Finally - this thing is complete, several months in the making. Thanks go to Kat Wylder for support on this bit - I owe you one.

Chapter 5: To The Last

“Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.”
-Captain Ahab, Moby Dick, 1851

“It's surprising how the line between fanaticism and loyalty blurs. Especially when religion, of all things, comes into play.”
-COL Siona Atreides, Atreidean Warhawks, 3068

PERIPHERY POWER REINFORCES INNER SPHERE
30 January 3068
VANDALIA (Reuters-Interstellar) - It appears that the Blakist invasion has angered a Periphery power. Late last year, an unidentified wedge-shaped WarShip was spotted in a route between the Federated Suns world of Kentwood, with its destination apparently being Tukayyid, rendezvousing with the ComStar Potemkin-class WarShip Vision of Truth in Awano. Now, similar WarShips, accompanied by Invader and Tramp JumpShips carrying heavy DropShips of unknown types, have been spotted using Kentwood as a stopover for what seems to be a full-scale assault on the Inner Sphere. Here on Vandalia, one of those WarShips released two DropShips, apparently to reinforce the beleaguered planetary defense forces. The unit identified themselves as being Third Battalion of the 25th Cadian Mechanized Regiment (Michaelson's Regiment) of 964th Legion (Extinction Angels). So far, the battalion has stymied the Blakist assaults with minimal casualties.
We will attempt to seek information as to these Periphery soldiers. So far, none of the planetary defense units have any knowledge, and we have been unsuccessful in securing even an appointment with Third Battalion's CO.
-Andrew Chambers, Reuters

.3068
Dropship Theta-331
New Kyoto, Lyran Alliance
2200 Hours Local Time

“The enlightenment of Blake.” Van Voytz muttered. “What in the Emperor's name does that mean?”

“Buggered if I know.” Talos shrugged, leafing through his copy of Jingo.

The captain glared at the NCO. “Put that thing down. It's hard to think around Dis-organizers.”

“Ah, yes, that footnote.” Sergeant Ward smiled, but lowered the book anyway. “Think they could mean enlightenment the Heaven's Gate way?”

Van Voytz quieted. “If they do, then the Force Commander's going to go mental about this.”

There was silence for a moment, before Sergeant Ward sighed. “Sorry.”

“No need.” Van Voytz said, tone almost brusque. “It's a shame we don't have Deirdre or Aleph or Irulan; we could just send them in, hack the database, then study that to find our next strike.”

“We may not have any of them, true enough,” Sergeant Ward said, “but do recall who's the other trooper here who likes his small arms. And has sufficient technical expertise.”

“I'm not sending you in there alone,” Van Voytz said. “Deirdre and Irulan can do it alone, sure enough, and Aleph works best without a partner, but you're hardly an independent like they are.”

“As per normal, bug Juan for a d6 and roll. Fours are re-rolled.”

The captain's steel-grey eyes glared into Talos' heterochromic optics – the left eye blue, the right hazel. It had been something about an injection in his past, Talos had always said, something he'd rather taken an odd reaction with. He left the details unclear, as always.

Then he sighed and took out his communicator. “Juan, this is Van Voytz.”

“SCC here.” Juan responded.

“I need a d6 roll. Fours are re-rolled.”

“Got it. Gimme a second.”

Sergeant Ward took a deep breath.

“Six, Lead.”

“Sheridan.” Van Voytz released a quick patter of German Sergeant Ward thought best not to translate, then shook his head. “Very well. You've cleared the Demi-Precentor for combat armor operations?”

“He'll be fine, just a little awkward in it,” Juan said. “I get the feeling he's a gropo at heart.”

“Prep two suits, an SA65 and a Mauser for Sheridan and Sergeant Ward.”

“I hear.”

“Sheridan, get down here.”

There was an acknowledgment over the comm before Talos spoke. “Think he's a file officer?”

“We're hardly the rank, are we?” Van Voytz said. Both shared a smile at the old joke. Then Sheridan entered.

“Demi-Precentor.” Van Voytz nodded. “As you both know, we've obtained the location of the Blakist command center on this planet, after Miles intercepted their recent broadcast. Miles also tracked them heading for Kirwanal. We passed that on to the Lyrans, and they're currently delaying the Blakists as best they can.” He said that as he walked over to what was Miles' console, bringing up a tri-dee projection of the command center and its surroundings.

“You say that like they're going to get there eventually.” Sergeant Ward said.

“They will; of that there is little doubt. We do not know what they're going to do once they arrive there, however. Your objective, therefore, is to break into that command center and find out.”

Sheridan released a sigh. “Nice. Should I get a pizza for you guys while we're at it?”

