GOVERNMENT QUARTER
SASO, NEW SYRTIS
TAYGETA OPERATIONAL AREA
CAPELLAN MARCH, FEDERATED SUNS
18 JULY 3148
AFFS Leftenant Malerie Faulkner adjusted her Flamberge’s scopes to zoom in on the reported disturbance, but too many skyscrapers blocked her view. For all intents and purposes, Saso’s Government Quarter seemed no different than on any other day. Pedestrians filled sidewalks, and street traffic pulled out of her lance’s way as though the quartet of ’Mechs were emergency vehicles with wailing sirens, but nothing out of the ordinary caught her eye. Apart from the occasional blown-out storefront or partially collapsed building—all unrepaired scars from last December’s battle over the Saso Statehouse—the downtown atmosphere seemed like a typical lazy Sunday morning.
Mal wandered toward Statehouse Square, shaking her head at the slight limp in her ’Mech’s gait. Even months after repairs, she still felt a slight hitch in its stride, most notably on the left side. The damage was something not even a prince’s ransom could fix, apparently, since one of the necessary parts had proved difficult to come by this far beyond the Clan Jade Falcon Occupation Zone. Had she accepted the offer to join Julian Davion’s personal entourage, Julian’s quartermaster might’ve been able to pull some strings, but being that close to the First Prince meant she’d probably die of boredom before ever seeing true, frontline combat ever again. Rare exceptions like the Cave betrayal aside, nobles seldom got shot at, so the closer her proximity to the First Prince, the further away from battlefield action she would likely be. And if she wasn’t on the front lines, why bother being a MechWarrior in the first place? She wasn’t born to just sit on a garrison somewhere; she and Tally took offensive-combat contracts more often than anything else for that very reason. Someday she might accept promotion to command her own battalion, but for now she focused on earning her way through the AFFS ranks the hard way and remaining a field officer for as long as she could.
“You see anything, L-T?” Sergeant Hitchens radioed from his Caesar.
“Neg, Sergeant.” As soon as Mal rounded the corner onto Statehouse Boulevard, she didn’t need optical magnification to confirm why Captain Witherspoon had called them in.
In the shadow of the sword-shaped Civil War Monument, a multitude numbering in the hundreds, or possibly even thousands, clogged the quad across Statehouse Square. Law enforcement in riot-control gear hemmed in the protesters as best they could, but with so few versus so many, the higher-ups had reason to believe the situation could escalate faster than a lit match dropped into a black-powder keg. The picketers, as free citizens of the Federated Suns, had every legal right to protest, but Captain Witherspoon felt sending a few BattleMechs to put the fear of God into them would be both productive and fun. All they had to do was shake the ground a little, rattle the sabers, and make sure no one did anything stupid.
Zooming in her view of the crowd revealed a number of placards bearing a varied array of witticisms and amusing anti-Davion sentiments:
You can’t spell D-a-v-i-o-n without N-o
Julian Caesar: Davion Megalomaniac
Bring Back the Celestial Wisdom
“Confederated” not “Federated”
Mal didn’t believe for a second that these were actual longtime citizens of New Syrtis legitimately dissatisfied with the planet’s recent change of ownership. No one would put it past Daoshen Liao to recruit fake protesters just to grind the AFFS garrison’s gears.
“Sergeant,” Mal broadcast to her lance, “you want the honors, quiaff?”
“Neg, L-T,” Hitchens replied, chuckling at his own mimicry of her quaint Clan affectation. “You can have first crack at it.”
Didn’t matter to Mal one way or another, but the sooner this was done, the better. She took pole position, and the rest of her lance fanned out behind her along the boulevard to maximize their physical presence and present a wall of steel that would steamroll anyone who did anything outside legal bounds.
Mal lifted the Flamberge’s clawed arms just enough to leave the impression that their mounted pulse lasers could easily pick off targets if pushed too far. She triggered her external speakers and keyed up her neurohelmet mic. “Attention citizens of—”
A brilliant fireball consumed Statehouse Square in mid-sentence. The entire Civil War Monument disintegrated with enough concussive force to rock the Flamberge on its heels and tremble nearby buildings in the shockwave of a deep thunderclap Mal felt in her bones. For a single instant, the mushrooming incendiary cloud dominated her vision and sucked horrified air from her lungs. Then just as quickly, the incandescence dissipated, leaving a haunting afterimage despite the ’Mech’s flare compensation filters.
She counted herself lucky that the purple specter she couldn’t blink away hid the worst of the carnage from sight. There had to be hundreds, thousands of incinerated bodies down there, both civilians and police alike, strewn about her ’Mech’s feet—but she couldn’t see them, didn’t want to see them.
That wasn’t all. The smoke left behind was wrong somehow, like someone had futzed with the tint of her visual sensors.
