble to help us fast enough.
Local MechTechs threw their workshop doors wide open, all but begging us for the honor of using their stables. Farmers and food processors were lining up outside our gate, trailing tractor-loads of food to sell at cost. And most importantly–Men and women, young and fit, were tripping over themselves trying to get recruited. Some even threw themselves at the feet of my patrolling troops, begging to be given a gun and pointed at the nearest Directorate line.
I guess I overestimated Espinosa’s hold on his little empire. I figured that after three whole years, these people would either be indifferent or even hostile to anyone trying to upend their lives once again. But whether it was because of the Directorate’s chafing leadership or just loyalty to the old regime, these people couldn’t wait to be given the tools needed to overthrow their oppressors.
It was a good problem to have, but a problem all the same. I was rabidly chewing through the stock of infantry kit I had pre-printed out, as well as running out of room to house these new recruits. Already, some of the upper management of the support corps were floating around the idea of opening the last troop berth on The Bad Egg to me on private channels. The room where I had stashed my assembly line of Nano Lathes. I had ruthlessly shut those lines of inquiry down, but I’m afraid that all I’ve done is make the mystery of the room more tantalizing.
I’m sure it was only a matter of time before I caught more folks snooping around it, else–
A blaring alarm cut off my train of thought, as the battlenet erupted into a cacophony of overlapping voices–the loudest of which was from the officer I had stationed in Sturmfield’s Space Traffic Control tower, calling in on a direct line.
“Multiple JumpShip emergences detected at the system’s zenith. Total tonnage well in excess of three hundred thousand tons. ETA to system arrival, forty-five minutes.”
Never a dull moment.
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The days crawled by in tense silence. Most of the community outreach programs had been halted, and the patrols were dialed back to the bare minimum. My men were armed and armored, along with the citizen militia that had sprung up in the wake of the invasion. Our ‘Mechs were kept idling in their cradles, freshly reloaded and their armor patched where possible.
We had a rapid response team on the standby, made up of Farah’s engineers and a lance of medium ‘Mechs; Waiting for the final approach of the unknowns to be calculated so they could sally out of the city and man the appropriate AA sites in their path.
As to the unknowns themselves, they had arrived on the backs of independent merchant JumpShips. A small fleet of Unions accompanying a single Overlord detached themselves from their hired rides and made for orbit. None of them bore any symbols or livery whatsoever, and neither were they answering hails. Even a week after their arrival in-system, and well after when their Drives should have recharged, the JumpShips did not leave; Instead choosing to remain, hovering over the system’s plane. What that meant, I had no idea.
With the presumed-hostiles bearing down on her, Den Mother was forced to break geosync orbit and flee to the far side of the planet. I had sent up Fur Ball to support her as an escort. Hopefully it would be enough to deter any particularly daring ASF pilots looking to add one hell of a notch under their cockpit.
Descending Talon was primed for takeoff, ready to act as a QRF if the enemy decided to split their forces and attack multiple places at once. As for The Bad Egg, she would remain exactly where she was, at the dead center of Sturmfield’s spaceport. She would be the bulwark against which the enemy would break themselves on. Or die trying.
The radio silence from the invaders held, even as they slid smoothly into orbit just outside the debris cloud, choosing to loom over the world in stony silence. They did not dare try to push in further, not without guidance from ground control and their satellites.
A satellite system that I now fully control. After the debacle that occurred the other day when a spy, masquerading as a normal technician, had been able to fire off gigabytes worth of data to an unknown recipient, I had completely locked down the building. No one in, no one out, under penalty of immediate execution.
The fucker had even tried to off himself with a poison pill. Unfortunately for him, he tried that stunt not a hundred yards from The Bad Egg and the state-of-the-art infirmary in her belly. He was now naked, and bolted to his cot with twenty-four-hour supervision; patiently awaiting for me to find the time to interrogate him.
So, even if the fleet above was trying to get in touch with any possible contacts they might have on the surface, they would find no help here. The standoff lasted another full day before I finally received a hail from the Overlord in the form of a tightbeam lasercomm video call. The Spokesman answered.