“If you do, don't get anything with pineapple.” Sergeant Ward grimaced. “I hate pineapple. Anyways, Marty, it's not as hard as some other things I've done. We got a floor plan for this, Lead?”

Van Voytz shook his head, making his way back to the table. “Afraid not. You're going to have to play it by ear.”

Talos cracked his knuckles. “My favorite. When do we head out, Lead?”

“Two hours. We're paradropping you a kilometer from the target – here, near this stream.” He indicated a point next to the aforesaid stream, a decent distance eastward from the center. “You have six hours and thirty minutes from when you hit the ground to finish your mission. Upon completion, make your way from the center to the extraction point, here.” Van Voytz pointed to a point roughly southwest of the center, near a hilly wood. “One of us, to be decided by d6 roll, will be standing by for you. If it turns out the rhino's not alone, just call and we'll be there in a twelver.”

“Alright.” Sergeant Ward cast Van Voytz an odd look at his use of Ryzan idioms in his ending – was he expecting something? If there was one trait he shared with his girlfriend – ha! – it was a certain disdain for euphemism, preferring to spell it out in the cold accuracy the Germans were well known for.

“I'll leave you two here to work your plan out. Emperor protect you.”

Talos waited until the door closed to cast his blue/hazel gaze at Sheridan. The Com Guard officer met the stare evenly, a slightly bemused look on his face.

“You're sure you don't remember anything between '62 and when we picked you up?” Talos asked, his tone betraying nothing.

“No.” Sheridan responded, his tone equally unrevealing.

“Tukayyid?”

“Just blurred memories, like my childhood. Just general details. Not a very peaceful one.”

Talos held his gaze for a second longer before turning to the projection. “Three hundred and ninety minutes from when we hit the ground. Another way, twenty-three thousand and four hundred seconds. Generous of him.”

Sheridan remained quiet as Sergeant Ward looked over the projection, occasionally standing to get a different view, and muttering under his breath. “Well, favorable conditions all round,” he said. “No order of battle to go off on, no floor plan of the target, and only two troopers on the mission. Perfect. So, old boy, how versed are you in commando ops?”

“Well enough,” Sheridan responded. “I'm not as good as a Blake's Wrath operative, but I'm qualified for demolitions and sharpshooting.”

“The loud way to breach a door?”

“Set a breaching charge, let it blast the door, toss in a grenade.”

“Silent way?”

“Hack the main computer. If inapplicable, lockpick.”

There was a pause.

“Or turn the knob. If unlocked.” Sheridan finished.

Sergeant Ward smiled. “Good. We'll make a Republic Commando out of you yet.”

Sheridan had the oddest feeling he'd just passed a test.

.3068
Blakist Command Center
New Kyoto, Lyran Alliance
0000 Hours Local Time

Sheridan shifted again, trying to get used to the weight of the Templar armor and the SA65 rifle. Well, technically, it wasn't a rifle; it was an assault weapon system, being as it could be a laser rifle, assault rifle, sniper rifle, grenade launcher or flamethrower, as the situation demanded. It was, after all, called the 'OmniRifle', and for good reason.

It was a tad bit heavier than the rifles he was used to, at five and a half kilograms, but the added features more than made up for it.

He gazed with not a small amount of envy at Sergeant Ward's weapon, a Mauser 960 pulse laser rifle. This one wasn't an original model, as the grenade launcher had been removed, but all the same it was still that venerable Star League weapon.

Sheridan carried the assault rifle and grenade launcher attachments; SCC Cortés, who'd checked him over, said that troopers would normally take only two or three attachments with them, with four as the maximum. He'd advised Sheridan to not try switching attachments outside cover, despite the minimal time it took, the record being at twelve seconds.

He shifted again, blinking several times, refocusing on the helmet display. The linked microcomputer on the SA65 projected a crosshair on the display as well as current ammunition status – thirty-six rounds – current module attached, and general weapon state, all of that on the upper right. His biosigns were displayed opposite that; and below on the bottom left was a motion tracker.

“Devastator Four, ready.” Sergeant Ward said. He had several grenades on him; Sheridan preferred launchers, as he could aim with them better.

“Devastator Six, ready.” Sheridan called in.

“Copy.” Lieutenant Sheran replied. “Stand by.”

Sheridan took a deep breath as the light next to the door flashed red.

“Over DZ – go, go, go!”

He admired the way Sergeant Ward reacted; Sheridan doubted there was anything conscious there. The combination of the door sliding open, the light turning green and Sheran's call practically sent the NCO out in a second. Sheridan followed, releasing the breath he'd held, and jumped out.