“What the devil…?” Hitchens radioed in disbelief.
Mal switched into fight-or-flight mode, but there was nothing to run from, no one to fight. A quick scan of the quad showed nothing but soot-blackened paving stones, a multitude of the dead, and the skeletal remnants of the Civil War Monument sticking upward like a rude gesture.
She dialed up her magnification and swept back and forth across screaming, fleeing survivors. The Guards occasionally trained for disaster relief, but this went far beyond such a limited scope. She lingered on one fleeing couple, and the man crumpled, spat up blood. His companion turned, crimson pouring from her eye sockets. Within seconds, their bodies stilled.
All around them, others met similar fates.
Mal choked down stomach acid. She knew her ’Mech’s environmental sealing would protect her and her lance, but all of these people—
And then the wind picked up. Snatched up the smoke. Tossed it adrift into the atmosphere to rain over the rest of the Government Quarter, over the whole stravag city.
She stared dumbfounded at the smoke, paralyzed and helpless—unable to run, unable to solve anything with customary ’Mech-on-’Mech violence.
The wind kicked up again, carrying more of the lethal plumes with it. Beyond the smoke, far in the distance, a shape took form, the recognizable silhouette of a Cataphract painted in black with crimson trim.
More smoke blew in over the shadow, and just like that, it vanished from visual sensors, leaving Mal wondering whether she’d imagined it.
Magnetic anomaly sensors confirmed her sanity: a faint signature rippled at the very edge of maximum detection range. Whoever this pilot was, it wanted to be seen.
“Talon Two and Three,” she radioed to her lance, “scout for hostiles at the coordinates I’m uploading. Talon Four, contact emergency services. Some of those civvies might still be alive.”
Seconds stretched into minutes, long minutes with no activity save the commotion of rescue vehicles choking through the gaseous smoke. Mal craved a normal stand-up fight, but no attack came from any quarter.
The radio chirped through the somber, aggravating silence. “Talon One, this is Three. I’ve got no readings. Whoever you saw out here must’ve gone to ground and powered off.”
Mal ground her teeth. “That’s what I was afraid of. Just keep looking. We’re going to find whoever was responsible for this and bring them to justice.”
THE CAVE
NEW SYRTIS
TAYGETA OPERATIONAL AREA
CAPELLAN MARCH, FEDERATED SUNS
3 AUGUST 3148
Not five minutes off the DropShip all the way from Remagen, Julian stormed into the Cave’s command center and demanded answers based on the reports he had received upon arriving in-system. New Syrtis had been declared secure back in February, and in his absence, matters had devolved from decent to bad to worse. Now, a more personal touch was needed. The recovery of the Capellan March capital was the first vital step toward economic and military recovery, and for all those who had bled and died on this planet, he was not about to let the situation fall apart so soon.
General Nanava, Admiral Davion-Coles, and a number of aides and attachés had joined Julian in the conference room to review the situation in depth.
“We’ve had further developments since you’ve been in transit, Your Highness,” Nanava said. “Here’s what we know.”
He activated a wall screen and paged through several disturbing holoimages of the devastation that had rocked Saso almost two weeks ago. “On the eighteenth of July, a bomb in Statehouse Square destroyed large portions of the Statehouse, claiming the life of Governor Bakema and several thousand protesters gathered nearby. The bomb released a potent nerve agent into the atmosphere, and the estimated death toll is upwards of two hundred thousand.”
The holo changed to a silhouetted BattleMech partially obscured by smoke. “This still is from Leftenant Faulkner’s battleROM footage, captured moments after the attack. Remind you of anything, Highness?”
Julian’s stomach churned. The flat black paint that seemed to suck in light brought to mind field manual images of Death Commandos, the crème de la crème of the CCAF. Instead of being trimmed in customary Liao green, however, the ’Mech sported lines of stark scarlet.
“Since then,” the general continued, “The Guards have encountered these ’Mechs in the field on at least a dozen occasions. We’re not quite sure how or when these Death Commandos—or whoever these jokers are—got on-planet, but one thing’s for sure. They’re good. I’ve lost a lot of good folks trying to take out these bastards, and all they do is rile up the populace. Problem is, there’s never very many of them, so it’s like trying to swat a gnat with a fishing net. Damn things give us the slip almost every time. The few we have managed to take down, though…”
“Let me guess,” Julian said, grinding his jaw. “False tooth cyanide capsules, and equipment with no identifying markers.”
“Affirmative. Classic Maskirovka tactics. But the admiral has a different theory.”
Admiral Davion-Coles smoothed the front of his uniform and paged through a few other holo slides. Julian recognized the images: Confederation ’Mechs locked in combat with opponents bearing the seal of the now-conquered St. Ives Compact. The devastating Capellan-St. Ives war, fought between 3061 and 3063. One of the holopics centered on an explosion with a profile and coloration similar to the Saso blast.