Above my holotank, the face of a distinguished, aristocratic older man glitched into being; his face marred by deep age lines and haunted, hollowed eyes. Of a darker complexion, perhaps of Pacific Islander descent, he looked every part the venerable noble, with a well-groomed silver goatee-moustache combo and a rich-purple suit framing his shoulders. The only hint of this man’s past as a warrior was the bulletproof vest that could be seen peeking up from under his collar. His deep-brown eyes narrowed when he found the shadowy face of the Spokesman glaring back at him. Without preamble or even an introduction, the man’s face darkened into a scowl. “Lose the filter, coward, or we’re done. I need to see your eyes.”
“Usually,” I had the Spokesman drawl, tilting his head slightly to the side. “When meeting someone for the first time, it is considered polite to introduce oneself.”His scowl deepened, teeth flashing from between his lips. “Don’t play games with me, Spook. I am in no mood for it. All the fancy LosTech in the Inner Sphere won’t save you from me wrapping my hands around your skinny neck.” He leaned way into the screen. “Drop. The. Filter. Or I will declare you an enemy to the Aurigan Restoration, and hang you with the rest.”The Aurigan Restoration?
A huge chunk of the pre-battle anxiety that had been brewing in my belly eased at the news. These weren’t Directorate reinforcements, or even just pirates capitalizing on a weakened planet. It was the rebels answering my call to action, faster than I could have possibly imagined. These were some of the people who would have rallied under Kamea Arano’s banner after the liberation of Weldry.
I knew that there were revolutionary groups already organizing by this point, but I didn’t realize that they were so far along that they’ve named themselves as a collective.
The silence between us stretched, with the man on the other end getting more and more irate with every passing second. With an internal sigh, I quickly slapped together a face for the Spokesman using my past memories as a template. The end result was just straight up Agent Forty-Seven. I didn’t even mean for that to happen! But the razor-sharp chin, strong jaw, and the hauntingly ice-blue eyes all just screamed the titular hitman.
Oops.
With a mental command, I swapped the current filter for the ‘canid’ one. As David Bateson’s face filled the screen, the man on the other end of the call relaxed minutely. His eyes scanned the figure before him before allowing himself a subtle nod. “So, you’re the one who’s been causing such a stir. From the shores of the Commonwealth all the way to our humble home… Well met, I suppose.” His face eased back to neutrality. “My name is Simon Karosas, Lord of House Karosas, steward of Smithon–and you have my son.”
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Fur Ball and the ‘Talon escorted Karosas’s Overlord in as it dropped from the heavens, trailing the rolling plasma of a burning atmosphere. The rest of his fleet was redirected to the surrounding fields, as the spaceport would soon be at capacity, hosting both my army and his Overlord. Additionally, a K-1 Shuttle commandeered from the civilian sector was on its way back down from its rendezvous with Den Mother, a heavily sedated Otto Karosas aboard.
Now that was a plot point that I had forgotten about until the Lord of Smithon was looking me in the face, and I was forcibly reminded of the absolutely insane story that revolved around him. In a series of events that could have only happened in a galaxy as batshit crazy as Battletech. After liberating the planet Smithon and enlisting its lord, Simon Karosas’s aid in locating and securing a LosTech stash, his son and heir, after being driven crazy to the point of brainwashing by his time in the Icebox, betrayed the rebels. Not only giving up the SLDF cache’s location, but breaking Espinosa’s daughter out of jail not a few weeks after her capture. Resulting in not only his own death, but the death of his father as well.The extinction of a hundreds-year-long lineage, all in a single afternoon.
I would not make the same mistake; Lord Karosas and the legion of tech’s at his command was far too valuable a resource to lose. So, I will give him his Otto back, but that ticking time bomb will not be allowed anywhere near my people or our mission.
