Teeganito Astako,
Alurial Continent
Hyperion
21st February 3052
Margaidh stepped out of the dropship and squinted against the morning sun as she felt real earth under her feet for the first time since leaving Strana Mechty almost seven months before. The heat hit her like a wave as she slowly let her gaze fall across the desert of red sand with it's deep canyons and towering mesas. Domask put a reassuring hand on her left shoulder, and Kristen on her right merely let out a low whistle of awe.
"It is a magnificent sight, quiaff?" Margaidh asked, barely above a whisper.
"Aff," Domask replied. "Beautiful, but deadly. At mid-day, the air temperature can reach over sixty degrees centigrade, while at night it drops to twenty below."
Margaidh shook her head. "I still think we should have stayed on the Dire Wolf and practised on the simulators. I've wasted a week already."
"Simulators are for children," Domask replied. "Or for those times when there is no planet available on which to practise. One day in the cockpit of a real Mech is worth far more than six in a simulator. Besides, it gives us the opportunity to patrol the region, and make sure there are no bandits around."
Margaidh grinned. "I thought hunting bandits was a job for solamha, quiaff?"
Domask scowled at being compared to the inferior solamha units. But instead of chastising her, he grinned back. "You are an untried freebirth warrior, remember. That means you are less than solamha." He turned back towards the drop-ship where the rest of the Mechwarriors and their techs were making ready for the first patrol. Most of them were from the 13th Wolf Guards, Khan Natasha's famous Wolf Spiders, but a few extras from the 328th Assault Cluster had joined them to assist in Margaidh's training.
In the Mech hangar, Margaidh was introduced to Star Captain Samis, who was taking charge of the patrols in the absence of Natasha Kerensky whose presence had been required aboard the Dire Wolf. Samis was a thin, nervous-looking man with close-cropped yellow hair and hawk-like eyes that constantly flickered from one side to another. Despite his jittery demeanour, he smiled warmly at Domask and Margaidh.
"I am glad you could accompany us," he said, offering his hand for Domask to shake. "I must admit, I was surprised when I received Khan Kerensky's request for you to accompany us, but…" he gave a shrug. "…it is always a refreshing change to have visitors, quiaff?"
"Aff," Domask agreed.
"So you are the young protegé of House Lewis, quiaff?" Samis turned to Margaidh, and gave her an appraising look.
"Aff," Margaidh replied with a salute.
Samis must have liked what he saw, because he gave a quick nod of approval. "Good. Now, let us not waste more time talking. Your Mech is the Kit Fox over there." He pointed across the hangar to a smallish, squat Mech painted in typical wolf-grey, looking diminutive beside Domask's big Timber Wolf. "Domask will assist you, I have much to do." And with that, Samis hurried off.
Domask handed Margaidh a kit bag in which she found a brand new cooling suit and overgarments, and when she had changed she returned to the foot of the Mech. She was almost bursting with excitement, but never since the first time she ever piloted the Blue Skye had she been so nervous about getting into a Mech.
I have only piloted a Mech once in the past two years, not counting Tech work, and that one time almost put me in a wheelchair for life. She hesitated at the base of the ladder leading up to the cockpit, then smiled and hurried up it.
Once in the cockpit, Margaidh settled into the seat and was surprised by how quickly she remembered what to do, even after so long. She fastened the safety harness then clicked the large red reactor swith to 'on' and listened to the satisfying hum of the engine slowly warming up. Next she opened a compartment containing the medical sensor patches, and stuck one to each thigh and each shoulder. Cables from the patches threaded up through loops in the cooling vest to nestle under her chin in readiness for plugging into the neurohelmet.
Next, she plugged the cable from the cooling suit into the side of the command couch and immediately felt the familiar tickling sensation as coolant fluid started to flow. Then, from above the couch she pulled down the neurohelmet and put it over her head, settling it on the padded shoulders of the jacket and rocking it until the sensor pads inside it settled into the proper places on Margaidh's head. She was momentarily surprised at its lightness in comparison with her old helmet. Finally she fastened the chinstrap and the tapes that held it to the vest.