“Analysis of the nerve agent indicates a chemical similarity to the agent used in the Black May attacks in 3062,” Davion-Coles said. “Those attacks were associated with a dangerous Thuggee cult led by the Chancellor’s now-deceased aunt, Kali Liao. Though the cult was allegedly destroyed during the Jihad, it is my belief that its remnants are now operating in our midst.”
Julian frowned. “Do we have any evidence to support this?”
The admiral brought up another series of images. Julian was no stranger to the horrors of war, but this—this turned his stomach. A whole street filled with civilians of all ages, each one brutally murdered until the gutters ran with blood.
“Sir, this is from the town of Ross. Residents woke up to find hundreds of their neighbors dead in the streets, each one showing signs of ritual mutilation. There were no messages, no apparent motive, no witnesses.”
A second holopic came into focus: a similarly grisly scene, only in a smaller, snowier, more rustic locale. “This was just a few days ago, when someone stumbled into this no-name shantytown out in the mining belt. Maybe two hundred transients, all dead to a man. Same MO as before.”
Julian avoided staring at the images for as long as he could get away with. “So we’re either looking at copycats, the real McCoys, or Capellan PSYOPs tactics.”
“Far as I’m concerned, Highness,” said General Nanava, “I don’t care what they are. These aren’t just your run-of-the-mill guerrillas. They’ve got the populace running scared, thinking their community might be the next victims, which just makes our job all that much harder. There’s been riots, suicide bombs, the works. Got so bad that Leftenant Governor Ralston had to declare martial law just to keep the peace. And that’s when you come in.”
Julian regarded his commanders. “Then we deploy to the field, draw them out.”
Admiral Davion-Coles shook his head. “Highness, if it were only that simple—”
“You misunderstand me, Admiral,” Julian cut in. “I’ve not come all the way from the Crucis March just to hide in a command center. Make it known that I am here, deployed along with the First, and I am certain our mysterious friends will come calling within hours.”
General Nanava’s eyebrows lifted. “Sir?”
“It’s done, General. See to the preparations. We fought hard to retake this planet, and I’m not about to let some death cult terrorize the very people we just liberated.”
“I only fear there is more to this than random acts of terrorism and sabotage. We need to follow these cultists—or whoever they are—back to their nest and eliminate—”
“Apologies, Admiral,” interrupted a mortified, out-of-breath leftenant as she charged into the room. “Colonel Brody’s on the horn. First Battalion’s barracks are under attack.”
Julian and his commanders all exchanged glances. “Opposition?” asked Davion-Coles.
“It’s those same bandits we’ve been tracking, sir.” “Force strength?”
“Unknown, but they’re out in droves. More companies than ever reported. Seems like they’ve all come out of the woodwork this time.”
Julian nodded at her. “Thank you, Leftenant. Tell the colonel to stand firm. We’re on our way.” After she scurried out, he said, “It seems news of my arrival has certainly traveled fast.”
Nanava offered a grim smile. “Looks like you got your wish, Highness.”
Before Julian could respond, the same leftenant barged back in, even more breathless than before. “Sirs, we’ve got incoming from a pirate point. Force estimate of at least two regiments.”
Julian closed his eyes a moment. “How long do we have?”
“Twelve hours until their DropShips reach combat-drop altitude.”
Not nearly enough time to prepare proper defenses, as far as Julian was concerned.
His fists clenched.
There was never enough time.
APPROACH TO AFFS CANTONMENT
SASO, NEW SYRTIS
TAYGETA OPERATIONAL AREA
CAPELLAN MARCH, FEDERATED SUNS
3 AUGUST 3148
The blocky feet of Yen-Lo-Wang touched down on the snows of New Syrtis, heralding the arrival of Sang-shao Danai Liao-Centrella from orbit. She braced for impact, allowing temporary jump-jet pods and the ’Mech’s leg shocks do their job. The moment her stomach settled and firm ground jostled her command couch, she jettisoned the jets and leaned forward into a run. The fifty-ton Centurion loped forward into the fray as though the storied ’Mech owned the space around it. Even her nearby troops seemed to give her a wider berth than when on noncombat maneuvers.
Fear was a powerful ally in battle, and she always used it to her advantage. To many, this galloping Centurion, serial number FS1010-031X, was the purest symbol of Capellan pride and tenacity in the face of overwhelming odds. Three generations of Solaris VII arena fighters had piloted the ’Mech, and its previous owner, her cousin Kai Allard-Liao, was still considered among the greatest MechWarriors in history, thirty-five years after his death. Even the greenest of recruits recognized the power and presence of Yen-Lo-Wang, the Chinese god of death, king of the nine hells, and Danai perpetuated the legend.
