David Lear Republic Army Base

Murchison City, Murchison

Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere

November, 3133; Local summer

Stepping out into the bright light of the Company ready room, Captain Michael O'Malley of the Third Triarii Protectors grinned tightly. There were only a few others in the room, Jarome Keller, his former student and now a Lieutenant, Chief Warrant Officer Mikayla Nova Cat, and Chief Warrant Officer Stanley Marcus. They were his lancemates, and it gave Michael a sense of how serious things had gotten over the past few weeks that he was being deployed with a whole lance.

Jarome noticed him first, and called out "commander on deck!" Everyone snapped to attention, and Michael came to attention himself, returning the almost automatic salute the three had snapped off. "At ease, MechWarriors; I have news and orders. We are being sent to Northwind, in order to support the Prefect. She has spread her Highlanders very thin, and it looks like a big push is coming to Northwind. It is the key to everything in the Third Prefecture; whoever controls Northwind will have a clean shot to Terra itself, and to the heart of our Republic." The three warriors didn't say anything, or grumble with anger, but from the slight shifts in weight, Michael knew that the three were incensed that someone would want to break apart The Republic that had given the Inner Sphere a generation without war.

He locked eyes with each MechWarrior, and continued. "To accomplish our orders, the Exarch has issued to us new weapons. Each of us has been assigned a BattleMech, and we are under orders to use them with extreme prejudice against the enemies of The Republic." Jarome managed to suppress a smile, but Mikayla and Stan let their grins slip out from under their military discipline. "Come on, now, you three, and let's get the assignments done."

Michael turned and led his lance down the standard Republic taupe hallways of David Lear until he reached the MechBay. Each warrior donned a hard hat and heavy earmuffs; the MechBay was a dangerous and noisy place to wander into. Making sure his troops had the appropriate protection; he opened the heavy door and stepped inside. Ozone, oil, hot metal, sweat, and the nerve-tingling scent of Gauss magnets assaulted him. He had been a MechWarrior for most of his adult life, but the rush he got every time he stepped into an active hangar never disappointed him.

Standing huge and gleaming in their new burgundy and grey Republic colors, four huge machines dwarfed the three Chameleon training machines at the end of the bay, and Michael's former machine, his Enfield, had been re-assigned to another lance that had left earlier in the week. Surrounding them now were a 60-ton Rifleman, a 65-ton Cestus, a 65-ton Catapult, and there, newly rebuilt and standing tall once more, an ancient 75-ton Hammerhands; its huge autocannons glinting dangerously.

Michael turned to face his Warriors, pleased that each one wore a look of wonder and deep awe at the sight of the machines, and gave each one quick, clear hand signals. Stan Marcus would take the Rifleman; Mikayla Nova Cat would ride the Cestus; Jarome would have the Catapult; and Michael would take the Hammerhands. Each Warrior trotted obediently to his or her machine and rode the small elevators to their cockpits. Michael himself finally allowed the fierce grin that had bubbling up in him to escape. He slid into his cockpit, dogging the hatch behind him, and tugged off the hard hat and ear muffs, replacing them with his neurohelmet. He pulled the helmet down over his head, locking the collar of his jumpsuit to the heavy steel at the bottom of the helmet, and snapped the neural leads and coolant lines into their appropriate sockets.

Pushing his faceplate up onto the forehead of the helmet, he carefully blanked his mind, allowing the battle computer to read his neural patterns; they had already been programmed, of course, but it never hurt to make sure the computer had it easy reading you for the first time.

The computer beeped, and his screens came alive and a soft whine announced electricity was flowing from the huge machine's batteries. The computer asked him to enter his Command Code, a series of letters and numbers that would confirm his identity. He quickly did, and asked for a voiceprint check, an archaic, yet still highly effective, security measure. The Computer beeped in readiness, and Michael spoke; "It being necessary to secure for our children security and freedom do we, the Third Triarii Protectors, solemnly give our oaths to protect and defend The Republic of the Sphere." The computer beeped again, and the 'Mech shivered, its Fusion engine reaching criticality and igniting. A deep thrum, felt with the bones much more than with the ears, announced its awakening.

Opening a COM channel to his lancemates, Michael spoke once more, the microphones built into his helmet transmitting his words in perfect clarity. "Third Triarii, by numbers, announce your readiness for departure; Triarii One, all systems green, weapons secure, ready for departure."