Both the K-1 and the Overlord landed within minutes of one another, and after waiting the required amount of time for the landing pad to cool down to a survivable temperature, the door of the Overlord sprang open. Simon strode down the ramp with conviction, a security detail consisting of marines in blocky, primitive hard-suits followed half a step behind.
The man spared only a single glance towards the towering Bad Egg before marching towards the settling K-1, completely ignoring all the LosTech roving about. As he disappeared into the small shuttle to reunite with the son that he hadn’t seen in years, I turned my attention back towards the other headache that had been blooming behind the scenes: Raju Montgomery and his incessant demands to be given a Battlemech and another go at Espinosa.
No matter how many times my legion of doctors told him variations of: “No, you were just freed from a years-long torture session, you’ll die if you so much as look sideways at a neural helm”, the man just wouldn’t let the subject go. ‘Obsessed’ was a phrase frequently used in private communications that had me CC’d on the company’s Intranet. ‘Fucking annoying’ was another one. Thank the spirits that he was still trapped aboard Den Mother, or I’m sure he would have tried to just steal a ‘Mech by now.
At least the other rescued prisoners were all acting the part of model patients, so it was an isolated problem. But it was still annoying enough that the people I had hired to deal with it had all but collectively washed their hands of him. Forcing me to have a one-on-one video call with the man.
This time around, he looked far better. Gone was the broken, skeletal man who stood a hair’s breadth away from Death’s door. And in his place was someone who I could believe served as the Master-at-Arms for an interstellar dynasty. Though still far from the man’s man he had been reported to be, he was now clean-shaven and sporting a healthy weight.
Which just made the scowl twisting his scars even more pronounced.
“You again.”
“Me,” The Spokesman glibly agreed. I had the avatar pretending to type away on a computer, making ‘myself’ look busy, and hopefully driving the point home that he was wasting my time. “And I hear you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself.”
He scoffed. “I’ve been fit for duty for weeks, yet these lackwits of yours have got me chained to my bed! I am not some broken old man who needs coddling. What I need is!-”
“-To stop causing problems for my people.” I cut him off, having the Spokesman stop typing so he could shoot the man a look, even if it was hidden by shadows. “They have enough to worry about without one of their patients throwing a temper tantrum.” He opened his mouth, lips curling in anger, but I continued before he could get a word in. “I hired the best doctors that Canopus had to offer. If they say you are not ready to return to active duty, then you are not ready. End of discussion.”
“I will not stand idle-” he growled, a glimpse of the warrior he once was bubbling to the surface. “While foreign mercenaries fight our battles for us. I don’t care what false promises you hiss, or what sweet nothings your ‘doctors’ whisper into my ears. I. Will. Fight. Either Espinosa–or you.”
It began to dawn on me what this was really about. Raju had spent the last three years being kept alive by the best, and least ethical doctors Espinosa could find. All for the express purpose of extending his torture. Simply because he dared fight in defense of his liege lord. Of course, he would be adverse to anyone wearing a labcoat and a stethoscope, no matter how benevolent they appeared to be on the surface. His time in Weldry had forever changed him. Now, the man was like a shark; he had to keep moving, or he would die.
I stared at him through the Spokesman’s eyes, considering. There was no way I could let him anywhere near a cockpit, not as he was now. It would take years for him to recover, if he ever regains the strength necessary to get behind the stick again.
However…
I did just gain an influx of eager, bloodthirsty recruits. All of whom were chomping at the bit to have a go at the Directorate. But enthusiasm would only get them so far. And while I could entrust Max to whip the infantrymen-aspirees into shape, that still left all the ‘MechWarriors’ we just picked up.
A title I use extremely loosely, as most of them could only list ‘IndustrialMechs’ as prior experience. Some of them didn’t even have that, they just waved around their simulator scores and their compatibility ratings; As if fancy videogames and mere potential had any real bearing.
Beggars can’t be choosers, though. And with all of the salvaged ‘Metal we just picked up, I desperately needed warm bodies to stick in them. The ones we were picking up were greener than grass, and will need someone to help show them the ropes, get them to a level where they could survive long enough to truly earn that coveted title of ‘MechWarrior’.
