JumpShip SJS Slanderscree IV, Nadir Jump Point
Sudeten, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth
19 July 3050
Sheila Arla-Vlata felt very warm and content. The room was warm, and the sheets were even warmer, nice and soft. She smelled the familiar scent of her own bed. That sudden realization made her come awake with a start.
She tried to sit up, but a hand gently pressed her back into the covers. "Easy, Sheila," a authoritative and familiar voice said. "You've had a rough time of it."
"Dad?" Sheila looked up and saw the faces of her parents, sitting on either side of her bed. Her father, Calla Bighorn-Vlata, smiled down at her with his old easy grin. She thought he looked very good for a man nearly fifty years old, despite graying hair and increasing weight that Calla was losing a battle to control. He adjusted his glasses self-consciously. The glasses made many people underestimate Calla, which was a mistake, because he was a skilled MechWarrior, organizer, and tactician. The Sentinels had been his brainchild, and he had formed them from the pitiful remnants of two lances into the regiment they were today.
Sheila's mother, Arla, leaned in and brushed the hair away from Sheila's face. The daughter took after her mother most of all, both sharing coal-black hair and brilliant green eyes, though Sheila had inherited her father's height. Arla was younger than Calla and kept herself in better shape, her lithe body still showing few signs of her long and difficult life as commander of the Praxian Light Infantry, named for the planet where most of them hailed from. Some signs of age had inevitably begun to creep in: the crows' feet around the eyes and hair shot through with gray as Calla's was.
Sheila winced as a tendril of pain seemed to roll down her head. "Where am I?"
"On the Slanderscree IV," Arla replied. Sheila kicked herself mentally; the gravity should have given that away. "Take it easy, daughter. You were wounded."
"Ow. I believe it."
"You're lucky, Sheila—real lucky," Calla added. "Apparently that Elemental smacked you as he was going down. You had a severe concussion and we thought your skull had been cracked. Lucky for you that you inherited the Vlatas' thick heads."
"Am I okay now?"
"You were out cold a few days, but the docs said if you woke up today you'd be all right. You're awake, so I guess you are."
Sheila felt a bit of a lump on the side of her head. She sat up straight and instantly regretted it; she felt as if dwarf miners in her brain had just decided to start drilling. She also noticed that she wore only a pair of cotton panties and a Victorian nightshirt, which was made out of a sheer material that hid absolutely nothing. She sank back beneath her covers. "How's Mimi?"
Calla and Arla looked at each other for a moment, and then Calla looked back to Sheila. He decided to blunt. "She survived, Sheila. But maybe it would be better if she hadn't."
"How can you say that?" Sheila glared at her father.
"I have to." Calla could be harsh when he wished. "Her back was broken. She has no feeling in her legs."
"You mean she's a paraplegic?"
Calla nodded. "Possibly. The reason I say possibly is because she does have some feeling in her thighs. With some time and therapy, she might be able to hobble around, but I should warn you that there's not much chance of that. She'll never pilot a 'Mech again, though."
Sheila almost shot back that only a MechWarrior would prefer to die rather than to never get back in the cockpit, but she stopped herself. Sheila wasn't sure if she felt that way herself, and she knew Mimi did. Mimi Stykkis was a very physical person; her nights at the Nagelring had consisted of a lot of partying and very little studying, and part of her income had come from nights moonlighting as a dancer—an exotic dancer. Sheila wondered if her friend could survive the torment of knowing she might never do any of those things ever again. "Can I see her?"
"No, not right now. She's still in intensive care." Arla checked her watch. "Calla, we had better be going if we're going to meet with General Hasek-Davion." She bent down and kissed Sheila on the forehead. "The medtechs say you can get up and move around. No gymnastics, though."
"Right." Sheila kissed her father on the cheek and watched them leave. She sighed, waited for her headache to subside a little, then got out of bed. The stateroom was not very big, but it was enough for her. She stretched a little, then began going through a t'ai chi routine, which she had picked up at the Nagelring. It was usually very relaxing for her, and Sheila could not help but smile at her profile in the mirror. She was rapidly losing the gawkiness she had been cursed with through school and was maturing into a grown woman. Her black hair was tangled and not caught up in her customary ponytail, so it was wild across her back and shoulders. Her muscle tone was still very feminine, though she wished her arms were not so skinny. You've got a nice body there, Sheila, she grinned at her reflection. Too bad you don't have anyone to share it with…
Tooriu Kku, as if bidden, walked into her stateroom and shut the door behind him. "Hey, looking good for a wounded heroine."
Sheila yelped, tried to take his head off with a high kick, and dived back under her covers. "Damn you, Kku!" she snarled. "Didn't your mother ever tell you to knock? Especially on young women's doors?"
Tooriu leaned up against the wall. "Nope. Garuda's a free love society. Besides, most women wanted me not to knock. Including you, as I recall."