An altimeter popped up on his helmet display, counting down in meters. As it clocked eight kilometers, he pulled on the ripcord and grunted as the chute opened up.

Not eight meters below was Sergeant Ward, descending just as quietly as him.

--

The thing about parachute descents was that they were quiet. And they took what seemed an eternity, especially if one dropped from kilometers up. Any lower and they'd have risked detection. Sergeant Ward did not like taking chances, for all his sense of what was likely.

12 meters.

Hit the ground.

Sergeant Ward had landed in a perfect, almost involuntary parachute landing fall, and was already securing his own chute. Sheridan grunted, his own PLF not quite as perfect, but still passable; he turned to securing his chute.

The NCO was quite oriented with the surroundings, as when Sheridan had finished, Sergeant Ward was already pointing him towards the objective.

“No need to worry about being intercepted with a helmet on,” Sergeant Ward said, almost conversationally, as the two started their tab. “Legionary frequencies are far different from Sphere or Clan ones. Especially ten-meter range with helmets – that's SQUADCOM. Completely safe.”

“That's a relief,” Sheridan muttered.

“Three-ninety minutes from hitting the ground; one thousand meters to cover. Tabbing is six to ten thousand meters per sixty minutes with twenty-five kilos on. We ought to make eleven thousand per sixty minutes.” Sergeant Ward was muttering, his voice only slightly audible to Sheridan as he kept an eye out, helmet display set to night-vision.

“Means we get there in an hour or so, right?”

“If we're talking ideally, I'd rather we cover ten thousand meters for forty-five minutes on both ends, which makes for three hundred minutes spent in the target area. I like my margins for error. Of course, more likely we'd cover ten thousand meters for thirty minutes or so, given that when our time runs out within the target area, it's more likely we'll be chased out.”

“I don't like this much 'likely' in one operation,” Sheridan said.

Sergeant Ward shrugged as he led on, casting glances about to ensure they weren't spotted. “I worked and thrived on 'likelies' back then, old boy, and I like to think I've got a decent sense for which likelies carry the greater possibility of happening. Commando life can be divided into five segments: action, boredom, chilldown or an equivalent of same, preparation, and guessing.”

Sheridan sighed. If it were any other situation he'd have commed in to the DropShip and ask if there was any way to get Talos to shut up.

--

The tab was, for all intents and purposes, uneventful. Evidently 'command center' was a fancy name for a medium-sized bunker complex. It was fairly lightly guarded, what with most of the Blakist forces out on their mission to Kirwanal, but Talos still bit back a curse as he saw the guards.

“Sheridan, you said you were assigned to Sandhurst on Toasterville, right?” Sergeant Ward asked, taking a glance over the perimeter.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Any of your resident eggheads cook up a new 'Mech design?”

Sheridan shook his head. “Not that I know of. I mainly helped with anti-Mech tactics and mimetic camo development.”

“Purifiers.” Sergeant Ward muttered. “Figures. How d'you rate that one over there – fifty tons, you think?”

Sheridan followed Sergeant Ward's gaze and the 'Mech he'd designated. It wasn't very large; Sergeant Ward's estimate of fifty tons was close to accurate. The left arm ended in a wicked claw that had an equally wicked wrist blade – why did the stravag thing look so damned familiar? – the right arm had a cannon on it. A PPC, Sheridan gathered; this one had the look of an OmniMech about it, and with the cannon directly attached to the shoulder...

“How in Blake's name does a fifty-ton machine mount a stravag PPC and expect to survive?”

“Two of 'em,” Sergeant Ward responded. “One more in the head. Tight squeeze for the MechWarrior, but I guess the Blakists don't mind. One of those has got to be the light variant the Combine developed. Well, ROM being ROM, they're good thieves. Wish SecCom got their hands on it. Come on; I'll work it out on the fly.”

“If you say so.”

Sergeant Ward led the way, advancing crouched. Sheridan followed five meters behind, weapon at the ready, hoping the Blakists wouldn't spot them. They managed to slip past the cordon – none of the patrols passed anywhere nearby – and the two reached a doorway. Sheridan kept watch as Sergeant Ward tested it.

“They don't even lock their doors. This is somehow insulting.” the NCO muttered.

“Take what you get, Sergeant,” Sheridan said.

Sergeant Ward moved forward, rifle at the ready, with Sheridan right behind him. Their helmet computers were actively charting the bunker complex's corridors as they moved through; they wouldn't have much trouble finding their way out.

Wish they had a map of this place on 'em, Sheridan thought dryly. And yet Sergeant Ward advanced through the corridors, as if he knew where to go.

“The stairs aren't located quite as conveniently as some,” Sergeant Ward muttered. “We should take the lift.”

