AUTHOR'S NOTES: Not a lot of action in this chapter, if you're looking for big stompy 'Mechs shooting each other. I needed to establish some more important characters for the future, but also wanted to show these MechWarriors as being human beings. Sometimes, in big sweeping Battletech novels-in my opinion-we don't really get to know the people, because the cast is so huge. So I wanted my readers to get to know Sheila, Max, Mimi and so on as people. I think it helps the reader get a little emotionally invested as to what happens to these folks in the future. We know the Clans are on the way, but they don't. So Sheila and Company go along their somewhat boring daily lives, with the routine of military life and the drama of family relationships and romantic relationships, not knowing that a storm is coming.

And if Max Canis-Vlata sounds a bit like Max Sterling of Robotech...well, that's who he was based on. I drew my inspirations from a lot of sources-Maysa's appearance is based on Rachel Summers (1980s Phoenix) from the X-Men, and Mimi is based on Shelley Hine from Omaha the Cat Dancer. If you're familiar with that character, you may suspect what else Shelley and Mimi will have in common.

Jestin Ridge Repair Facility

Persistence, Tamar March, Federated Commonwealth

30 July 3049

"You didn't have to do this, Dad," Maximilian Canis-Vlata said. "I can get moved in on my own, you know."

"Yeah, but I wanted to," Todd Canis-Vlata told his son. He opened the last of three suitcases, and began setting out clothes. The other two had been filled with books and miniatures. Todd had laughed at that: Max had inherited his love of printed books from his mother Mira, and his love of miniature painting from Todd. Not for the first time in awhile, Todd told himself he needed to get back into the hobby. "Who are you rooming with again?"

"Micajah Ballew." Max looked at his father with concern. "That's the third time I've told you."

"Yeah. Sorry. When you get old, the brain goes first."

"Dad, you're forty-five."

Todd grabbed some of Max's towels and went into the tiny bathroom, where his son was putting away his toiletries. "It's not the years, kid, it's the mileage." Both father and son looked in the mirror. It was true that the years had not been kind to Todd Canis-Vlata. On the second day of the Sentinels' landing on Shensi in the Fourth Succession War, Todd's Crusader had been the victim of a strafing run by a Liao Transit aerofighter. It had destroyed the 'Mech and nearly killed Todd, who had spent the better part of a year in the hospital. Surgery had replaced the bicep that had nearly been torn off his arm and rebuilt part of his face, but it could not replace the three fingers on his left hand he had lost, or his left eye, or the occasional bouts of crippling pain caused by nerve damage. Max only knew what his father looked like without the eyepatch and the scarring from pictures taken before the war.

Todd put his arm around his son and grinned, the scars around the left side of his face crinkling. "Though you're growing up to be a fine young guy. Surprised you didn't come back from NAMA married." Max did look a great deal like his father before the war: both men were tall and lean, but where Todd kept his graying hair within strict AFFC regulation out of habit, Max had let his grow out until it brushed the tops of his shoulders, forcing him to pull it back into a ponytail when on duty. Max had also been hit by the curse of the Vlatas: he was forced to wear glasses when reading. At NAMA, he'd adopted a pair of smaller-lensed, tinted glasses that he wore pince-nez style. Todd thought it made his son look like one of those weird free-love, no-war activists he'd so hated during the War of 3039. Yet he told himself that Max was a grown man, and didn't need his father telling him how to dress—though, as Max's commanding officer, he in theory could tell him to get a haircut and replace the glasses with something more practical.

Todd's grin faded, and he left the bathroom. That thought had made him think of his commanding officer, and that was a thought he didn't want right now. "Still can't believe Calla gave you the 93rd Highlanders. Lance command at age 19. Holy shit, kid, I was 28 before I got my first lance."

Max hung up the towels and followed Todd back into the main room. Like the rest of the rooms around the repair facility, it was about the size of the average hotel room, and comfortable enough. MechWarriors and fighter pilots tended to get the best, while tank crews, infantry and techs ended up with squad bays, which led to resentment—but, as Todd liked to say, MechWarriors and fighter pilots got shot at more. "I don't know if I'm ready for it, Dad. I mean, yeah, I graduated from NAMA fairly high in my class, but I've never seen combat."