Raju Montgomery’s days as a pilot may be over, but the experience and skills he earned in blood over a long, long career? Now, those I could put to good use.
“I’m sorry, Mister Montgomery, but that just isn’t an option at this time. I will trust the word of my experts in this matter. If they say you are currently unfit, then I’m afraid there isn’t anything I can do. However, I do have an… alternative duty in mind that you would be perfect for, if you are open to hearing it.”
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The next two days passed in uneasy peace. The Aurigan rebels, or at least this small cell of it, had flown their flag openly for the first time. There would be no going back now, and they knew it. Apparently, Lord Karosas did not have the manpower necessary to overthrow the Directorate garrison occupying his homeworld, so he had decided to flee here.
In a shining example of scorched-earth tactics that would have left even Soviet Russia impressed, the man had smuggled every loyal technician he could safely contact off-world, taking critical pieces of infrastructure with them while leaving a stricken planet in their wake. Smithon’s main draw was its impressive technology sector. Without those experts, the planet was as commercially viable as a tropical resort on Avalon.I sincerely doubt House Karosas will be welcomed back with open arms by the people once this war is won. But the die has been cast–Simon Karosas was now a landless noble, with only those loyal, or crazy enough to follow him into the black at his side.That did not mean they were in any rush to fold themselves into my command structure. Lord Karosas was getting real pushy about meeting face to face, so we could discuss our alliance, and more importantly, what would come after Espinosa is deposed. As I dodged and weaved through his calls like a professional contortionist, his men had spread out into the city, going over our actions so far with a fine-toothed comb. Searching for any kind of infraction or proof of abuse they could use as leverage against us.
They would find nothing.
My troops were literally being paid to be nice to the populace, after all. It was explicitly stated in their contract.
Hell, I’d even had my men track down the old owners of the radio station so I could give them back their positions with no strings attached. They could have gone in there and lambasted us for the collateral damage we caused in the fighting, but their ire was directed solely at the Directorate. Giving XCOM a ready-made propaganda machine, without any of the ethical quandaries about owning a propaganda machine.
On the other front of earning hearts and minds, revealing that not only did we rescue House Arano’s former Master-at-Arms and well-loved hero of the people from the clutches of the Directorate, but said Master-at-Arms would be teaching our incoming wave of new MechWarriors?
The influx of applicants surged, now padded with obviously fake resumes thrown in with the subpar real ones. The administration corps was up to their eyeballs in work, sifting out the chaff from what little wheat we had.
This time around, I had elected not to offer the same deal as I did to the first batch of MechWarriors I hired, that being ‘Mech ownership after ten years of service. Partly because these people were so eager to join up that the only real incentive needed was a chance to fight. But mostly because these people were just straight-up not good enough yet to be offered any kind of bonus like that.
All of the real MechWarriors were long gone. Either being scooped by the Directorate and press-ganged into service, or if they were found to be a bit too nationalistic, they were whisked away and thrown into the deep dark pit of the Ice Box.
The only ones left were industrial workers who could just about shuffle an IndustrialMech around a factory floor, or kids who went to the arcade every other weekend and played the simulators.
With a sigh slipping from between my fangs, I shook away all the distracting thoughts clouding my mind. All of these were problems for the Support Corps to fix; It was what I was paying them for. I had more important fish to fry, namely–how the fuck was I going to get the Aurigan rebels on my side without having to show them my face?
A small, evil, gremlin-y part of me wanted to acquiesce to his request and just straight-up walk into the meeting room as is. Pretty sure I’d put the old man down with a heart attack if I did that.
I nearly laughed the idea off, but the more I thought about it… If I had a one-on-one meeting with him, who the hell would believe him if he came sprinting out of the room, screaming his head off that the shadow leader of XCOM PMC, the enigmatic and scary merc’ group that conquered a planet in a single day, was actually a four-foot-tall alien bird?
Not even Romano Liao would buy that.