The air is damp and it reeks of my sweat. That's to be expected, considering I've been sitting in this cockpit for the better part of a week. It's also stifling, with the humidity making it feel as if I am sitting in a sauna. Again, not surprising, considering the constant rain and the damaged reactor shielding. But, at least in this cocoon, I'm shielded from the downpours, and I'm relatively dry, which can't be said for the poor grunts on foot. I hope they have extra socks.
The red glow of various monitors and readouts fill the cabin, though some of those displays are cracked, and a handful occasionally sparks. One part of the forward shield is deformed, and there's even a breach in the thick ferro-glass viewport. I'm not too worried about it, and it's actually a blessing at times. Sometimes, I can feel a cool breeze through it, or at least I think I can feel one.
The radio is turned down. I really don't feel like listening to the idle chatter of the rest of my lance. Being trapped her e is bad enough. To listen to their fears is worse. I guess it's something I have to get used to, presuming I get to keep my field promotion of [i]Chu-i[/i], or lieutenant. Of course, I'd have to survive first.
Then again, surviving isn't high on my to-do list, especially if I'm bumped back down to private. There's no honor in that. Of course, there was no honor in being a private in the first place. I suppose if I were to survive, my family would eventually find out that I somehow lived through the Clan juggernaut, and they'd assume that I'd done so out of cowardice or incompetence. It's not an unreasonable assumption, considering the circumstances.
My grandfather served the Combine as a [i]Sho-sho[/i], lieutenant-general to one of the prestigious Sword of Light regiments. From there, he served the Coordinator personally as an advisor and speech writer. He was a personal friend of the Kurita family.
Before him, there was my great-great uncle, who was a wealthy businessman. He chaired a successful pharmaceutical company. My paternal grandfather revitalized Benjamin's fledging agricultural economy and even developed some innovative farming techniques.
My uncle is one of the top cardiovascular specialists on Luthien. My cousin is an attorney. My uncle is a successful graphic artist for a large hovercar manufacturer. My father is a lead scientist for the largest consumer-goods producer in the entire Draconis Combine.
What am I?
I am the shameful disgrace of what is perhaps a quite prestigious family line. I was given all the benefits of near-royal life, and I squandered it all. I dropped out of an elite university, twice, and fled like a coward to this backwater world.
If my grandfather were alive, he'd have committed [i]seppuku[/i] in shame. I'm sure my other relatives would do the same. I know I have already disgraced my parents, for when they are in the company of friends and relatives, and are forced to respond to the requisite, "My son is a doctor. My son is a [i]Tai-sa[/i] of such-and-such battalion. Who is your son?" – they can only mutter and pretend they have no son. Or perhaps their son died valiantly in battle in some fake and honorable combat unit.
If I somehow survive this battle, and get off world, they will be forced to continue their little charade. So, perhaps, it's better if I perish and not bring further shame to my family.
With my luck, though, I'll live.
Oh, something's going on. I bring the radio volume up and listen in. It's bad news. With [i]Tai-sa[/i] Graham's death, we're pulling off planet. I guess my luck is against me, and I will survive to shame my family another day.
Oh wait! There's more. My spirits rise considerably. We need to buy time. To get to our DropShips. I know what that means.
With more confidence than I've felt in years, I open the comm.-channel and volunteer myself as rear guard. There are a couple more like-minded warriors who do the same. Our superiors agree, and I bring my ancient [i]Panther[/i] online, and throttle the 35-ton machine forward. Even though my 'Mech is battle-damaged, I still have a working PPC. That is enough.
The rest of the Ninth Pesht Regulars move off. I am alone with three other Mechwarriors. Apparently I am the ranking officer. [i]Chu-i[/i]. Oddly enough, it feels good.
We wait, and eventually our sensors pick up contacts. Just a few at first. But then many. Soon after, we can feel the ground tremble as a full battalion, or Cluster, of these so-called Smoke Jaguars approach.
It is time.
I flick my radio on. It is tuned to the rest of my ad-hoc lance. "Tonight, we bring honor to our families," I say. "We not only fight for the Coordinator, but for our homes." It feels good.
The first invader 'Mech breaks through the forest foliage, and as alien as it appears, I feel no fear. I settle my targeting reticule on it, and send a bolt of particle lightning at its face. It falls.
"For the Combine!" I yell, and I hear my fellow warriors yell the same.
We charge.