"Well, Ballew's a vet and a good guy. You listen to him, and you should be in good shape." Todd closed the suitcase as Max began to organize his books on one of the shelves. Ballew was not a big reader, as there were few other books already there. "You've got Juan Siembieda and Peter-James Mader in your lance too. Siembieda came up from the techs; he's a crazy bastard—pilots that modded-out Charger of his. Mader's all right, but you have to stay on him. He'll bugger off to go play with holograms rather than do any work on his Marauder. He also likes to carry his pet rabbit with him into combat."

Max laughed at that. "Guess he believes in having all four rabbit's feet."

"Well, you figure rabbit's feet can't be too lucky—after all, it wasn't for the rabbit, right?" Todd snickered. He'd missed the banter he had with Max. They had always been close—most of the time. That made him think of what he didn't want to think about again. "Fuck," he murmured, and pulled the flask out of the pocket of his shirt. He unscrewed the top and took a quick drink of the whiskey inside. It helped, a little.

Max caught the movement. "Dad."

Todd leveled the flask at him. "Don't, Max. My arm has been messing with me today. It's the change in the weather."

"Dad, the weather doesn't change on Persistence. It's an arid world." He returned to his books, deciding that the argument wasn't going to do any good. Todd Canis-Vlata was an alcoholic, and knew it. He also didn't care, and increasingly, neither did Max. It was just a fact of life, and something he had not missed at NAMA. Still, there was something that needed to be said. "Mom met me at the DropShip."

"I know."

Max sighed. "You're still mad at each other?"

Todd laughed, with a trace of bitterness. "When aren't we mad at each other?"

Max paused. "Why don't you two just get divorced and be done with it?"

Todd looked at the flask and took another quick drink, then put it back in his pocket. "We talked about it. We didn't want you to be from a broken home. And Calla thought it would look bad for the regiment. You know, one of his company commanders and a battalion commander calling it quits after 20 years of marriage?"

Max turned. "For God's sake, Dad. I am from a broken home. I've been from a broken home since I was ten. And who gives a shit what the regiment thinks? Hell, a third of the Sentinels are divorced." It was not an exaggeration, Todd knew; the mercenary life was hard on relationships. As the old LCAF had once said, if the Lyran Commonwealth wanted its MechWarriors to have a partner, they would have issued one. The silence stretched uncomfortably long, then Max returned to finish putting away his books. "You're not sleeping in your 'Mech, are you?"

Todd chuckled. "No, no. I'm back in the room with your mother. I just sleep in the chair. It's not too bad, actually." He looked down. "At least she's sleeping alone these days." Max sat down on his bed. Todd scooted over and put an arm around him. "I'm sorry, son. We've both been shitty people, your mom and I." He took the flask out, but didn't take a drink. "I know I have a problem, Max. God, everyone's told me I have. I tried therapy, you know that, but there just isn't a lot of it out here, in some of these dumps we've been stationed at. And when my body hurts, it's either this or painkillers. And after some of the tough battles we've had, I want to unwind with my boys and girls. So 'just one beer' turns into a dozen, and next thing you know, I'm waking up passed out in the bar or my people are dragging me home."

"I was one of those people, Dad."

The elder Canis-Vlata nodded. "I know, kid. And I'm sorry, like I said. Still, I'd rather be getting shitfaced with the company than doing what your mother does." He fixed his son with a hard stare. "I'm a drunk, Max. A fucking drunk. But I am not an adulterer. I have never run around on your mother. Not fucking ever."

"I know, Dad," Max answered. "You've told me that a dozen times. And I believe you."

"Yeah, well…tell your mom that. She doesn't believe me." Todd put the flask away before he drank all of it, using alcohol to blot out the thoughts, the pain, and the bitterness. Mira had been a good woman, he thought, for the first half of their marriage. Good to be around, fun to be around, laughing and loving each other for a decade. For the second half, Mira had been hell itself. In revenge for his drinking, and assuming that some of the women Todd brought home were doing more than helping him get there, she had found an odd sort of retaliation: Mira began taking lovers.

At first, it had been secret, but later Mira became blatantly open about it, her only limitation that she would not have affairs with anyone from Alpha Battalion, her own unit. More than once, Todd had come home to find another man in bed with Mira. Usually, the man beat a hasty retreat, but Mira would just as often tell her husband that this was his fault, and if she wanted to have sex with random people, that was her business. Todd wanted to do something, but he was usually too drunk to do more than stare and mumble curses. Or he would merely go out and drink some more. Calla had threatened both of them from expulsion from the unit, but he could never quite bring himself to exile his own cousin, or his best friend. And so the cycle continued.