Reaching to the left, she reached for the switch that would start up the computer initialisation, and she hesitated. Normally, a Mech required a particular code to start it up, thus preventing one being stolen by anyone unauthorised. There was a general Technician's passcode, but that changed from unit to unit and even from week to week. Besides, the Techs code did not arm the weapons.
Margaidh lifted the visor on her helmet, leaned over the side of the cockpit and shouted across to Domask, who was prepping his own Timber Wolf. "What do I do about the passcode?" she asked.
"Just switch it on and see what happens," Domask called back.
She switched on the computer, and waited for it to load up it's diagnostic programs before it spoke in its tinny, synthetic voice. "Kit Fox 349287XL3306 online. Proceed with voice identification."
"Margaidh Wolf."
"Voiceprint pattern match obtained. Working…" There was a long pause. "Who were the Boys of Summer?"
"The Seventeenth Skye Rangers," Margaidh replied without hesitation. She felt a twinge of sadness when she realised the computer had said 'were' instead of 'are'.
"Affirmative. Welcome aboard, Margaidh Wolf."
Margaidh grinned to herself as the cockpit canopy slowly lowered itself, and power surged through the control systems. A bank of screens lit up and data flashed across them as each one was checked by the computer, and its status verified. She saw the Kit Fox was carrying one extended range laser and a small pulse laser side by side in the left arm, while the boxier right arm carried an LBX Autocannon, and a four-pack of short range missiles, as well as ammunition for both weapons.
At last the start-up was complete, and Margaidh closed her hands around the two joysticks and slid her feet into the shoe-like pedals that would enable the Mech to walk. A final glance around the cockpit's controls to familiarise herself with the layout, and she spotted what she had been unable to find in the Hellbringer; a radio. She flicked it on, and Domask spoke to her almost immediately.
"Charlie One to Charlie Five. Are you ready, Margaidh?"
"As ready as I will ever be, I think." You wouldn't believe how good it feels to be in a Mech again.
"Good. Now, Channel seven is an open radio link to the whole patrol, but Channel twelve is a closed link between you and me, so you can ask any damn stupid question you like, and only I will know about it."
"Roger, Charlie One," Margaidh replied, smiling at the sound of amusement coming through in Domask's voice.
The Timber Wolf started to move towards the big open doors and Margaidh flexed her left leg, expecting the Kit Fox to do the same. But instead, it just gave a sort of sideways lurch and stopped. At first she thought there was something wrong with the Mech's leg actuators, but the computer was registering no malfunction.
It isn't the Mech's leg actuators, it's mine! Margaidh thought with dismay. She took a deep breath and concentrating on exactly what her legs were doing, she tried again. This time it worked, and the Kit Fox staggered awkwardly after the Timber Wolf, looking like a drunken chicken.
"Charlie Five, this is Charlie One," Domask's voice came through on channel twelve. "Do you have a problem?"
"Neg," Margaidh replied, her Mech briefly staggering as she lost concentration on walking to speak to Domask. "But this is harder than I thought it would be." She concentrated hard and increased the pace a little, so the Mech began to jog towards the Timber Wolf. Once she had caught up with him, it took yet more concentration to slow down again without tipping the Kit Fox onto its nose. "It is like learning to walk all over again," Margaidh said to Domask. "My brain knows what to do, but my legs are not listening to it."
Domask's laugh echoed in her neurohelmet. "I think it will not be long before you are accustomed to the actions again," he replied.
It took almost an hour for Margaidh and Domask to catch up with the rest of the patrol, by which time Margaidh felt much more confident with handling the Mech. The other mechwarriors, one full star plus three to make up another with herself and Domask, were sitting in the shade of an overhanging ridge, with assorted Mechs standing like a row of sentries.