“You're leading, Sergeant.”

“As always, first into a trap, last out,” Sergeant Ward said dryly. “Right.”

--

The general lack of guards was distressing to both Sheridan and Sergeant Ward, though they moved through the corridors of the command center's underbelly with speed. Both had no doubt that they'd catch it later; neither, however, thought about what would happen if they never made it back. Instead, Sergeant Ward calculated how many shots the ceramite of his armor could take – the breastplate could withstand a .50-caliber machinegun's initial burst, though sustained fire could crack it – and how many shots he had – the efficient Union-standard powerpack allowed a hundred and twenty-five shots from his weapon – before he'd have to get 'operational', as he called it.

He glanced at Sheridan, who had no such advantage. Or did he? Anachronos hadn't paid much heed to what Sheridan had said earlier, but it was coming back. He put it out of his mind, anyway; he'd ask the old boy about it when they got back.

“Here,” he said, waving Sheridan inside. The operational center was also deserted, with several computers offline – but not all of them. He strode over to one of the computers and started tapping away; Sheridan took up position behind the holotank, weapon at the ready.

It took only a second for Sergeant Ward to look through the amount of data. He winced and shook his head. “We're not going to have time to sift through all this,” he said.

“Dump it, then.” Sheridan responded, still watching the door. “Hope your crystal's got enough space.”

“It does. Stand by, old boy, and mind nobody gets in.”

“You got it.”

--

The minutes trickled past. Sheridan remained calm, even as Sergeant Ward muttered to himself and kept working on the computer console. He'd told Sheridan he was uploading a few 'gremlins', as he called them, to crash the system when the crystal was pulled out. Sergeant Ward's reasoning was that while they were there, they might as well cause havoc.

“Alright, one last minute,” Anachronos muttered. Sheridan took a deep breath; if he was any judge, something would happen now. Something always did, no exceptions, and it wasn't just the novels and the Tri-vid shows.

He had to admit, though, what happened then probably hadn't been explored in a novel or show somewhere except probably in the most far-fetched ones.

The door slid open, and a large bear of a man stepped through. A bear of a man Sheridan knew quite well. He recognized the way he moved before he even saw the man's face; that slight swagger, however, was somewhat more pronounced now, and there were several extra elements: the left arm was no longer flesh and blood, and neither were the legs. The left eye was also gone, instead replaced by a cylindrical thing Sheridan took to be a cybernetic version.

He knew this man's name. But why, all of a sudden, did he know his designation?

“Zombie Adept Silva,” Sheridan spat.

The Manei Domini trooper smiled, though with his eye and scarring it looked more like a bad grimace. “Martin Sheridan. Or Adept Derin. Whatever you call yourself. Welcome back.”

“I never really joined, surat,” Sheridan said. “Point Commander?”

“Got it. Old boy, I think we ought to get out of here now.”

“If you have not noticed...”

“I know.”

“I may die here, Adept,” Silva said, “But even if you kill all of us, the Master's plans will still come to fruition.”

Silva advanced, raising his arm to smash Sheridan's head into pulp –

“Not if the Force Commander can help it, n'wah!” Anachronos Ward snarled.

Sergeant Ward moved in that split second, his shoulder impacting on Silva's chest and breaking his sternum, his rifle butt delivering a brutal blow to the trooper's stomach. Then he whipped Silva's head with the rifle butt, sending him sprawling right into the door, then poured pulse fire into the man's head.

He bit out a curse as he recognized something, and kicked Silva's corpse out of the room just as the implanted self-destruct explosives detonated.

“Alright, I think we just dumped stealth out the window.” Anachronos muttered. “We are weapons free.”

Sheridan smiled ferally under his helmet, switching his rifle to triple-burst from the single-shot it had been. “Let's get going.”

“Stand by.” Anachronos said. “Got to ensure we've got a clear path.” He paused for a second, activating several commands on his helmet display, then spoke again on a different frequency: “Titan. Dunkirk, regiment?”

“Titan, Jaguar is regiment.” Furey's voice responded. “Fallen mystics without presence; Godsreach remains.”

“Confirmed, Jaguar.” Talos responded.

Long-range comms were still interceptable, however, even though the various Sentinel frequencies weren't in normal Inner Sphere or Clan ranges. However, against an enemy which counted upon communication as its strength, one required more security.

Chak was one to adapt any idea he could use, and the Glossia code-language – a ripoff, he'd admitted, of several books he'd read – was one of them. Glossia was poetic, relying on metaphor to deliver its message. Both the speaker and receiver had to know the concepts either were referring to. Sentinel battle-language was half-understandable, and its words were set in stone. Glossia morphed every time there was a speaker, and those who didn't know about what the speakers referred to would quickly be lost.