"We drove you to NAMA, didn't we?" Todd remarked. "You could've gone to the Nagelring with Sheila. It was all arranged. But you wanted to get as far from Grunwald as you could."

Max stood. "Yeah, Dad, you did. Both of you. And that's why I never came home after my trey year. It was just more of the same bullshit. You getting blasted every other night, and Mom fucking some random asshole she picked up—"

Todd shot to his feet and almost slapped his son. He just barely stayed his hand. "Goddammit, Max, you do not talk about your mother like that!"

Years previously, Max would have quailed under the threat of corporal punishment from his father. Todd was not a violent drunk, and if Max had ever been beaten for misbehavior, Todd had made sure he was cold sober before he did it. But now, he just stared at Todd, who saw in his son's eyes the thing he hoped he never would: pity. "That's funny, Dad. Mom said the same thing an hour ago…when I said you were a fucking drunk." He rubbed the side of his face. "Except she actually did slap me." He stepped back. "That's the real tragedy of all this, Dad. You two still love each other."

Todd couldn't meet his son's eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, we do. That's what makes it suck so much." He suddenly reached out and gathered Max into a hug. "It's getting late. We'll talk more later. I want to hear about whatever you got up to at NAMA."

Max slapped his father's back. "Not much to tell, really, but yeah." He pulled back, and father and son regarded each other again. "Dad…please don't go drinking tonight."

"I won't." Todd turned and left, before the emotion he was feeling could show on his face.

He walked down the hallways, passing Micajah Ballew, who was on his way back to the room he shared with Max. They exchanged a little small talk, then Todd moved on. He arrived back at the room he shared with Mira. Like Calla's, rank had its privileges, and it was twice the size of a normal room. When he walked in, the bedroom door was shut. That was usually her signal that she did not want to talk. It was usually shut these days. Todd nonetheless opened the door just slightly, the old suspicion welling up inside. The bedroom was dark, illuminated only by the holograph of the chronometer. He saw the fan of his wife's long, brown hair spread out over the pillows. She was alone. "Mira?" he whispered.

"Wha…what is it?" she whispered back sleepily. "Todd?"

He felt something else well up inside, and knew his son was right: he did still love her. "Yeah. Just wanted to say Max got unpacked tonight okay. He's…he's doing all right."

"Oh…that's good. Glad you two got to talk some." She rolled over, just briefly, enough to let him see her face, partially obscured by her hair. Even dishelveled by sleep, with no makeup on, Mira Canis-Vlata was still a beautiful woman. He remembered marrying her, thinking he was the luckiest man in the Inner Sphere—much like his friend Calla, Todd Canis was a nobody from the Lyran Commonwealth. Mira Bighorn-Vlata was too, her name all that remained of a once noble line. They'd combined their last names in a show of love, and despite everything that had happened, neither had changed it. "Todd…I have the duty in the morning. I need to sleep."

"Right. Sorry." He wanted to say something more, but couldn't. Mira rolled back over, and Todd closed the door.

He walked over to the refrigerator. By mutual consent, neither kept alcohol on hand. It would be easy enough to get; Todd knew of at least one still set up by the techs, and town wasn't that far away. Instead, he grabbed a soda, and went and sat down at his desk. He sat there for some time, silent, and then got up. He rummaged in a closet and found his old model building gear box, then a model he'd bought half a year ago, on Grunwald, and never got around to building. With a smile, he unboxed the kit, cracked his knuckles, and opened his gear box.

Mimi Stykkis was feeling pretty good. She was sober as well, but her purse was a lot more full of C-Bills than it had been before the night had gotten started. Besides her other talents, Mimi was a murderous poker player.

She paused at the room door, remembering her spat with Sheila earlier in the day. Then she smiled. It would be all right. Friends argued. It happened. Besides, it was doubtful that Sheila was even there. Mimi laughed as she walked into the room; Sheila was undoubtedly screaming in ecstasy at the moment, as Tooriu Kku hauled her roommate's ashes, as it were.

Mimi's laughter died when she saw Sheila sitting, fully clothed, on the side of her bed, head in her hands. "Sheila?"

Sheila's head came up. "Oh…hey, Mimi." Her voice was dull and lifeless.

Mimi shut the door, tossed her purse on her bed, and sat down next to her friend. "What's happened? Your folks okay?"

"Yeah, they're great."

That left only one possibility, besides that Sheila had been suddenly Dispossessed. "Tooriu?"

"Yep."

"Oh, shit." Mimi knew that tone all too well—not with Sheila, but herself. "He broke up with you."