"Oh, screw you."
"We already did that." He leered at her.
Sheila wanted to stay angry at Tooriu, but even the most hard-bitten person would find that difficult. Finally she gave in and began giggling. Tooriu joined in with booming male laughter. "You!" she said, and tossed a pillow at him. "I needed that laugh."
"Me too. You heard about Mimi?"
"Yeah."
Tooriu sighed. "That sucks, man. Just sucks. We're getting creamed by these Clan bastards. Rasalhague's gone, too. Fell three hours after we left."
"We'll stop them," Sheila reassured him.
"Where? Terra?" He got up, accidentally pulling the covers with him in his bunched fists. They fell away, exposing Sheila's lace-covered breasts before she pulled the covers back up again. Tooriu smiled again. "Not much point in that, Sheila. I've seen them before—with and without that shirt."
"I know." Sheila felt a brief twinge between her legs with the memory. For three short, sweet, and torrid months, she had Tooriu Kku had been lovers—Sheila's first, though not Tooriu's, who had something of a reputation as a ladykiller. Both had tried to convince themselves that they were in love, but by graduation they knew for certain that they were not. They had parted friends, and remained close, but neither had attempted to restart the sexual portion of their relationship. Now Sheila recognized the old smoldering glance that had once made her ache with desire for Tooriu, and though she felt her body more than willing to respond to that glance—with the exception of her still-aching skull—she knew that the complications that would bring would outweigh the physical gratification.
Tooriu saw the play of emotions across her eyes and looked away. He wanted Sheila, but understood how she felt, and inwardly agreed with her. They could not recapture what they had once been, before they crossed the barrier that the first battle on Persistence had formed. They were different people now, and Tooriu wasn't sure if that was good or bad. What was more, he had already kindled a relationship with his company commander, Elfa Brownoak-Vlata, who was distantly related to Sheila's family. Though she was significantly older than Tooriu, she brought to the bed skill that Sheila or anyone else Tooriu had slept with never possessed. Tooriu knew he would have slipped under Sheila's covers to please her, to take away the hurt of Mimi's crippling for her sake, not his, but he also knew he would return to Elfa's bed at the nearest opportunity. He hated himself for it.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings," he said into the silence, "but Cathy Houndlikov wants to see you. She's not a happy MechWarrior."
Sheila groaned. "Oh, no. The Iceberg is never a happy MechWarrior. If she ever cracked a smile, I'd have a heart attack. She's the biggest cast-iron bitch in the Inner Sphere outside of Romano Liao."
"I agree, but she's also your company commander—not mine, thank Deity—and she wants to see you, now. I didn't come here just to look at your boobs, though that was kind of a nice surprise. Thanks."
"You're welcome, you lech. Clean up your drool from my carpet and take off so I can get dressed. I'll see you later at chow. Assuming of course, I still have an ass to sit on."
"Now I won't hear anything bad about your ass, Sheila."
"Out!" She tossed the other pillow at him.
Sheila was not surprised when Catherine Houndlikov glowered at her when the younger MechWarrior walked in. Long ago, Catherine might have been considered beautiful, but twenty years in a 'Mech cockpit and in command had worn away at her face until it was a shadow of what it had been. She and Arla Bighorn-Vlata were the same age, but Catherine looked older. Her shock of russet hair, however, had very little gray in it, and was caught up in a ponytail—a look that Sheila unconciously echoed. Her topaz eyes flicked down to a report on a laptop, and she went back to working on it. As two minutes ticked by, Sheila almost thought that the Iceberg—Houndlikov was called that because her acerbic tongue did to people's egos what icebergs did to ocean liners—had forgotten her. Almost.
"Sheila," Catherine began gently, not looking up—a sure sign that Sheila was well and truly in for it—"you did a very, very brave thing on Rasalhague. Going back for a lancemate." She looked up and patted a Bible that rested on her desk in the spartan stateroom. "The Good Book tells us that no greater love hath no man who lays down his life for his friends."
Suddenly a bony finger came up and stabbed in Sheila's direction, and Catherine jumped to her feet. "However, you may notice that it doesn't say lay down thy lance, does it, Lance Commander Arla-Vlata! You risked the life of Kku and those two insane Seahawk crewmen just so you could go back for your friend! And then, another lance had to be mobilized to come get you! That hero bullshit works in vids, Arla-Vlata, but not in real life!" Sheila withstood the vocal gale, remaining at attention. Sooner or later, Catherine always wound down.