Jarome's voice, military hard but the sweetness in her spirit seeping through anyway, echoed next. "This is Triarii Two, all weapons secure, systems green, and ready for departure."

Stan opened his channel next, voice chipper and full of excitement. "This is Triarii Three; all systems are on-line, nothing's gone wrong yet."

Finally, Mikayla's voice, her Russian accent more noticeable in her excitement, chimed in. "Zis is Triarii Four. I am ready to fight, Captain."

"All right, Lance, by the numbers, up and out on my beacon." Michael quickly set a navigation beacon and throttled up, exulting in the sensation of the 75-ton Hammerhands responding to his touch. It stepped out, and negotiated the ramp with no trouble at all. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael noticed a trio of very young figures in grey and burgundy staring up at them open mouthed- new Triarii MechWarrior candidates to take over the Chameleons.

Once out on the wide open fields of Murchison, two of the three moons high above, Michael opened the COM channel once more. "All right, Lance, skirmish formation, and let's run the range real quick, shall we?"

Three acknowledgements popped back at him, and he smiled as the lance sorted itself organically. As both commander and pilot of the heaviest machine, Michael reserved point for himself, and Mikayla slid up on his left, a hundred meters away, in her Cestus. That machine's huge Gauss rifle, twin Defiance B3L large lasers and pair of Defiance B3M medium lasers would complement the new Mydron LB-10X Autocannons, quartet of medium lasers, and SRM-6 rack carried by the Hammerhands. Stan fell back on the right wing, his Rifleman's weapons systems equally suited to both anti-Mech and anti-air operations, and Jarome fell back on the left, her twin LRM-15 racks and four medium pulse lasers providing pinpoint fire support for the lance.

The hills rolled, and before long, the Range computer found its first opportunity to test them; a combined-arms lance racing in over the ridgeline ahead. Michael grinned savagely, his heart thundering in his chest, as he called out the incoming unfriendlies. "Heads up, Lance; enemy contacts approaching from the north. Stan, you target those Yellow Jackets; once they're gone, hammer the IndiMech coming up on your right. Mikayla, I want you to suppress those Ontos tanks. I'll take on that Avatar; and Jarome, you hit that Mad Cat MkII in the center, understood?"

Jarome double clicked her mic, and the Warrant Officers snapped off quick acknowledgements. Michael pressed forward, centering the Avatar in his gunsights. He watched in his Heads up Display (HUD) as his lance broke up and opened fire; the HUD was an invaluable addition, it compressed 290 degrees of view into 180 degrees, allowing Michael to see more of his blind spots.

Stan activated his tracking radar, and his 'Mech's weapons began to vomit hard light and hypervelocity depleted uranium into the Yellow Jackets. Michael could tell that the fast, tough machines hadn't expected a Rifleman to be in the mix- they split up, but one was caught in the hailstorm of fire and simply came apart. Stan quickly re-targeted another, and began a deadly duel of fire and maneuver- the Yellow Jackets were fast, adept 'Mech-killers; their Gauss Rifles could easily tear Stan apart with just a few hits.

Michael glanced over at Jarome to check on her; he took a moment to admire the lines of the huge Catapult. It was a special Republic model, produced at one of the hidden factories the Exarch and his Paladins maintained. Combining ferro-fibrous armor, an extralight engine, and endo-steel chassis, the Catapult carried two Long Range Missile (LRM) 15 racks, backed up by four Martell medium lasers. As he watched, Jarome got a good lock on the ninety ton Mad Cat MkII and let fly, her machine disappearing under a huge wave of smoke from the launchers. The enemy 'Mech tried to dodge, but the advanced technology aboard Jarome's Republic-built Cat kept the lock, and the Mad Cat disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame as all thirty missiles smashed into it, shattering armor, blasting into endo-steel bones, and shredding the port side LRM 10 of the Clan machine. Jarome slowed her machine's advance, cutting diagonal to the rest of the battle- she knew better than to close with a machine that outweighed her own by 25 tons, especially when that machine carried two Clan Gauss Rifles.

Mikayla dashed in, using her Cestus' high top speed to get a clean shot on the lead Ontos. Her Gauss slug crashed into it, crunching deep into the armor, and brilliant scarlet beams from her lasers boiled away tread sections; she seemed to be going for the treads, a solid tactic to keep the four deadly medium lasers far away from her own armor.