"Yep." Sheila reached up and wiped her eyes. "Haven't been crying, really. Just…it came out of nowhere. Just…don't know why."

"What, that bastard didn't even tell you?" Mimi jumped to her feet. "Okay. Let me get some of the other people from the company together, and we will go and whip his ass. Sock party, motherfucker! It's go time!"

Sheila reached up and tugged on Mimi's pants. "No, Mimi…it's not like that. He told me." She sighed. "He doesn't love me. He said it just couldn't work long term. And he's afraid of my dad, and my mom."

Mimi sat opposite of Sheila, on her own bed. "Well, I can't blame him there, I guess. I mean, I'm afraid of your parents." She reached down and took off her shoes. "So, he wants something permanent? Not just friends with benefits?"

"Yeah. I guess." Sheila shrugged. "I guess I did too, really. I thought maybe we'd get married."

Mimi rolled her eyes. "Oh God. There's that religious upbringing of yours. You can't just fuck; there's got to be something 'permanent.'" She made scare quotes with her fingers. "I'm so glad I ditched all that. Now I fuck guilt-free."

"Stop it," Sheila snapped. "Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but it matters to me!"

"And Tooriu, apparently. Or maybe he just wanted a pair of tits to come home to every night." Seeing Sheila beginning to turn red with anger, Mimi shook her head. "Okay, okay. Let's not fight. I already feel bad about what happened earlier. Not with Maysa—Saint Maysa deserves it—but you and me, getting into a fight."

"I guess I felt bad about that too," Sheila admitted. "Not with Maysa punching you—you deserve it." Despite herself, she grinned at her roommate.

Mimi snorted. "Maybe so." She hopped across to sit back down next to her friend. "Well, shit, Sheila. I'm sorry as hell. I really thought you two had something there." She put an arm around her. "You want to cry into my shoulder, you go right ahead."

"That's the funny part," Sheila laughed softly. "I haven't been crying very much. Just sort of in shock. And disappointed. I just thought…" She flopped back on the bed, covering her eyes. "Oh, hell, Mimi, I don't know what I thought."

Mimi poked her in the stomach, causing Sheila to involuntarily double over. "You were thinking with your clit, that's what you were thinking with. Which is fine. We like to make fun of the guys by saying they only think with the small head, but we girls think that way too, sometimes." She lay down next to Sheila. "And who can blame you? Tooriu's good looking, he's got abs for days, and from what you've heavily implied, he's got a big tool. Everything there and a bag of chips."

"I thought you were trying to cheer me up," Sheila groused.

"Yeah? Well, you've got it too, Sheila. Beautiful face, legs that won't quit, tits like footballs, and a great ass. Oh yeah, you're also pretty smart." She turned over, smiling. "Cheer up, bitch. You won the genetic lottery. Tooriu doesn't want that? His loss. You'll find someone else. He'll sweep you off your feet, put a ring on your finger, and then fuck your brains loose, and you'll be staggering around thinking 'Tooriu who?' And Tooriu will be all miserable and shit, banging his bimbos, and thinking how he let you get away. Dumbass." Mimi jumped to her feet. "Hell, if I was a dude, I'd bang you right now."

Sheila rose up to a sitting position. "Oh, thanks. And you were on such a roll, Mimi. I was almost feeling better."

"Want me to do my stripper dance?" Mimi spread her legs, bent over, grabbed her heels, and rotated her rear end. "I'll grant you, it's more impressive when I'm naked. But hey, I can do that too." She straightened up, and began twirling in place, raising one leg almost vertical as she did so. "When Mom made me take those ballerina classes…she had no idea what I'd use them for." She let her hair fall over her face seductively. "So, want me to get naked?"

Sheila rolled her eyes. "Mimi, I'm very impressed with your flexibility, but I'm straight."

"So's spaghetti, until it gets hot and wet." Mimi slowly sat down, opened her legs wide, and threw her head back in a pretended gasp, arching her back. "And you weren't so straight that one night, back in Kell Hall…"

"I was also depressed about blowing the La Mancha test, and drunk off my ass on PPCs. And nothing happened anyway, besides you kissing me. Several times. Which I guess was all right, if I could remember half of it." Her head throbbed in sympathetic memory. She and Mimi had decided to make Marik PPCs—grain alcohol cut with ouzo, from liquor Mimi had smuggled into the dorm. To say it had been a mistake was like saying the Fourth Succession War was merely an extended honeymoon. "And then the hangover the next morning…I've had Snow Flu, and it was worse than that."

