Freshman
Part 5
Training Field, The Warrior's Hall,
Saso, New Syrtis,
Capellan March, Federated Suns,
March 8, 3076
The clock struck ten minutes past one, and Rocher sat uncomfortably in his Chameleon. Three other Chameleons stood on his right. The large vertical canopy of the Chameleons enabled him to look at the mechwarriors behind the controls. They were the seniors that had been harassing him all year long. Somehow Rocher could see their hatred steaming from their eyes.
Rocher understood their disposition. Nobody liked being surpassed by a freshman. He would feel the same if he were in their places. But this was an opportunity of his lifetime. Besides, he worked harder than any other cadets for the past few months. The Fusiliers recruiters said that he just had to try, and the result wouldn't be a bad mark in his career. This opportunity was the fruit of his hard work, and there was no way he would pass it up.
"Alright, gentlemen, listen up!" Captain Gray's voice reverberated inside the tight cockpit room. "This is a classic Capture-The-Flag game. Red team is Hal, Jensen, Foy, and Rocher. Blue team is Drake, Gil, Rip, and Pepe. At the sound of the horn, you will have to search for the other team's flag and take possession of it. The team that captures the flag or disables all mechs from the other team wins.
"This is a live-fire mock combat. You have been training for years for this moment. Use your skill to prevail in the battlefield. Your Chameleons are equipped with an automatic ejection seat, so do not hesitate to use your guns. The 8th Fusiliers are here to see your performance, so give it all you got. Good luck to you all."
Rocher turned sideways to see a big Marauder bearing the 8th Fusiliers insignia standing just behind the red flag. He had every reason to be nervous because he knew the seniors would use this opportunity to hurt him. The physical presence of the 8th Syrtis Fusiliers in the battlefield not only ensured his capability to be duly noted, but also his safety from any foul play the seniors might have planned for him. There was a little bit of assurance in the big Marauder, and Rocher was glad to have that.
As soon as the horn blared, Rocher hailed his lance mates. "Guys, listen, I know that the other team will gang up on me. We can use it to win. I'll draw their fire. You guys go and get their flag. But don't take it too long. I don't want to get burnt."
"Just shut up and fight, freshman!" one of them snapped without any hint of complying.
So much for strategy. The seniors, though had more experience than him, could only think of one thing to do with a battlemech: shoot anything moving. It was easy for Rocher to make himself look superior to them. But he remembered his interview the day before: the 8th Syrtis Fusiliers were not looking for heroic stunts. They were looking for dependability.
So Rocher put all his power on the Chameleon's myomer, quickly eating up the gap between the two teams. Two Chameleon heat signatures popped up in his radar, moving fast in his direction. As soon as they fell into 600 meters, Rocher fired his large laser. It missed by a wide margin, but he wasn't trying to hit them. He was sending a message, letting them know that he was there. He zigzagged erratically, shooting wildly, then took a hard right turn. Surely enough the two Blue team Chameleons followed him.
Rocher let the seniors chase him while driving them away from his lance mates. Emerald beams started to pepper his back; one flew miserably above his head, but the other stabbed his rear torso. His console screamed in protest. Rocher fired his jets, sending his mech flying over a small hill, putting a barricade between him and the chasing seniors, but making sure he was not too far ahead of them.
The closest seniors made the same maneuver, jumping over the hill, and fired his lasers. One strand blasted Rocher's shoulder. The acrid smoke of scorching armor made him tight. Rocher turned and faced his attacker, firing his medium and small lasers in unison. Half of them connected to the hip, and the Chameleon swayed, coping with the sudden loss of mass. Rocher waited until the Chameleon regained balance, then fired his large laser. The Chameleon's center torso turned into bubbling goo.
The other Chameleon cleared the hill and launched an alpha strike. Multiple laser beams grilled his mech from the right side. Rocher moaned in panic. His mech, already puffing out smoke and steam, lurched to the left, but he yanked his joystick hard. The computer quickly adjusted the weight balance, but the feedback signal to his neurohelmet made him want to throw up.
"Now you know the real meaning of pain, freshman!" one of the seniors crackled in general frequency. "After this, nothing will be left of you."
"You have to finish me first, and I'm not done," Rocher played along, keeping the seniors busy. He didn't know how the fight went on the other side of the training ground, but if he could lock these two seniors, his lance mates would outnumber the other team. He just had to live long enough so his team mates could do the job. "Is that all you got? After 4 years? There's no way the Fusiliers will take dickless seniors like you!"
That last comment turned the seniors berserk. They poured their firepower on Rocher's mech. The ferocity of lasers and machine gun rounds tore into the Chameleon's thin armor and ripped the internal structure apart. Rocher crossed his arms in front of his face when his HUD burst, sending sparks and gauge splinters all over the cockpit. His Chameleon careened in a thick cloud of smoke, but kept standing at the mercy of the neurohelmet signals.