Sergeant Ward had asked after the extraction and who was guarding it. Furey had responded that it was her and that – for the moment, at least, there weren't any Blakists she could see and that it was quiet. The Godsreach district of Ryza Primus was known for its almost perpetually restful state, without criminals of any sort or even domestic conflicts.

Furey was unnoticed. For the moment, at least.

“Let's get moving, old boy.”

--

The garrison had fallen upon them.

The noise of Silva's fiery death had heralded the approach of a trio of Blakist troopers, whom Sergeant Ward had disposed of with several bursts from his weapon. Both had glanced at each other through their helmets and decided, in that unspoken consensus so common to soldiers in their situation, to toss any further attempts at stealth to the winds and to leg it back to the elevator. Sheridan and Sergeant Ward took turns leading, as the other picked off any Blakists which got on their tails.

Sheridan was the leader for that moment, but there was a thought in his head – how odd it was that distances were longer, if there were targets along that. Despite that, he put a burst straight into a Blakist's face, dropping the toaster-worshipping freebirth to the ground. Point Commander Ward pushed ahead, putting pulse fire downrange. Then Sheridan cursed as he saw the crazed eyes of a man who'd been through the Rebirth program, a Mauser LSSW in his hand, spitting fire at the two.

“You cannot win, heretic!” the Xanthite infantryman screamed as he fired. “Blake's cleansing light will drown your unbelieving souls and leave only the pure!”

“Up yours, schleiq-head,” was Sergeant Ward's only reply before he blasted him with a burst from his rifle.

Sheridan was right into the doorway, and the two dashed through the corridor. Then Sergeant Ward paused, walking towards another door. Sheridan put a burst downrange, more to suppress than to deal any real damage, and called to Talos.

The NCO didn't respond, but Sheridan had the impression of his eyes widening before he released his characteristic hiss of “Fierfek!”

“Come on, damn your eyes!” Sheridan said to Talos. “Get moving!”

“Funny you should mention eyes,” Anachronos said, and even Sheridan heard the slight shaking in his voice. He walked slowly towards Sheridan, ignoring the fire the Blakists were putting down his way. A bullet cracked against the half-green, half-orange pauldron on his left shoulder; he barely even noticed.

“Talos?”

Three bullets, a precisely-aimed burst, snapped into Sergeant Ward's helmet, where the forehead was. The NCO dropped like a rock, instantly unconscious. Evidently, Sheridan noted dispassionately, whatever he'd seen had unnerved him right to the point all it took was a decent hard hit to overload him.

Yet his hands were performing automatically – spent magazine out, gun module out, switching them for the grenade launcher and two projectiles, one HE, the other fragmentation. Then, in one smooth movement, he turned to his left, leveling the weapon, and blasted the high-explosive grenade at the Blakist troopers firing his way. The frag grenade followed not a second later.

That was instinct, Sheridan realized. Where had it come from? And how had he come to be so familiar with the SA65 that he'd switched from assault rifle to grenade, and now back, without even consciously willing himself to do it? He'd already brought his weapon back up in assault rifle mode, glancing up and down the corridor for any more Blakist targets.

There were none. He looked down at Sergeant Ward and sighed; there wouldn't be much chance of the man waking up. Deciding to take the chance, he slung his weapon over his shoulder, hooked his elbows under Sergeant Ward's armpits, and dragged him towards the elevator.

“Heavy freebirth,” Sheridan ground out as he realized that while Talos Anachronos Ward was far from a large man, he was still bloody heavy, and the armor only added to it. He took a deep breath, composed himself, then pulled again, slowly, inch by inch, heading for the elevator.

“Titan? Titan, Jaguar, status.”

“Fang and Titan ascending,” Sheridan said, dragging Sergeant Ward's body behind him into the elevator. “Descent into fire, transition, by four.” He still hadn't gotten Glossia as second nature, but Sergeant Ward had taught him enough in the short time he'd had.

“Confirmed, Fang. Pattern?”

There was certainly something odd – Furey asking him for orders. He'd rather thought it should be the opposite. Deciding that the Blakists had a chance of getting into their commchannels anyway...

“Star Colonel, get us out of here. I will not be able to drag the Point Commander that far.”

“Understood. Jaguar is on the prowl.”

“Fairly good idea,” Sergeant Ward ground out as he stirred in Sheridan's hands, “Good enough for me.”

“Can you walk? You're a heavy bastard and I'd soon as rather not dislocate a shoulder.” The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. No Blakists awaited them on the other side, thankfully enough.