Mimi blew out her breath. "Yeah, that was pretty bad. But we sure bonded over throwing up together. Two lovely ladies, hugging it out half-naked over the toilet. That's some erotic shit right there." She decided not to tell Sheila that it had gone further than kissing: she had gotten Sheila down to her panties, and had Sheila not passed out when Mimi was licking her navel, they easily could have gone all the way. Mimi was glad it hadn't, in retrospect. Sheila had been so intoxicated that she could barely stand, much less give any sort of consent, and it might have ruined their friendship. And despite their harsh words over Maysa that afternoon, Mimi would not let anything do that.

That didn't mean she still couldn't have a little fun cheering Sheila up, though. She reached up, unzipped her top, and pushed up her breasts. "Sheila Arla-Vlata," she said huskily. "I will give you this body. You may have all of me. Tonight. Right now."

Sheila raised her eyebrows. "I was thinking about a pizza, actually."

Mimi let go of herself. "Yeah, me too." She pulled Sheila to her feet and hugged her. "Seriously, though…like I said, I'm sorry about Tooriu, Sheila. Really. I wish there was something I can do besides make stupid sex jokes and dance around. You really liked him. I was really hoping you two would work out."

"Yes, I did like him. But Tooriu's right, Mimi." Sheila kissed the top of her friend's hair. "I didn't love him." She gently pulled away from her friend. "So. We both have tomorrow off, we're both lonely women, and I'm coming off breaking up with my only boyfriend ever. Besides the setup for a bad holoporn, what were you thinking?"

"A pepperoni and pineapple pizza, some overpriced soda, and an Immortal Warrior vid," Mimi answered. "I feel the need for mindless violence and sweaty male pecs while I lounge around in my underwear." She tossed her shirt to one side, then sat on her bed and shimmied out of her pants.

Sheila pulled off her shirt as well. "Sounds like a plan, except for the pineapple. That's a violation of the Ares Conventions, Mimi."

Jestin Ridge Repair Facility

Persistence, Tamar March

15 September 3049

"Morning, Maysa!"

Maysa Bari turned at the sound of Sheila's voice, and her face split with a huge grin. "Hey, good morning!" She hugged the other woman as Sheila walked up to the Shruiken; hugging was Maysa's common greeting. "Hey, I tracked down why your lower PPC was having trouble at 120 meters. The calibration was off." Maysa winked. "I fixed it."

"How long did it take you?"

"Oh, about two hours."

Sheila looked up at her 'Mech. "Maysa, you're not assigned to my 'Mech. You didn't have to do that."

"Sheila!" Maysa exclaimed. "C'mon. You act like it was a big deal! It wasn't. It's not like I'm doing anything else on Saturday nights." She put her hands on her hips. "Anyway, it's not a job if you enjoy it."

"Geez, Maysa." Sheila walked around her 'Mech, checking for any leaks or debris in the leg actuators. There weren't any, of course—Maysa would have seen to that—but it was a good habit for a MechWarrior to get into before going out. Sheila was already in her MechWarrior garb, as she was to take the 13th Light Dragoons out for a field exercise. "Look, I'm hardly one to talk, since my idea of a good time is watching bad action vids…but don't you have a social life?"

Maysa followed her around, pulling a flashlight from her tool belt, and shining it in the corners of the Shruiken's legs where armor met at odd angles, and where sometimes armor plates could work themselves loose. A loose armor plate, or a defective one, could kill a MechWarrior: the plate would fall off when hit, or cave in, and the enemy fire might find something lethal—an ammunition magazine, which the Shruiken didn't have, or a hip actuator, gyro, engine shielding, or worst of all the cockpit—all of which the 'Mech did have, of course. "Sheila," Maysa answered, "remember when Mom sent me to the summer formal last year? You were home on summer break."

Sheila nodded. "You were there ten minutes and walked home four miles. Barefooted, because you took off your high heels."

"Well, duh. I kept falling off of them." Maysa leaned against the 'Mech's right leg and patted its armor. "This is where I belong, not at some prom or date or something. I'll find the right guy eventually. Or I won't. I'm not worried about it. To me, coolant is like perfume." She turned and hugged the Shruiken. "I love my 'Mechs!"

Sheila snickered. "Okay, okay…just don't get too much in love with them. Remember that rumor about Kikkia Settsi?"

Maysa turned her head quizzically. "No. What about her?"

"Never mind. Let's just say Kikkia likes her Wolverine a little too much."