But firing alpha strike in rapid successions turned the senior's Chameleons into sluggish, scorching towers. Rocher had one chance to hurt them and he used it well. He linked all his remaining lasers and shredded the closest Chameleon. Globules of molten armor sprayed as the laser-laden right arm sprawled in the air. The Chameleon staggered hard before crashing onto the ground in geysers of smoke and titanium bits.
That last salvo pushed Rocher's heat tracker over the shut down level, just as the other Chameleon finished its recharging cycle. A powerful jerk threw him out of the canopy, moments before a laser salvo turned his Chameleon into charred metal heap. The jets on his ejection seat guided him back to the ground safely.
And then, a powerful horn blasted. "Red team wins. Everybody stop shooting."
Rocher didn't know exactly what happened, but if everything worked the way he thought, then his three lance mates overwhelmed the other two Blue team members and took control of the blue flag. It was a textbook "Queen Gambit" play. The remaining Blue team Chameleons looked at each other hopelessly, then started the long and agonizing walk back to the hangar, knowing that they just blew their chances to join the Fusiliers.
For Rocher, it was not a guarantee he would be accepted since he lost his mech. But unlike the seniors, he had nothing to lose. He was just a freshman. He had three years ahead of him. He showed the Fusiliers agents that he knew more than just shooting forward. He did everything he could to get recognized.
The rest was just luck.
The Warrior's Hall,
Saso, New Syrtis,
Capellan March, Federated Suns,
March 15, 3076
The recruiting session went for several days until all the seniors had a chance to prove themselves. Then the recruiters called them one by one for the decision. As expected, only a handful of the seniors were picked. The rejects had to start looking for second-rated units like armors, sapper teams, or even logistics. It was hurt since they spent 4 years training as mechwarriors and had to spend the rest of their lives doing something else. But the 8th Syrtis Fusiliers only wanted the best of the class.
Rocher was called last, and Captain Gray was there with the Fusiliers officials. They reviewed his battleROM from the trial last week, then asked him to stand before them.
"Your skill is above average, Son, but your attitude is destructive," one of the officials said. "You drove your mech in erratic manner, resulting in the loss of your Chameleon. Your piloting style is dangerous not only to you, but also to your lance mates."
"Permission to speak, Sir," Rocher encouraged himself to interrupt them. "My lance mates were never in danger. I knew the Blue team would take the extra mile to see me not make it alive. I had zero chance to survive that trial, so I lured as many of them as possible. My lance mates would have to fight only inferior opposition."
"What is this? You brought your personal problem to the trial?" another official spat.
"It's military intelligence, Sir. Knowing your enemy is winning half of the battle."
"But you still lost, Cadet, and you take millions of c-bills of military equipment with you," the oldest official broke his silence. "How do you justify that?"
"My team won, Sir, and that's what matters," Rocher replied. "As far as I know, all my lance mates survived, destroyed 2 Chameleons from the opposing team, and captured the blue flag. It was a decisive victory for the Red team, Sir."
"It is easy to speak about sacrifice when you don't sacrifice anything," another one spoke. "Do you think you can make that sacrifice in real life? Would you sacrifice yourself for the lives of others, and for the glory of the Federated Suns? Would you put the completion of your mission above your own life?"
"Careful there, Cadet," suddenly Captain Gray warned him. "A lot is at stake on that question."
Rocher understood what Captain Gray was implying. He took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully, then answered with confidence, "As long as I can take many Capellans with me, Sir."
The officials and Captain Gray looked at each other, trading nods of satisfaction, then the oldest one stood up and offered a handshake. "Congratulations, Son. Welcome to the 8th Syrtis Fusiliers."
Rocher felt as if an anvil had been lifted up from his chest. He warmly took the officials hand, shaking it vigorously. He took time shaking hands with the rest of the officials, then beaming from ear to ear, he said, "Thank you, Sir. It means a lot to me. When is my first assignment?"
"Not yet!" suddenly Captain Gray roared. "You still have 8 weeks to complete your freshman year. Until then, your ass is still mine. I can still fail you, and you can kiss all this arrangement with the Fusiliers goodbye. But when you finish, I'll deliver your assignment myself."
Rocher was taken aback by Gray's comment, but only for a second. Eight weeks were nothing compared to months of staying in the library and simulators. He would finish his freshman year before he knew it.
"You can count on me on that, Sir," Rocher snapped a salute, still grinning.
"As you are," Captain Gray returned the salute, and for the first time since Rocher enrolled in the Warrior's Hall, he smiled. "Dismiss, Cadet. Enjoy the fruit of your hard work."
There was nothing else Rocher wanted more.
THE END
FOR NOW