Margaidh was grateful for the chance to stop and rest, since using muscles that were unaccustomed to such prolonged exercise had left her legs and lower back aching. To her surprise, Phelan was there, and she gingerly sat down beside him, wincing as a twinge of pain shot from the middle of her back and travelled in both directions at once.
"Are you sure you are fit enough for this?" Phelan asked, his face showing concern. "The patrol will last most of the day."
Margaidh nodded and smiled at him. "I will be fine, Phelan. I am just a little saddle-sore, that is all."
Phelan scowled, not sure whether to believe her or not. He passed her a flask of drink and she took it gratefully. It was ice-cold and refreshing in the desert heat and she smiled back at him then lay back on the sand, looking up at the towering battlemechs.
"It hurts like hell, but I think it has been worth it," she said with a smile.
14th March 3052
What passed for 'Scotch' on the Dire Wolf resembled it's namesake only in that it was alcoholic, and amber coloured. Margaidh did not care that it tasted worse than even Donegal Whisky. It was better than nothing. She poured herself a large measure and knocked it back quickly. Unlike Skye Whisky, this was not a drink to be savoured.
The day after Margaidh's first patrol in a Mech, she was so sore she could barely walk, and she spent most of the day sitting in the drop-ship while the rest of the patrol went out without her. The scotch she drank helped to numb the pain but it made her melancholy. Kristen patiently listened to her constant worrying that she had caused some further damage to her back, or that she was mistaken about her ability to pilot a Mech in the first place.
Margaidh was relieved to find that the following day she felt considerably better, and by the end of the week she was out in a Mech for at least four hours a day without a break. She could not decide, however, whether she was actually hurting less by then, or whether she was ignoring the pain more easily. Kristen said it was because she was drinking too much, but as far as Margaidh was concerned, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that she was getting more accustomed to sitting in a Mech.
After a week of patrolling the desert in the Kit Fox, the routine changed, there were changes of personnel, and Margaidh was no longer assigned to the patrol stars. Instead, Domask took her out alone to a makeshift firing range, in a different Mech each time, and she practised her gunnery skills. One day merged into another, with morning and afternoon sessions on the range, followed up by long hours in front of the holovid going over the battleroms.
Any spare time, which was infrequent, was taken up by other physical exercise; weight training, unarmed combat and long runs in the desert dusk. At the end of the day Margaidh would collapse into her bunk, but despite her exhaustion, the constant ache in her back and legs kept her awake. After two further weeks of such an exhausting schedule, Margaidh was relieved that it was almost over, and that tomorrow she would be heading back for the Dire Wolf.
Margaidh gritted her teeth and swung the Mad Dog's torso round to the left, bringing the lasers to bear on the target. Her finger pressed the trigger and both large lasers spat their tongues of searing light, only to pass ineffectively over the head of the Timber Wolf standing menacingly on a ridge. The Timber Wolf returned fire with it's own extended-range lasers, slicing armour from her Mad Dog's legs and rocking it backwards.
Suddenly unbalanced, she fought to keep the Mech upright, but she couldn't hold it, and it toppled backwards. Margaidh closed her eyes, trying to block out the images of the accident on Ridderkerk, and the impact made her gasp aloud with pain and shock.
After a moment or two lying in the command couch, trying to decide whether she had broken her back again, Margaidh decided she hadn't and struggled to get the Mech standing again. Since the Mad Dog had only guns and not hands, she could not use them to push the sixty-five tons of metal and ferro-fibrous armour off the ground, and at the first attempt she only succeeded in an ineffective kicking, like a turtle on its back trying to turn over.
The second time, she got leverage from the Mech's right elbow against a rock, and pushed it to an ungainly sitting position. The Timber Wolf had by now reached her, and was pointing its huge blocky guns right at the cockpit.
Domask's voice echoed in Margaidh's neurohelmet. "Bang! You are dead."
"Very funny," Margaidh replied, banging her fist in anger on the side of the couch.