"If you had gotten your stupid, pretty little ass killed, I'd have been out a lance commander as well as three MechWarriors! Good God, I've got lances running on two 'Mechs out of four now. It was brave, Arla-Vlata, but it was also stupid! Unbelievably stupid! The only reason Max came after you was because he has some feelings for you, the poor fool, because you guys are second cousins or something, and the only reason the Seahawk stuck around was because you're Calla's daughter! You are an insult to your company, your battalion, your regiment, your family, and your gender!" Catherine punctuated each statement by smashing her fist on the desk, making the laptop and the lamps jump. "Using your father's influence to get what you want—that really pisses me off, Arla-Vlata. I thought you were above that. I guess not. You're a fucking idiot, Arla-Vlata." She sat down, her eyes never leaving Sheila's. "Maybe it would have been better to leave Mimi to the Clans. At least then, your father wouldn't be looking around to find a decent guy to be her legs."
Sheila's temper blew. Forgetting rank and seniority, Sheila practically leapt across the desk, slamming both palms down on either side of the laptop, baring her teeth practically in Catherine's face. "Go to hell, Houndlikov!" she railed. "Were you there? Did you suck dirt like the rest of us? Did you see Miko Umcizi buy the farm because he was so damn frustrated that he had to stand up and fight? Did you watch while your friend got her back smashed? No, you fucking didn't! You were sitting on your ass on the Slanderscree IV reading Vogue! Not that it does you any good!
"I did my best, Major. I'm sorry it wasn't good enough, but at least I tried. I never wanted to be a fucking lance commander, anyway. 'Lance commander.' Huh! I didn't have a damn lance left—just me and Tooriu. So you know, I decided to try and save a portion of it. I'm sorry as hell that Mimi got hurt, but at least I tried to help. Maybe I saved her life, I don't know—maybe the Clans gun their prisoners. That Elemental was going to kill both of us. At least Mimi has a chance at something. And if I used my position as my father's daughter to save a life, guilty as charged. I didn't do it for me. I did it for Mimi. And if I screwed the pooch, that's my karma. I had to do something! Where the hell do you get off giving me shit for it! You can go and—"
"Sheila, that's enough." Catherine's voice, as gentle as it got, shocked Sheila into silence. "You've made your point. Sit down. Please." Sheila, still fuming, sat in a chair across from Catherine. "Sheila, I baited you on purpose. The Sentinels aren't lavish with ranks or titles—we're not some fracking House Guard unit or something. We're common mongrel bastards, the lot of us. You also weren't the first choice I had for commanding the 13th Light Dragoons after Yoriyoshi Kazikawa retired after Persistence, may he roast in hell. You're a maverick, Sheila. You do things your own way, and common sense be damned. You remind me of…well…me, actually. I was a young smartass Lance Commander once too, Sheila, who thought my company CO was a moron. You stupid kids may think I that I came screaming out of my mother with major's stripes on, but I didn't. I made mistakes and got my ass chewed too."
"You're saying that saving Mimi was a mistake." Sheila made it a statement, not a question.
"No. I'm saying the way you went about it was. Next time use your damn brain. It's not padding for your head, you know. Anyway, here. Happy Birthday." Catherine reached into the desk and tossed a felt case the size of a book to Sheila. Sheila, confused, opened the case, and gasped.
It consisted of a nine-point star made of solid gold, with a silver fist of House Steiner and a platinum sword-and-sunburst of House Davion in the center, the emblem of the Federated Commonwealth. It hung on a golden chain, with a clasp done in the shape of a BattleMech, indicating the branch of service it was awarded to.
"The Commonwealth Star is the second-highest award the FedCom gives, Sheila. You'll receive the award formally at a later date from whatever high mucky-muck the Steiner-Davions send out—Prince Hanse himself, or Archon Melissa, for all I know. But trust me, the paperwork's already been approved. Again, I apologize for baiting you, but I had to prove to myself that you weren't trying to be Little Miss Heroine. If you had been, I would have simply kicked your tail up between your shoulders and been done with it. I still think it was a dumb, stupid stunt." Catherine Houndlikov smiled, and Sheila actually did feel her heart skip a beat. "But here's the funny thing—I received the Order of Davion for throwing my Griffin in front of my lancemate when an Atlas opened up on us. So stupidity is a disease of the youth." The smile disappeared so fast that Sheila wondered if it had been her imagination. "There's a new op in the works, Sheila. I don't know what or where, but they've formed a special committee made up of young pups with field experience. You're on it. Don't argue. Be at the Sudeten AFFC headquarters tomorrow at 0800. Dismissed." She stood and saluted. Sheila, still in a state of shock, returned it. She turned around and began to walk out.
"Sheila," Catherine said, exasperated. "Put the frigging medal on. That's what it's for, you know." Sheila did as she was told as she left the office.
She turned to head back to her room. Tooriu came up behind her, and she could feel his eyes ostentatiously checking her behind. "I see that sweet young ass is still there. The Iceberg didn't rip too many inches out, then."
"You should see what she did to my neck." She turned around slowly to face a befuddled Tooriu, basking in the fact that she had rendered him speechless.