Talos took a breath, then pushed against the floor. He tottered as he stood, but shook his head, regaining balance. “That'll teach me. Let's get going.”

--

Furey pushed Linus Dren for all he was worth, sprinting at his maximum ninety-seven kilometers an hour. She checked her PPCs and lasers, making sure that all of them were warmed up and ready.

Unwillingly, her mind wandered back to just an hour ago, when Merik – Captain Van Voytz, damn it! – had told her to stay safe. Ordinarily, she would have passed that off as simply a commander's concern for his subordinates; Great Father knew that Chak had said it a few times himself.

There was something about Van Voytz's demeanor then, however. Something that was just more than commander to subordinate. Whatever it was, she would find out when she got back...and maybe get to know him a little better. Of all the people she had met in the Union, he had been one of the few who she found not overly – what was the word for it? – submissive, as it were. The courtesy and respect she was afforded in the Union, as a Clanner, was a change from the fear that had been engendered within the lower castes of the Smoke Jaguars, but sometimes it was too much.

Merik treated her as a fellow trooper, as Chak would say, without regard for her heritage.

The screech of the 'enemy detected' alarm broke through her thoughts, and she bit off an involuntary curse. Her sensor screen showed incoming – a medium, by the size of the blip.

A PPC bolt came out of the shadows, and the ghost-white paint of a Word of Blake 'Mech came into her view. It was new, all right; but not unfamiliar – the stance was reminiscent of a machine of similar tonnage, give or take five tons – not an Inner Sphere machine by any means. Familiarity or not, however, she was still Smoke Jaguar. And her enemy was a mere freebirth.

Eliza eased back into a quick walk, twisting to get the Blakist in sight. It was coming around for another run at her, attempting to get its PPCs to bear. She loosed a burst of pulse fire at it, scoring a few hits; as it flinched for just that second, Furey targeted one PPC and fired. Manmade lightning washed over the 'Mech, causing a temporary system short, but nothing too serious.

The Blakist wasn't about to be beaten, however, and responded with two of its own PPCs. Furey grit her teeth as the impacts pushed her off-balance; she managed to stay up, however, and doused it down with more fire from her pulse lasers. Armor plating melted off under shearing force, and right before it closed to try and slice her with the blade it carried, a pair of pinpoint PPC shots blasted the right arm off.

The familiar acrid stench of an overheated cockpit began to gather around Eliza, but she paid it no mind as she continued to advance towards the command center, keeping her crosshairs on the Blakist medium. It hit her with another double PPC blast – that cannon on its left arm was apparently a scaled-down version, and this one did not look as if it were overheating anytime soon – which flayed armor off her left torso.

She still had enough ceramite plating to spare, however, and the Blakist didn't have much of his own armor left. Furey targeted his central torso and keyed her pulse lasers to alternate-fire, before mashing the trigger and bathing the forty-five-ton machine with emerald light.

The 'Mech sputtered, stumbled, and crashed facedown, skidding several dozen meters before lying still. Eliza paid it no further attention, pushing Linus Dren back into a run.

--

Pounding footsteps made the presence of a BattleMech known as Sergeant Ward and Sheridan fell back, their weapons spitting at the Blakist squad which had located them. Sheridan was firing in bursts, three bullets at a time, following the old doctrine of 'two in the chest and one in the head'. Sergeant Ward was behind, snapping off single shots.

“Titan, Fang – Jaguar. Heads down.”

The two could hardly even respond before the door they were falling back to was promptly subject to a Shadowstrike extended-range particle projector cannon's destructive force. Concrete walls and metal door simply exploded or melted as Furey's shot impacted, blasting the entrance into rubble.

“Get going, Sergeant!” Sheridan called, abandoning fire discipline, switching to full auto, and simply spraying the corridor with bullets. It was unprofessional, but sometimes, one just had to get rid of finesse. Sergeant Ward squeezed off a last burst and tossed one of his grenades, then limped off towards the Crisis-II. Sheridan followed not long after, not even bothering to look back as the grenade detonated.

.3068
DropShip Theta-331
New Kyoto, Lyran Alliance
0900 Hours Local Time

“Talos,” Sheridan asked before they entered the small meeting room, “why is it that you people have to assign more names to 'Mechs that already have perfectly good names?”

“I didn't make up the protocol, so I'm not too fuzzy on that, but the reasoning appears to be, firstly, confusion – on the off-chance that an enemy does manage to tap into our comms, which, mind you, is somewhere on the wrong side of a human reaching hyperspace without limbs, he'll still have no idea of what we're talking about. How are you going to know if the Fusilier we're talking about is that Black Knight ripping up your formation or that Gallowglas heading in to DFA you if your only warning is an order to 'cover the Fusilier'?”

