Prologue: Sisters

.3050
Warhawks Mercenary Reservation
New Caledonia, Free Rasalhague Republic
0500 Hours Local Time

“She misses you, you know.” Siona Atreides said.

“Yes,” Chak responded tersely.

The two were on the roof of the Warhawks' HQ building in the reservation allowed them, as per standard Rasalhague mercenary regs. Chak and his black uniform had been up there first; Siona had joined him not soon after.

The Atreidean Warhawks regiment had decided to lay low in the FRR for the moment, on a pirate-hunting contract, following a somewhat disastrous contract within the Free Worlds League. In this case, 'disastrous' was defined as an incidence of friendly fire – technically, of course. Even Captain Lefth, famous for his capability at double-talk and verbal trickery, not to mention a knack for finding the most obscure loopholes in almost any law, had shook his head at trying to figure out if it was or was not friendly fire.

Then again, it had been the Anduriens who'd done it, so...

They'd chosen the Rasalhague Republic, despite the general distaste for mercenaries the Swedes – as the foul-mouted Lieutenant Camille Bremmertan called them – had. As per normal, it was Captain Lefth who'd negotiated their contract, and made sure that the Rasalhague rep had read and understood not just the contract but also the fine print, and the fine print embedded in that, and the last bit of fine print embedded in the previous bit. For all his capability and willingness to find and exploit every last hole in the law, there were times that Captain Chak F. Lefth preferred to go by the book.

The total weight for the Warhawks didn't reach ten thousand tons. In fact, it hovered around nine thousand or so. The Warhawks were notable in that they had no 'Mech any heavier than seventy-five tons, without any exceptions. Colonel Atreides piloted an Orion, modified in armament, while Captain Lefth's Guillotine was famed throughout his battalion for 'odd stunts', as the euphemism went. In terms of being unusual, it was easy to say that Captain Lefth practically defined unusual.

“It was a mistake, Siona, one I should never have committed,” Chak said. “Irulan and I just aren't a matched pair. Not for anything.”

“So you dropped her and left, just like that, not even a note to tell her?” Siona shook her head. “Chak...”

“Save the recriminations, Paraxes Commander.” Chak said, an odd note in his voice. “Good morning.”

With a nod, Chak stood and went back inside the building.

--

Jagdea Bree wasn't officially a member of the Warhawks. She'd come across the unit after running away from her home on Oriente, away from her family and noble status. By no means was she the proverbial seventh son of a seventh son – she was only the fourth daughter, after all – but her prospects were mostly the same. And thus she'd left, on the advice and with the help of a friend of hers, Raquel Innes.

She rather envied Raquel – she was the firstborn of her family with two loving parents and a future career in the FWLM, given that both her parents served in there as well. Raquel had decided that she was best off with the Warhawks and told her to get going.

Colonel Atreides had taken her in without hesitation. Mercenary life took a little getting used to, but she preferred this than her previous life. The company of Lieutenant Nahum Livair didn't hurt, either.

Lieutenant Livair from Parjai Battalion was a fairly easygoing man, just entering his midtwenties. He wasn't a 'right bastard' like Lieutenant Mkfeyd from Tracyn Company, or a foul-mouthed trooper like Lieutenant Bremmertan from the same company. He had a fairly deadpan and whimsical sense of humor, but on the field was a decent shot with his Wolverine, regarded as reliable by his lancemates and the rest of the company.

There was a thing about the Warhawks. They didn't have anything over seventy-five tons in their order of battle; most of their strength was concentrated on medium and heavy 'Mechs, with lights serving as scouts and harassers. Their key was speed combined with firepower, but their subtitle was rather different...

“'Atreidean Warhawks: Redemption Through Laser Fire',” Jagdea read. “All due respect, it's rather...cumbersome.”

“All the good subtitles were taken,” Livair shrugged. “Colonel would've gotten 'Outside The Rules' if it weren't for somebody named Morgan Kell, and as it was, 'Strike Hard' is a bit underwhelming, and 'Shrike's Disciples' is too niche a reference and it'd only apply to Prudii Battalion in any case.”

“On the other hand, it does emphasize our favored tactics,” Siona said from behind them. “Weight advantages are neutralized if you have a well-ordered firing line, especially a quick one.”

“Four Panthers dashing up, delivering PPCs then running like hell isn't exactly conducive to the health of anyone on the receiving end. Then again, Panther isn't the fastest thirty-fiver on the glacier, but hey. Cheap way of getting a PPC on the field.” Livair said. “Morning, Colonel.”

“Good morning, Lieutenant. Slept well, Jagdea?” There was a slight smile on Siona's face as she greeted the young runaway.