Michael focused his attention on his own target, the 70 ton Avatar. It was the fastest enemy machine on the field, and as an OmniMech, could be carrying nearly anything. It pivoted at the waist, and discharged a pair of Extended Range (ER) Particle Projection Cannons (PPCs) at Michael, the man made lightning striking his 'Mech at their maximum range. He grunted as neuro-feedback stabbed into his brain, and electricity crawled over his 'Mech. However, if the enemy 'Mech could hit him, he could hit back.

Igniting his jump jets, he blasted out of the Avatar's target lock and drew his own bead on the heavy 'Mech. His cross hairs glowed gold, and his target acquisition gear howled with a good lock, so he pressed the trigger on his twin Mydron Excel LB-10X Autocannons. With a thunderous roar, they spat 120mm armor-piercing shells at the enemy, shredding armor and clawing at the cockpit canopy. The Avatar jerked, and Michael grinned wolfishly. The old Armstrong guns stock on the Hammerhands hadn't had anything like this range.

Grounding safely, Michael cut hard on a left oblique, taking advantage of the confusion a second devastating barrage from Jarome's Catapult caused. Her missiles seemed to devour the Mad Cat, blasting off an arm and chewing deeply into its center torso, seeking out the vital gyros that kept the machine upward. Unable to deal with so much pounding of the gyros and the loss of so much armor, weaponry, and internal structure, the machine fell, where it lay, struggling to get up.

The Avatar shied away from the lethal cloud of destruction, fearing a similar fate, and charged Michael, its PPCs blasting and flights of missiles pouring from its torso. The missiles flew in a straight line, and Michael felt tension relax in his gut as he saw that they had been launched unguided; they passed harmlessly to his right. One PPC missed as well, but the second struck his right leg, squarely in the thigh; armor exploded and melted (or so his battle computer told him), but otherwise the leg was fine. I can't take much more of that, he thought, and cut in deeper towards the Avatar, carefully drawing his sights onto the right torso of the enemy machine. His reticule burned gold once more, and he depressed both of his triggers, firing all of his weapons on the same Target Interlock Circuit (TIC). Heat washed over him, and he belatedly realized his helmet was unsealed as broiling, bone dry air parched his throat.

The damage to the Avatar was much more compelling, however; tons of armor shattered under his heavy cannon, and more armor boiled and ran like butter before a blowtorch under the beams of his two medium lasers and the double-tap of the twin medium pulse lasers in the chest of his 'Mech. His six Short Range Missiles (SRMs) blew deep craters into the armor, and the right arm of the Avatar slumped, its shoulder actuator destroyed. The weapons would still fire, but the enemy machine wouldn't be able to target them effectively. One more pass like that and the Avatar would be useless. Michael took advantage of the enemy 'Mech's staggered state to flip down and seal his faceplate; cool, blessedly moist air surged into his lungs, and cleared his mind, while his coolant suit washed heat away from his body.

The battle was going much the same way for the rest of his Lance. His Sensors reported that Stan's Rifleman was smoking from a Gauss hit to one of his double heat sinks, but both Yellow Jackets were down, and the MiningMech (modified with a pair of 50mm autocannons and an SRM pack in addition to its rock drill) was being thoroughly crushed under the weight of his lasers and Ultra Autocannons. Mikayla's Cestus was scarred and burned from the lasers of the two Ontos she was facing, but both tanks were immobilized. Even as Michael watched, one Ontos blew apart as a Gauss slug from the Cestus shredded its fusion engine. Jarome pulverized the Mad Cat once more, and it finally blew apart in a spectacular display of pyrotechnics as the missile count reached 120 warheads, all placed with pinpoint precision.

In fact, his was really the only viable target left on the battlefield. Michael slammed his throttle forward and ran in close, blasting the Avatar with every weapon, shattering armor, burning away internal structure, his missiles chipping away at the Standard skeleton of the enemy machine. It tried to return fire, but its remaining weapons fired on empty space; Michael had already fired his jumpjets, ignoring for the moment the dangerous heat build-up. He sailed high into the air, and he imagined the Avatar freezing in terror as the 75 ton Hammerhands fell out of a clear blue sky onto its shoulders.

The hip joints were the first to give on the Avatar, snapping away under the huge weight. Michael clenched his teeth and rode the shock, his head swimming and his gyros screaming, and somehow he kept the 'Mech upright as he rode the Avatar to the ground. He came to a halt, and carefully scanned the battlefield. Seeing no enemy machines standing, he grinned. "Well done, Triarii. That's a win for the home team. Let's get back to the barn; we set out for Northwind in the morning."