Talos ran a hand through his hair. “Second point. You've seen Sergeant Fletcher's machine, right? Ever noticed it isn't exactly standard for a Highlander? That's because, technically, it's a Gothic. The convention is, if in battle, use only reporting names, but outside – the reporting name is actually the Sentinel name for our version of the 'Mech in question. There's a difference between a Mad Cat and a Crisis, you see.”

“Anything else?”

“Just because we can. It's stuff like that that makes the Union unsafe for anyone without less than half a working brain, or a sense of very bad humor. The puns there are freakin' webcomic-worthy, it's a wonder they're still alive.”

Talos shook his head, and Sheridan gazed after him before he rolled his eyes, and the two entered the meeting room.

“After all this time, Anach, I thought you'd have learned to keep your head down.” Fletcher said.

Van Voytz had to admit, Fletcher had a point. There was a distorted bruise across Talos' forehead – the effect of armor – and more besides all over his body, as if he'd been on the wrong end of a Blakist stampede. Sheridan was notably untouched.

“Yeah, well, I went to the wrong school for that,” Talos responded, seating himself. “Sorry I couldn't bring the pizza, guys, but I got this.”

He slid the datacrystal out of his pocket and rolled it towards Lieutenant Sheran, who caught it deftly and inserted it into a port on his computer. He whistled to himself at the data he saw unroll on the screen. “This a pikin' dump, Tally?”

“Damn straight.” Talos responded. “Didn't think I had enough time to sift through what we needed, so I just pulled the whole system in and put in a few gremlins.”

“Nice and smooth. Impressive.” Juan said, nodding towards Talos.

“So, Sergeant,” Van Voytz said, “Who was that first kill of yours?”

“Zombie Adept Beta Augusto Silva,” Sheridan responded instantly. “One of my old subordinates. Arrogant but competent, a specialist in around forty-five to fifty-five tons. The surat was halfway to insanity and I believe he reached it when he joined the Blakists. That was in 3062.”

Furey's lips curled in a sneer, quite unconsciously, at hearing Sheridan's speech pattern. What was it Chak had said? 'No matter how much polymorphine you pour into your system, you can't change what you are down there.' The Jaguar caught Van Voytz's sidelong glare – one that said 'drop it'. She did so, for the time being.

“A cyborg.” Talos said. “That's what Silva was. He had a cyber eye, plus replacements for both his legs and the left arm. My guess is, he'd been caught in a hell of an accident and required amputation of the three limbs – probably some cockpit accident or something. If I had to guess, I'd say he was Manei Domini – remember all those stories SecCom intercepted?”

“Indeed.” Van Voytz said. “A cyborg, and fiercely devoted to this 'Master' of theirs. Then there is the matter of what that Xanthite said...”

He sighed and shook his head. “Alright, people, I need answers. What kills people but leaves buildings standing?”

There was a pause before Sergeant Ward answered, “A crossbow?”

There was another long pause. Eliza raised her eyebrow, ever so slightly; Merik nodded, and she promptly thumped Sergeant Ward over the head.

“Question revised – what explosive device kills people but leaves buildings standing?”

“You'd want a neutron bomb for that,” Sheridan responded. “I remember now. It wasn't just mimetic camo the boys were working on on Terra – they also wanted a good way to take a Clan 'Mech intact. The size wasn't much more than a grenade; you gave it to an enterprising, insane or otherwise foolhardy trooper, who'd then rush up the 'Mech and pop the hatch to toss the thing in. Then you had yourself one 'Mech for the taking.”

Van Voytz could certainly see why. A high-yield neutron device – comparatively speaking, and contrary to popular belief – did have sufficient explosive power to level buildings. At grenade size, however, the detonation wouldn't be more than a firecracker, and the radiation released would be more than enough to deal with the MechWarrior on the receiving end.

“Did you get any working tests?”

“That's the problem,” Sheridan said. “Our major stumbling block was how to miniaturize the thing into something that an infantryman could lug around. We'd managed a tank shell-sized weapon, but diminishing returns hit us over the head after that.”

“Well, I don't think the boys from Toasterville were interested in those.” Sergeant Ward said, rubbing the back of his head. “That one I spotted was about the size of a Grand Slam.”

“Seven by one.” Van Voytz muttered, recalling the old Torpex-filled earthquake bomb's measurements in meters. “Not good. Did you get a good look at it, Talos?”

“'Fraid not, Lead.” Sergeant Ward shook his head. “But if I had to guess, I'd say that thing could wipe out the whole region if it went runaway.”