"Not funny. Stupid!" Domask's voice betrayed an anger as strong as Margaidh's own. "Make a manouver like that again and you deserve to be destroyed. This is not a game, Margaidh. It is real. Fail, and you die."
"It was not my fault!" Margaidh snapped back, struggling once again to stand the Mech. "My legs still react more slowly than they used to. That is why I fell."
"You have less than two months before your trial. Are you saying you are not ready?"
That's right, Domask. I am not ready. If I had half the speed and co-ordination as I had before the accident, I would not have missed, and I would not have fallen. Margaidh suppressed a shudder. "I will be ready, when the time comes."
The session's de-brief took only half an hour, since the session itself had been prematurely halted by Margaidh's fall. Nevertheless, Domask managed to squeeze into that half hour enough criticism to last her a whole week. When at last he raised his hands in exasperation and told her to get lost, Margaidh returned to her cabin, blinking back tears of anger and frustration.
She slammed the door shut with a clang, swore loudly, closed her eyes and leaned against it, waiting for the aching in her back to subside a little. She pulled a half-empty bottle of scotch from the bottom drawer and drank from it, not bothering to pour the liquid into a glass. As the heat warmed her throat she closed her eyes and gave a groan.
"You don't look happy," said Kristen, who was lying face down on the top bunk, busily studying a technical manual.
"That's the understatement of the century," Margaidh retorted, throwing her jacket to the floor and wincing as she crossed the room and sat carefully down on the lower bunk, still cradling the bottle.
Kristen closed her book and dropped lightly to the floor, giving Margaidh a concerned look. "Mags? Are you okay?"
"Do I look okay?" Margaidh replied. She took another drink and set the bottle down beside the bed before slowly lying back against the pillows. She gave a moan of half-pain, half-relief as she felt mattress and pillows under her back. "I have never been so embarassed in my life. I took a fall in a Mech, and would you believe I couldn't stand it up again?"
"Oh, Mags!" Kristen cradled Margaidh's head in her arms and Margaidh screwed her eyes shut, squeezing tears from them that Kristen brushed away with her finger. "Don't cry, love. Everything will work itself out."
Margaidh shook her head and opened her eyes, struggling to prop herself up on her elbows. "I will not be ready in time, Kristen. Dammit, I think I've actually got worse in the last two weeks, not better."
"You've been working too hard. You're exhausted."
Margaidh nodded in agreement. I am exhausted. My back hurts like hell and I feel worse than I did a year ago. But real war doesn't stop just because the soldiers are tired. She turned away from Kristen and lay back down again. "It's just too far out of my reach, Kris. I've come this far and it's not quite far enough."
15th March 3052
While Kristen spent the morning in the Mech bays preparing for launch, Margaidh stayed in her cabin feeling sorry for herself. Since they were departing from Hyperion that afternoon, there was no training, but Margaidh would not have been able to do any, even if it had been scheduled. In fact, she was in so much pain she once again had to rely on her walking stick, but since she stayed sprawled on the bunk most of the morning it didn't much matter. She did not want Domask, or anyone else, to see how badly off the previous day's accident had left her.
Once the Drop Ship had left Hyperion's red sands behind, Margaidh stood for a while by the window, watching the planet's shining disc gradually receeding into the blackness of space. Her fingers instinctively reached up to her neck to touch the Blue Skye charm, but she only remembered at the last moment that it was not there. The symbol of all she had lost was itself gone, and it seemed that all hope had gone with it. She poured herself a large measure of scotch, downed it in one go and refilled the glass. It helped to dull the aches, and as it took effect she allowed a smile to creep across her face.
The decision was not a spontaneous one; she had dwelt on the possibility many times, particularly at those times, like now, when it seemed Margaidh would never achieve her goal. She had considered it carefully all morning, and as the Drop Ship began its six-day journey back to the Dire Wolf, Margaidh made up her mind that the time had come to act on that decision.
She found Domask in the command room, watching battleroms on a holovid projector. When she came in he looked up at her and frowned as he noticed she was leaning heavily on the walking stick.