“Well enough, Colonel.” Jagdea responded. “It's...rather different from what I'm used to.”

“Welcome to the real world.” Livair quipped. “If you'll excuse me, Colonel.” Siona nodded and Livair walked off, evidently to do something. Siona knew he still hadn't finished reading Galaxy in Flames.

“What say we get you tested, 'Dea?” Siona said. “Shouldn't be too hard to find something you like.”

“How about Enforcer?” Jagdea said immediately.

Siona raised an eyebrow, and the young Oriente runaway blushed. “Captain Lefth told me to get an hour in the simulators. So what I did was pick out a list of mechs, print their names and stick 'em on the dartboard.”

“I'll get Mkfeyd for this,” Siona muttered, but smiled. “Enforcer, eh? Middle of the line in tonnage, armed with a decent scattershot gun, and with a few refits, ice-cold. Good choice, even if it was the darts.”

“I'm just not one for heavies, and lights have too fragile jaws for my style.”

“Yeah, say that again when a Panther breaks your damn jaw.” Camille Bremmertan said, casting a dark look at Jagdea as she walked up to Siona. “Colonel -”

“Camille, if this is about the upgrades to your lance's PPCs, I've told you, talk to MasTech Draken about them.” Siona said.

“It's not the PPCs, Colonel, it's about the piking Swedes. I've just about had it up to here with them being -”

“Lieutenant.” Siona said, holding up a hand. Jagdea was surprised as Bremmertan sighed and quieted.

It could be fairly said that Jagdea and Camille were two diametric opposites. Where Jagdea was formal, cordial and reserved, Camille was foul-mouthed, sarcastic, and generally not included in what constituted 'polite company'. Jagdea was new, while Camille had been with the unit since its formation; and lastly, where Camille had blonde hair and the same purple eyes that seemed common in the Warhawks, Jagdea was ebon-headed and brown-eyed.

“Yes, Colonel.” Bremmertan said, before she saluted. Siona returned it, and Bremmertan walked off. There'd been an entire conversation there, Jagdea realized, despite the Colonel's interruption.

“Camille's a good soldier.” Siona said. “Not the best, and her manners could use some work, but when push comes to shove and shove to heave, she'll be right there with us. Now, let's go, I'll see how good you are in an Enforcer...”

--

Chak nodded to his XO, Lieutenant Aves Raeille, as he entered the planning room. Raeille already had a three-dimensional projection of the operational area Chak had chosen for that day's strike and handed him a compad as the two glanced over the map.

“Scratch force, 'Mechs and vehicles, no air support, few gropos.” Chak read out from the compad. “Shouldn't take more than two lances to deal with 'em.”

“Surprise them, drop from Westfalen?” Raeille suggested. “Fairly dramatic, fairly inefficient...your call.”

Chak shook his head. “No, no. They'd see it coming and the Rasalhagians would call desertion. I'd say my lance, and either Ericsson's or Ruiz's lances, depending on who's available.”

“One of Ruiz's men has got his 'Mech in the bays for an overhaul.” Raeille said automatically. “Ericsson's free.”

“Medium lance, fifty and fifty-five tons,” Chak said, recalling the four 'Mechs making up Lieutenant Ericsson's lance. “Two Crabs, two Griffins. Firing line. Alright. That's up against a dozen tanks, three 'Mechs, plus Emperor knows how many infantrymen. We take out the 'Mechs first, concentrate on the tanks after that, and smash the infantry for last.”

“Ericsson takes up a flank position in firing line while you advance in assault wedge.” Raeille sighed. “Relentless, as always.”

“You know me, Aves,” Chak shrugged.

“Continuous use of wedge will do you in someday,” Raeille met his gaze evenly. “You'll have to switch sometime when they come up with something that'll not break under a wedge easily.”

“There's other formations. Staggered line, tactical column, and the flat out charge. Much as this battalion is 'Shadow' Battalion, sometimes subtlety is overrated.”

“I'm sure.” Aves said. “Op go marker?”

“0159. I like a decent night strike.”

“Midnight strike is what this is,” Aves muttered. “Right. You're legging it the whole way...distance between here and there is around two hundred kilometers. Travel time, at walking speed, of about four hours or so. Departure marker is 2100, then.”

“Right. I'll brief the lads, have them get the afternoon off for a kip. They'll need it.” Chak said.

--

By most standards a fifty-ton machine against a seventy-five ton unit favored the latter. The only advantage the former machine would have was speed; the seventy-five-tonner would have throw-weight and armor on its side.

Of course, the saying did go that the machine was simply a performance multiplier – the MechWarrior was the real factor.

