Had to lead. Had to protect.
“Come on boys. I know the Academy gives you better pilot training than that. Let’s get a move on, eh?” He tried to infuse as much good natured humor into his voice as he could, tried to hide his worry. Regardless of the strides to narrow the technology gap between the Clan and Inner Sphere, Clan ’Mechs still outclassed Inner Sphere pound for pound.
Geoff could pilot circles around almost anyone he knew, but depending on what lay over the ridge…Cameron’s own lance could make all the difference.
Flashes of sapphire and ruby lit the sky over the ridge, along with the detonations of multiple heavy explosions. Cameron gripped joysticks in sweat slicked hands. Willed his lance to move faster.
“They’ve got some serious life left in them,” Geoff’s voice startled him with its immediate urgency. “If we don’t take down that Mad Cat, and I mean now, we’re going to be in a world of hurt. Lance, target the Mad Cat. I’ll deal with the Rifleman.” The commline descended into a low babble once more.
A Mad Cat! Damn. A Rifleman? His mind swirled. What the hell. Did he mean a Rifleman IIC? Why would the Clans be fielding an Inner Sphere design?
He had to wait. A single ’Mech might not make the difference, but a lance would. Beside, he couldn’t leave them. Had to lead.
He stared at his radar, demanding it provide more information. Suddenly he realized at least one of the Hussars had been able to move around their own ridge onto the plateau and appeared to have engaged as well; the tag read Tai-i Matsu. His assault BattleMaster would lend considerable weight to their side.
His own lance finally pulled even. “Okay boys, over the ridge and give ‘em everything you got,” he said. Cameron prepared his weapons to follow his own advice and ignited plasma once more, sending his Wolverine up and over the ridge…to hell.
Spread out before him, a small, but terrifyingly urgent battle unfolded on the under-sized plateau. The downed DropShip still burned, sending up a huge bloom of smoke; a fallen Thor next to the massive rent in the Broadsword’s flank told him not all the ’Mechs survived. Yet a thousand meters in front of him held a Mad Cat and Rifleman, with an Arcas off to the side, all weapons blazing and hammering the Highlander forces and the Proserpina BattleMaster.
He saw the Rasalhague logo inside a bear’s head outline on the machine: First Rasalhague Bears. The Rifleman addition to a Clan force made sense now
As Cameron brought his own machine down to earth once more with a last gush of flame and stretch of myomer, he watched as fire lit underneath Geoff’s Hatchetman. Time seemed to dial down until he could perceive individual autocannon shells and PPC beams hung suspended in mid-air. The Hatchetman flew forward, on a collision course with the Rifleman. The pilot simply squared its feet, lined up both rotary autocannons and let loose a barrage that practically obscured its outline. Twin, horrific streams of vomiting death slashed into the Hatchetman, eating and tearing away at armor like a bear savaging its meal, mortally wounding the metal giant.
“No!” Cameron managed to scream, as time swooped back to normal.
With an expertise few might have managed under such circumstances, Geoff kept the Hatchetman on course as limbs began to tear away under the murderous fire.
Like a metal rockslide, the Hatchetman crunched into the Rifleman with a sound that could be heard even above the din of battle. Both toppled down in a mangled heap of metal limbs.
Cameron would never be able to remember the next ten minutes. A haze—formed of tears and rage—seemed to blanket out his perception. One moment he watched his idol (his father) die and the next he stood over a fallen Ghost Bear machine, firing endless kilojoules of energy into the blasted scraps—all that remained of the Mad Cat.
As silence descended, shame replaced his rage. Geoff would be rolling over in his metal grave at such a loss of control. He had done what needed to be done. Had lead.
Had sacrificed himself to protect his command.
Though Cameron tried initially to do the same, he too easily fell off. Too easily besmirched the bars (The Bars) he wore. Too easily forgot his heritage.
He blinked away the tears and the last shreds of his incapacitating haze. His command needed him. They needed to mop up and find out what might be here that would tempt the Bears; the rest of the raiding force to deal with elsewhere.
He swallowed several times. Tried to set aside his shame for another day and opened up a general frequency commline.
Time to lead.
DESTINY’S CALL
by Loren L. Coleman
Tharkad, 2721
Alek heard Michael Steiner arguing with the nurse, swung his legs over the side of the cot and steadied himself against the nearby wall. The room tilted back and forth, sickeningly. He fought his rising gorge and held himself upright. He didn’t want his friend to see him laid out like an invalid. Pity was one thing he had never seen in Michael’s eyes, and never wanted to.
The university infirmary smelled of disinfectant and blood. The disinfectant was normal. The blood was his. Nurse Dragon had cleaned it up pretty well except for some dried stains on the front of his chambray button-up and the blood-clotted gauze packed up inside each nostril. A wonder he could smell anything at all, really.
Footsteps in the outer hallway as they came toward the door of his room. Michael’s pensive voice drifted in. “If he won’t point a finger, there isn’t much any of us can do.”
“Scared?” the nurse asked.
A gentle laugh. “You don’t know Alek. I wish we could scare him. Next time those boys might do permanent damage.”
It was the work of a few seconds to pull back the white curtain