"Margaidh? Are you alright?" He stood and pulled out a chair for her.
Margaidh shook her head. "No. But I would rather stand. This will not take long."
Domask frowned, and switched off the holovid projector. "What is wrong?"
Margaidh did not look at Domask as she spoke, but fixed her attention on a single point behind him. She did not wish to meet his gaze. "I can no longer continue with my training. I request permission to withdraw from the Trial of Position, and I request a transferral to another Caste."
Of all the responses she had expected Domask to make, she had not prepared herself for the way he actually did react. She did not even see him move, she only felt the sudden sting of his palm against her face as he slapped her hard. Margaidh lowered her head and touched her cheek, hardly believing he'd actually hit her.
I suppose I deserve that, for giving in.
Domask's face was livid with rage, but as quickly as it had erupted he let it go, and sighed. "I am sorry, Margaidh. I should not have done that. But I must refuse your request."
That hurt more than the slap, and Margaidh looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "Yesterday proved to me that my dreams were… just that. Foolish dreams." She shook the walking stick at him, almost threatening. "Look at me. These last two weeks piloting Mechs have set me back months. I will not be ready for my Trial."
Domask sat heavily back down in his chair and shook his head. "I cannot believe I am hearing this from you, Margaidh. I cannot believe you have so much scorn for me."
Margaidh frowned. "Scorn for you? What do you mean?"
"A little over a year ago, I stood before the Council of Wolves, and proclaimed my utmost belief that you would succeed in achieving your dream, foolish as it seemed then to some. I was prepared to take Vincent into a Circle of Equals, if that was what it would take to protect your right to a Trial of Position. Now you have the nerve to stand here and tell me I was wrong." He slammed his fist down on the desk.
"It is not you I have scorn for, it is me!" Margaidh wailed in protest. "I am the one who was wrong."
Domask fixed Margaidh with a stare, his eyes narrow. "Let me tell you something, Margaidh. The only reason you can walk today is because you refused to give up. You had a dream, a goal, and you worked non-stop towards achieving that. Without that goal, and the drive to achieve it, you would probably still be sitting in a wheelchair, or hobbling on crutches. What is certain, is that you would not have just spent over eighty hours out of the last two weeks in the cockpit of a Mech."
He pointed to the second chair and this time Margaidh sat down, clenching her teeth against the pain. "It is those eighty hours that have proved to me that I no longer have what it takes to be a Mechwarrior," she said quietly.
"So you want to give up on nearly eighteen months of hard work? What would you do? You have no other training."
Margaidh shrugged. "I would be happy to do whatever the Clan required of me," she replied, mimicking the words Thalia Tutola had used. There must be a place for me in the Labourer's Caste.
Domask leaned forward in his own chair. "Shall I tell you what the Clan requires of you? What I require of you?" He waited for a response, and Margaidh gave a slight nod of her head without looking at him. "The Clan requires that you continue with your training and take your Trial of Position as scheduled."
Margaidh frowned at him. "But you said yesterday that if I fail I will die. Do you want me to die?"
"No, Margaidh. But I remember you saying, many months ago, that you would rather die than not have the chance to be a Mechwarrior." He put his hands on her shoulders and looked hard at her. "A transfer to another Caste would kill you just as surely as a PPC, or the blade of a knife across your wrists."
That last one sent a jolt through Margaidh as she saw a sudden image of her mother lying unconscious on a blood-drenched bathroom floor.
Domask smiled. "I do not know whether or not you will succeed at your Trial of Position. But I know one thing. If you fail, even if you die, I will still be proud of you. Do not tarnish the Lewis name, neither mine nor your mother's, by giving up now."
Margaidh swallowed hard, but she could not speak. Instead, she got to her feet and turned away from Domask so he could not see the tears that were already running down her cheeks, and she hurried away as fast as she could before Domask could say any more.