Siona Atreides grit her teeth and sidestepped her Orion, barely eluding a ruby-red laser beam. She aimed carefully and blasted away with her PPC.

Jagdea was good, she had to admit; a natural, even. She'd used the simulators a few times, sure enough, but not enough to really gain experience. Here it seemed she was blooming, and rather quickly at that.

The bolt of manmade lightning caught the Enforcer dead on the shoulder, staggering the machine. Jagdea responded by pushing it into a run from the walk it had been maintaining, right before she jumped and loosed another burst of laser fire. The scarlet beam found its mark on the Orion's left arm; Siona's return salvo was fifteen missiles at the Enforcer.

She checked her status. Jagdea had managed to evade most of her shots while getting in decent hits of her own. She had a deftness for evasion that was almost as good as Chak's; even Siona, who prided herself on pinpoint accuracy with her weapons, had quite the challenge getting her guns to bear.

Armor plating buckled and exploded from the force of the missile impacts, but it wasn't enough. Not enough to allow Siona's PPC and lasers to tear through. On the other hand, the solid shell that careened into the Orion's chest, followed quickly by a burst of laserfire, was close to blasting through Siona's torso protection.

A natural indeed.

Siona advanced parallel to Jagdea's moves, keeping her torso twisted towards the fifty-ton machine, loosing a PPC strike and laser fire. The filtered air, normally possessed of that idiosyncratic metallic tinge, began to accrue a touch of acridity. Her heat levels were rising, and the excess manifested itself within the life support system.

Not that fumes would kill her. It would take far more than that. A class-twenty shell to the cockpit was a good start; it had some chance of bringing her down.

Jagdea took the bolt of bluish-white lightning in the chest without complaint, though she eluded the lasers. Her return fire was another shell and a beam of scarlet light that went internal on the left torso. Myomer fibers and endo-steel internal structure gave way, though it didn't hit anything crucial.

There was another thing – Jagdea also knew when to press her attack. Laser fire reached out for Siona's Orion yet again, blazing through armor, and the Enforcer turned, charging directly at the larger machine.

Siona was still reeling from the feedback in her neurohelmet. Sensitivity worked both ways, after all; her head was pounding and bringing her weapons to bear was already a brutal task.

Jagdea was coming directly for her, probably to finish her off with a boot to the head. Siona leveled her weapons, waiting for a lock.

She followed as the Enforcer leapt.

A salvo of twenty-one missiles and three different energy weapons cored the fifty-tonner's central torso and the engine behind it, just as a solid autocannon shell and two laser beams blasted the cockpit into melted slag.

“This concludes our test...” Siona slumped backwards into the simulator's couch, releasing a sigh. A grin twisted her face.

“We now return you to your regularly scheduled lives.”

.3050
Near bandit campsite
New Caledonia, Free Rasalhague Republic
0200 Hours Local Time

“Ch'tra.”

Short and sharp, as always, as Chak preferred it. Ericsson's lance moved up on his left side, while he himself led his lance, formed in an assault wedge, forward.

The eight 'Mechs he had were all he needed. Chak operated his unit like a combat command, taking lances as needed for the operation he'd lead. That was the thing about him; you'd never find Chak behind a desk if he had anything to say about it. Given a combat situation, one could find him in the thickest part of the battle.

The lances advanced, Ericsson splitting off to establish a firing line while Chak's three 'Mechs moved straight into the enemy positions. The pirates still didn't know they were coming, but that wouldn't be for long.

There was complete silence after Chak's command. It was all a matter of psychology, how his victories worked; a stark, easily-recognisable paint scheme, equally distinctive emblem, a particular style on the field...all of that combined would put into his enemies' minds the image of someone who you just couldn't kill, no matter how hard you tried.

Beating your enemy physically was one thing. Beating them both physically and psychologically, that was another. The Prussians had an affinity for that; after all, the sight of an entire army marching, kneeling, and firing muskets in perfect, synchronized step was unnerving – to say the least. Chak's style was different, but it was no less effective.

Eltharion Saintrowe burst through the tree-line just as the woods to its left exploded in a storm of PPC, LRM and laser fire. Both of the Guillotine's arms went up; the extended-range PPC and large laser on the left arm flared, catching the heaviest bandit machine – a reconditioned Ostsol. That, as well as a salvo of LRMs, brutalised the machine; it attempted to fight back, to no avail as Chak's two mediums added their own firepower. The Ostsol toppled, crippled and out of the fight – but not dead yet.

The other two 'Mechs, a Phoenix Hawk and a Sentinel, withered heavy fire from all eight Warhawk machines. Chak, stopping just short of the fallen Ostsol, blasted the Hawk with scarlet pulse fire, receiving a laser blast in reply for his trouble.

