Alek knew that his ‘Mech would appear to stagger forward with a drunken swagger. Like a space-naval crewman on his first shore leave. A popular underground video, posted on the Nagelring’s OurSpace network, ran thirty seconds of footage of Alek’s lurching Striker set to hornpipe music. The aspiring (and anonymous) director had even dug up some ancient cartoon footage of an animated sailor with bulging arms and a corncob pipe, ending the homemade vid with a bray of corny laughter. No doubt, an ‘A’ for creativity.
At least this brand of hazing came with fewer bruises. And no trips—yet—to the hospital.
“Waiting on you, Cadet Kerensky.”
As usual.
Cruising forward at forty-three kilometers per hour, Alek’s eighty ton BattleMech finally joined with three other Strikers being paced by Colonel Baumgarten’s Pillager. The Strikers were massive, hulking brutes. Blocky. Bow-legged. But in great demand among Nagelring cadets because of their assault-class weight and heavy weaponry.
By comparison, the Pillager was a much more refined design. Linebacker shoulders and a tapered waist. With maneuvers behind them, Colonel Baumgarten had deactivated his BattleMech’s Light Polarization Shield. The Nagelring’s C.O. walked with a graceful stride not many could command from a one hundred ton machine. Proud. Stately, even.
It wasn’t unknown for Baumgarten to lead training exercises, but never before on such a small scale. A short romp out with only four cadets, two of them on remedial training programs and Alek a “green” trainee running two years behind the usual curriculum?
Something was in the wind.
Whatever it was, it would have to keep. The cadets all knew what came next. Remedial training or not, C.O. or not, it was tradition, and tradition carried a great deal of weight in the Lyran Commonwealth.
Possibly even more in the Star League.
The five assault-class BattleMechs paraded forward beneath a powder-blue sky and Tharkad’s retreating autumn sun. Music suddenly blasted in over Alek’s comms system, piped onto an auxiliary channel reserved for parade functions and other non-essential military maneuvers. The brassy shout of trumpet and saxophone caught Alek off guard, especially when it was joined on the next beat by a distorted guitar. He had been expecting some kind of speed-music tune from Ceramic Monkey or Nolo Contendre, groups battling it out for the top two worship spots among the younger generations on Tharkad.
Grunge-jazz was not the norm. Certainly it wasn’t tradition.
Then again, who was going to argue that with the academy’s commanding officer? His school, his rule.
The unusual, the out of place, held a special fascination for Alek. So Baumgarten’s choice of music distracted him for an extra heartbeat. The other three Strikers pushed forward, getting the jump on him as all would-be MechWarriors raced the last five kilometers back to one of the Nagelring’s ‘Mech hangars. A “friendly competition,” supposedly. Outside of academia—even within it—Alek had rarely known those two words to go together.
Still: “‘The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths,’” he whispered.
As usual, words from the immortal Russian poet stood him in good stead. Being able to recognize the race for what it was—an illusion to foster some sense of worth through harmless competition—helped Alek attack the challenge in a methodical manner.
Throttling forward, pushing his Striker for its maximum speed of sixty-five kilometers per hour, Alek worked his controls and pivoted hard for a small rise to the east. Slogging uphill would seem to make little sense to his fellow cadets, who raced each other forward onto open ground. Though if they had reviewed the topographical data on this area, they would have seen that the open range ahead of them would—three kilometers up, and after a sharp dogleg—force them onto a harder slope before the final downhill run to the ‘Mech hangar.
Alek planned to run what looked like an easier, a parallel course today. Taking advantage of the terrain as his new courses in Strategic & Tactics always recommended.
“All things being equal,” Major Kiault had lectured, “the commander who takes advantage of the battlefield’s underlying terrain will have a distinct tactical advantage.”
A passable paraphrasing from Sun-Tzu’s The Art of War. Theory which Alek would attempt to put into practice today.
Over the rise and down a shallow slope on the far side, Alek twisted and turned along a path through slash-cut timber. It cost him valuable time, he knew, avoiding piles made from shattered trees and uprooted stumps. Not so much, though, as the “usual” route would take. Should take. In long, four-meter strides, he ate up the ground in his Striker. Burning up one kilometer. Then two. Working his controls exactly as he’d been taught to build muscle memory which might—they threatened—save his life one day.
But the eighty ton BattleMech seemed to have a will of its own. It fought back with each swing of the arms which rotated out a little too far. As each step fell a bit short of a running BattleMech’s optimum stride. He felt it. That awkwardness. The neuro-feedback circuitry, so finely attuned to his nervous system, impressed on him a sensation of sluggishness. As if he himself was attempting to run with a length of rope tied between his ankles, just shy of his best stride.
“Come on,” he cajoled the ‘Mech. “Move!”
According to his head’s up display, he had pulled even with the other cadets, though just barely. They were coming around the dogleg, starting to fight the uphill slope he had avoided. But they were still in open territory, and he had a tall stand of poplar and ash cutting him off from the final leg of the race.
At a full run he splashed through