As the door swished shut, Domask gave a moan, and kicked angrily at the chair in which Margaidh had been sitting, then he spun through one-eighty degrees and looked at another door that connected the command room with a small rest-room. The moment he heard that door begin to open he turned the holo-projector on again and resumed watching the images it showed. When the rest-room's occupant came and stood behind him, watching over his shoulder, he neither spoke nor moved.
"Well, that was a surprise, wasn't it?"
Domask stood and faced Natasha Kerensky, his anger rising again, making him forget she was his Khan. "You do realise she might just not make it now, because of what happened yesterday. Her confidence is shattered. You should have let me tell her the truth!"
Natasha narrowed her eyes at Domask and handed him a mug of coffee, then she sat down on the desk and crossed her long legs, cradling her own mug in both hands. "You know, when word got down to Outreach that the Wolves had captured Margaidh Lewis, I have to admit the first thing that got my interest was that odd Shadow Hawk she had. I remembered it from the twenties and thirties, when it belonged to her mother. So I dug out some of the Dragoons' files on the Lewis family and started doing some research."
Natasha took a long sip of coffee. "For instance, did you know that Patrick Kell once offered Margaidh's mother a place in the Kell Hounds, and she turned him down?"
Domask shook his head.
"Maybe if she'd accepted the offer, she wouldn't have ended up…" Natasha hesitated over using the word crippled. "Well, anyway, life is life. It doesn't always work out the way you think it should."
"And what about Margaidh?" Domask said, frowning at Natasha.
"Margaidh is a hundred times better than her mother ever could have been. I've seen some of her Academy reports, and they're good. Very good." She narrowed her eyes at Domask. "Did you know she was formally disciplined no less than nine times at Sanglamore? She would have been bounced out in the first year if her performance wasn't so exceptional."
"What was she disciplined for?"
"Four times for disregarding stupid orders, and the rest were alcohol-related." Natasha bit her lip. "That part still worries me."
Domask drank half his coffee in one go. "What worries me more at the moment is her lack of confidence. She seemes to have forgotten just how good she really is."
"What do you expect, after what she's been through the last two years? Or the last two weeks? Dammit, Lewis, if it was me I'd sure as hell feel exactly the same."
Domask scowled. "I think we are pushing her too hard. You know she can barely walk today."
Natasha slammed her mug down on the desk and raised her arms in exasperation. "Now you're talking just like she did! You think she won't make it, quiaff?"
"I do not know. I think she needs more time."
"There is no more time. I had to twist Radick's arm to give us three months after her adoption as it is."
Domask sighed and rubbed his temples, but he said nothing.
"Listen, Domask. When Phelan Kell turned up, everyone in the Clan was raving about how remarkable he was. And sure, he is remarkable. Hell, he's only twenty and already he's in the middle of a Trial of Bloodright. That'll beat my record by two years." Natasha grinned.
"If he gets it," Domask reminded her.
"When, Lewis. When he gets it." Natasha emphasised her point by thumping the desk. "But my point is this; I don't think Phelan is all that unusual. Margaidh might be running four years behind, but I don't believe that matters a damn. And I don't think she is alone, either. The Inner Sphere is full of kids like Phelan and Margaidh. The question we should be asking ourselves is whether the Clan is ready to face them."
Natasha stood and headed for the door. As she reached it she turned back and smiled at Domask. "There is no need to worry about Margaidh. She will make it."
"Are you certain?"
Natasha Kerensky's smile became a wolfish grin. "With you and I both kicking her butt, she'd better." Then she winked, and before Domask had time to reply, she was gone.
Domask looked back towards the holovid, which was still running the battlerom from the previous day's incident. He watched the Mad Dog's instruments as it toppled, and even after having seen the battlerom over six times already, he still willed for Margaidh to get the Mech standing again.
But Domask could see from the reports shown on the battlerom that his own laser volley had damaged the Mad Dog's left lower leg actuator, and another electrical fault had meant the malfunction was not registering in the cockpit's display. He shook his head, and smiled. "It was not your fault, Margaidh. Not your fault."