“Forward!” Danai commanded. “Tear them to ribbons!”
Through a hail of laser fire and missiles, the command company of the Second McCarron’s Armored Cavalry formed up around her and pressed their advance down the slope leading toward the growing fray, firing long-range weapons downrange at targets of opportunity. Seemingly all around them in the sky overhead, spherical Union DropShips bearing the Capellan Confederation emblem descended on columns of plasma thrust.
In the distance, arctic-camo ’Mechs engaged black ’Mechs trimmed in red. The Fifth Crucis Lancers were faltering under the onslaught, and the newly arrived First Davion Guards balked in the face of three Capellan ’Mech regiments. By the look of how the battle was progressing, the Death Commandos that had hidden near the radiation belt had done their job well.
Her longtime friend Eliza Zhao had been the one to suggest hiding elite partisans on the planet in case the defense crumbled, but it was Danai who had brought it to the attention of her elder brother, the Chancellor. Daoshen embraced the idea with glee. Two years prior, Julian Davion had made the CCAF look the fool on the Crucis March world of Marlette, and Danai herself had met with the novice First Prince on Daoshen’s behalf to broker the armistice between their two nations. Now the Enemy had fallen victim to Daoshen’s own “Marlette Deception,” but in miniature.
The trap sprung, Danai had no trouble justifying her decision to deploy the Second MAC to New Syrtis. She would’ve come even without support. For her, this campaign meant more than simple revenge. The Enemy had racked up a balance—for the Marlette Deception, for breaking their truce, for the death of Eliza Zhao— and she aimed to collect, with interest.
Some of the Enemy ’Mechs turned to greet her and the other newcomers, which was exactly what she wanted—to draw off their fire while the Dynasty Guard battalions circled in from behind Danai’s screen and attacked the Fifth Crucis Lancers’ cantonment itself as the McCarron’s Armored Mosquitos executed a bombing run. MechWarriors could spend extended periods in their ’Mechs if necessary, but rob them of a place to barrack, and watch morale crumble. The best way to defeat an army was to attack its heart—or at the very least, to stab them as close to the heart as possible. Until the First Prince lifted his head high enough to be seen, this was the most devastating option. A victory here would not win back the planet, but it would be a start.
By the look of Enemy ’Mechs faltering across the line, the surprise maneuver had worked very well. The Dynasty Guard’s charge on the Fifth’s rear pulled enough attention away that the Second MAC could storm in with relative ease.
With little consideration for her safety, Danai barreled straight down the slope. She raised Yen-Lo-Wang’s tall, curved scutum shield and charged down the hillside along with her lancemates, hatchet raised high. Others called her methods foolhardy, but she delivered results. Even the weapons of overconfident MechWarriors seemed to miss her when she approached. Few pilots expected an opponent to drive straight toward them, guns blazing, no holds barred. Such a maneuver was usually suicide, which was why it worked so effectively for her. When a freight train is coming your way, you get off the tracks or get hit. Only the most foolish chose to stand and fight, and those that did rarely lived to tell the tale.
Danai painted her first target in her HUD, a daring twenty-five-ton Gunsmith that darted across the battlefield to take potshots at her from short range. She felt Yen-Lo-Wang shudder from recoil as twenty long-range missiles ripple-fired from their launch tubes. A split second before the smoke tendrils reached their target, she triggered her Clan-made heavy large laser, gouging a blackened hole dead center on the Gunsmith’s side armor. Enough warheads found their way through the melted breach to detonate inside. The Enemy ’Mech’s limbs locked, and the dead machine plowed face first into the snow as though it had suffered a cataleptic episode.
Adrenaline from the kill coursed through her like a double jolt of espresso. Without slowing or hesitating or even wasting time to gloat, she traversed her torso in search of another target while her lancemates sought out their own.
A forty-five-ton 7S Hatchetman unleashed its nine-tube multi-missile launcher in her direction. Not bothering to raise her shield, Danai shrugged off the hull-rattling short-range warheads and replied with a long-range salvo of her own. The Hatchetman staggered in mid-step. Clearing smoke revealed the blast had torn off one of the lateral fins from the ’Mech’s head. Danai growled and juked in the Enemy’s direction.
But the Enemy pilot hesitated in the face of Death.
And, like so many others, that was his undoing.
With open-mouthed rage, Danai swung Yen-Lo-Wang’s hatchet full force as she passed, cleaving straight through the Hatchetman’s ruined fin. The ’Mech’s head crumpled and tore free, and the god of death rushed on to its next target.
New Syrtis would be theirs again, she vowed, even if she had to destroy every one of these Davionistas with her own two hands.