Bandit tanks scurried under the 'Mechs, ignored by the Warhawks. Admittedly, against BattleMechs these particular vehicles had no use – Galleons, Pegasi, and a pair of Bulldog mediums. Eltharion blasted one Bulldog's turret right off with a PPC shot that seemed almost careless, as if he was only sparing a second's time for the tank.

The Sentinel stood its ground, spitting autocannon slugs at its nearest target, Chak's Eltharion. The seventy-ton machine took the hits without complaint as it advanced; it didn't take long for Chak to score a kill, charging the forty-tonner, toppling it with a bodycheck and blasting the cockpit into twisted metal with his right arm's weaponry.

That left the Phoenix Hawk standing alone, but it was already being demolished by a salvo from Ericsson's lance, as Chak's own disposed of the rest of the vehicles, and finished off the Ostsol. The slaughter, such as it was, lasted all of ten minutes.

“Mission complete,” he said into the commchannel. “No enemy survivors. No casualties.”

.3050
Warhawks Mercenary Reservation
New Caledonia, Free Rasalhague Republic
0800 Hours Local Time

“What did you think of her?” Siona asked Chak as he exited the simulator.

“Bloody good,” Chak said. “Bloody fething good. Don't tell her, but she almost had me then.”

Siona's eyebrow shot up. Chak had always been a slippery target, even for the best marksmen; it seemed that he was just as adept at dodging shots as he was calling and placing them. It seemed simply impossible to hit him, even though targeting computers did acknowledge Eltharion Saintrowe's existence. Shots didn't go wide around him; he evaded. And his 'Mechs had a capability for soaking up damage above and beyond what their armour and internal structure combined could possibly stand.

Chak noting that someone almost had him was his way of giving that someone a compliment, however indirect.

“I told you,” Siona said, a smile already appearing on her face, “that kid's a natural.”

“So she is.” Chak met her smile with an even gaze. “So – are you?”

Both knew the rest of the question. “Why not?” Siona shot back.

Chak's mouth quirked in that odd smile of his.

“Come on, let's go greet her.”

Jagdea's simulator pod was only around the corner, and Lieutenant Livair was there with Jagdea, who was wiping sweat off her brow. Livair glanced at the two as they walked up, giving a nod of greeting.

“You fought well, Jagdea.” Chak said, face neutral.

“Thank you, sir. Though not well enough to beat you.” Jagdea shrugged.

“Nevertheless, Jagdea,” Siona smiled, “I believe you've proved yourself sufficiently.”

“Colonel?”

Her smile only widened at Jagdea's bemusement.

“Welcome to the Warhawks, Ensign Jagdea Bree.”

Personal Journal, Jagdea Bree
Entry for .3050

I had another dream yesterday. The same one. The same animals.

This one was clearer. Vivid. I stood on Terra, on a map of the Sphere. From the direction of the Galactic Core came four animals – on the left, a jade-green peregrine; a red wolf in the center; a massive ghost-white bear next to it; and a jaguar on the right, grey pelt almost like smoke.

They advanced, tearing apart the worlds in their path like so much wheat. The Rasalhagians were a small but powerful dwarf, defending themselves as best they could – and failing, against the wolf and the bear. The Federated Commonwealth, an armored knight with a massive fist and a broadsword, attempted to bring down the falcon. The Dragon, the Combine, fell back under the jaguar's assault.

That rampage continued, right up until they reached one world – Tukayyid, I think it was. There a man in white robes stood, with shield and sword. On his shield was the emblem of ComStar. He fought against the four animals, joined by several more: a snake with scales like metal, a large cat, mane fiery and blazing; and a diamond-skinned shark.

Each tried to strike twice. The jaguar attacked first, without mercy or restraint. ComStar defeated it easily, sending it back bloodied and bruised. The cat was next; it too failed with both strikes. The ghost bear managed to land one strike, but was beaten back. So it continued – the falcon, the shark, the snake, all three couldn't get past ComStar's shield.

The wolf was last. And it was most successful. Somehow, though ComStar still managed to deal strikes on it, it landed both of its own attacks in.

It ended right there.

I want to think that these are just a young girl's fantasies driven by an extremely overactive imagination behind them. I want to think that that was just a dream.

But there's something in me that says it's more than just a dream.

.3050
Warhawks Mercenary Reservation
New Caledonia, Free Rasalhague Republic
1200 Hours Local Time

“The Wolves of Kerensky have claimed this world for their own. What tame dogs defend it?”

Most of those who heard that message were bewildered. Some gave no outward reaction.

One smiled grimly, knowing that there was yet another challenge to be overcome.