“Then we have a problem.” He sighed and shook his head. “We'll leave that for later. Juan?”

“Yeah, the 'Mech the Star Colonel bagged earlier.” the senior crew chief responded. He and the tech crews had reviewed Furey's battleROM, again and again, drawing their observations and opinions. “As guessed, it's a medium, though not fifty tons – more like forty-five. Had the look of an Omni about it. Twin PPCs and AMS, decent ground speed, fair armor, probably an improved C3 computer, plus that blade thing it's got. That's not what I'm worried about, though, it's the PPC on the arm.”

“What about it?” Sergeant Ward asked.

“An old Star League research project was focused on overcharging a PPC, so it could be reduced in size while maintaining firepower and deleting the hundred-meter safety bracket. Now, it failed, but it did make something of a PPC version of a sawn-off shotgun. That snub-nosed PPC is presently manufactured by the Combine, and is a hell of a kicker in its close-range bracket of three hundred meters. Beyond that, power output drops off.” Juan responded. “SecCom got wind of it, meaning the Star League project, and swiped a few examples for improvement; it's a reason why the Shadowstrike's achieved headcapper status. The Clans took that a bit further, which is why their ERPPCs have got half again the firepower.”

“And the light PPC? The one in the head?” Sergeant Ward pressed.

“Definitely the light version the Combine's made. It's basically a heavier and bulkier medium laser; the only thing it's got for it is longer range. It still suffers the hundred-meter safety. Practically no good, if you'd ask me.” Juan shook his head. “Well, one thing, the psychological advantage of having a PPC. Even novices can get pretty scared at that if you see your enemy's got one. But aside from that, there's nothing that'll let me recommend it.”

“The 'Mech in total?” Van Voytz asked.

“It's a good design, especially at close range. If you'd ask me, I'd say lose the blade, give it another weapon or improve the armour, switch out the light PPC for a medium laser. My only complaint is the cockpit – we all agreed that if you had to fit that light cannon in the head you'd have to use one of those Feddie tiny cockpits. But...” Juan sighed and shook his head. “We decided this thing, whatever its designation is, deserves a reporting name.”

Van Voytz's eyebrows rose slightly. “So you have. Any submissions?”

“Yes, sir. Soulhunter. Eyeya said he had a feeling that the Blakists would like the look of this and get out more designs along its lines. Call 'em the 'soul' line, sir.”

“How appropriate,” Furey murmured. That remark drew not a few glances – while Clan and Ryzan epithets were common from the Star Colonel in the heat of battle, outside she never said a word, much less two, without reason.

“Get rested, people. We're headed for Kirwanal, and we will be making a direct drop on the Blakist positions in coordination with a Lyran push forward.” Van Voytz said. “We are not letting them detonate that device. Is that clear?”

There were no negative answers.

To: Precentor-Martial Victor Steiner-Davion; Force Commander Chak Lefth; all Sentinel Legion regimental and legion commanders (Section II only)
From: Captain Merik Van Voytz, Devastator Lance
Time: 0500 Hours Ryzan Standard Time, .3068
Subject: 'Soul' Line and status report
Thought: Innocence proves nothing.

I. (PCMTL Steiner-Davion and FCMDR Lefth only)

Sirs,

New Kyoto still embattled. Blakists are preparing to deploy a neutron device within Kirwanal; Devastator Lance is en route to stop them.
Suspect tabloid reports of 'Manei Domini' are true – check collection designated 'Interstellar Players'. Inaccuracies expected, but close resemblance is noted. SGT Ward encountered and eliminated a Manei Domini trooper while he and Demi-Precentor Martin Sheridan were on an intel-snatch mission in Blakist planetary headquarters.
Suspect Blakists may be attempting to expand NBC, other, armories. Lefth, you know what this means. I hope you'll do what you can.
Never think that a job's done until you've seen it finished yourself.

II.

Sirs,

Find enclosed images of a new Blakist 45-ton BattleMech, possibly an OmniMech. Its current configuration appears to have a snub-nosed and light PPC, with AMS and a retractable blade. Other equipment may include an improved C3 computer and a compact cockpit. Its role appears to be that of a fast-moving 'hound' to flush out targets for the rest of its C3i network to deal with.
SCC Cortés has stated that this 'Mech may be the first one of a series and has decided that it and possible companions deserve a reporting name. This one is 'Soulhunter'; other 'Mechs are requested to follow convention.
We suspect that these 'Mechs and others along its series may be piloted by elite Blakist MechWarriors, possibly Xanthites or other special units. Caution is advised here, and we recommend that Sentinel combat rules be suspended if deemed necessary.