"Well, she is always polishing it…and won't any tech near it," Maysa said, with painful naivete. They walked out from behind the Shruiken, and Sheila saw Kaatha walking towards them. The older woman had become someone Sheila could lean on, a combat veteran who had been fighting as long as Sheila had been breathing. Oddly, Kaatha was her only name: she belonged to a religious sect that eschewed all property, including surnames, for collective and simple living; Sheila had been meaning to ask how someone so religious squared being a MechWarrior. "Hi, Kaatha. Ready to go?"

"Not sure." The elder MechWarrior thumbed over her shoulder. "The Major wants to see you before we mount up."

"Oh, okay. This shouldn't take too long." I hope, Sheila thought. Kazikawa had actually been kind to her for the past month—as kind as the crusty Major could be, anyway. Either that, or she had just gotten used to his abrasive personality, the way someone gets used to rain during a monsoon.

She jogged over to Kazikawa's "office"—which was just a two-by-four on two boxes, and two seats next to the parking spot for his Banshee—and came to attention. "Lance Commander Arla-Vlata, reporting as ordered, sir."

Kazikawa nodded. "At east, Lance Commander." He tossed a datapad on the board. "Taking your lance out?"

Sheila went to parade rest. "Yes, sir."

"You're not on the patrol schedule."

"No, sir. Just wanted to get more experience. I also thought it would be a change from the norm."

"Explain," Kazikawa snapped.

"Sir. We've settled into a routine here. Field days, work days, off days, the occasional exercise, and patrols. We go out the same way we come in, every day we do go out. I doubt there's Kurita spies this far in, sir, but all the same, it's a pattern. So I thought a march around the facility to check for dead ground or ambush spots might be a good idea. Sir," Sheila finished.

Kazikawa regarded her for a moment, then nodded. "Good thinking, Lance Commander. Were you planning on approving this with me first?"

"I did, sir. I put in the request three days ago." Her eyes flicked down to the datapad. To her surprise, the request was right there. That tricky son of a bitch…he's testing me.

He let the silence stretch a few moments, then gave a slow nod. "So you did. And I have approved it. However, you might want to wait until I tell you I have approved it before you mount up."

Shit. Sheila, in her enthusiasm, had completely forgotten to do that. "Yes, sir. No excuse, sir."

"No, no excuse." He folded his arms across his chest. "But since you are showing initiative, I will let that lapse go. Just don't repeat it." Something that resembled a smile went across his face. "And I doubt you will. You make a lot of mistakes, Lance Commander…but I've noticed you don't make them more than once."

Sheila tried not to smile. "Sir, with respect…that sounded like a compliment."

"Probably because it was." He picked up the datapad. "Dismissed, Sheila."

"Thank you, sir." Sheila came to attention, then turned and marched back towards her lance. He used my first name! she exulted. He only does that with the other lance commanders! Hot damn. She resisted the urge to skip the rest of the way.

She was just reaching her lance when suddenly klaxons went off. Everyone froze. "What the hell is that?" Marcus Drax shouted.

"Planetary raid alarm," Kaatha answered. She looked at Sheila. "This far in…it's either pirates or a very long-range Kurita raid."

Sheila's heart began to pound. A raid meant combat. Not against a computer in a sim, or an exercise with other Sentinels, but the real thing. Enemy MechWarriors who wanted to kill her. She felt a sudden urge to go to the bathroom, but remembered her father's favorite saying: when in command, command. "Mount up!" Her voice came out as a croak, so she had to repeat it. "Let's get going, guys!"

"Right!" Kaatha ran for her Griffin, and Drax, after a second of hesitation, dashed for his Phoenix Hawk. Maysa gave Sheila a look of worry and terror, then grabbed the crucifix around her neck and ran off, murmuring prayers. Sheila was already climbing up the handholds and stanchions in the Shruiken's side before dropping into the cockpit.

She willed her hands to stop shaking. First she had to lower the canopy; her ears popped as the cockpit pressurized. Then she grabbed the neurohelmet from where it sat on the seat above and behind her. Technology advancements meant that she was not forced to wear the massive, bulky helmets her father and ancestors had during the Succession Wars, staring out of a tiny window—but though visibility was much better and it was not as sizeable, it was still heavy enough to need padding on her shoulders. Her hands quickly connected helmet leads to the cockpit, and Sheila hit the switches needed to bring the Shruiken to life. She braced for the dizziness that always accompanied the 'Mech interfacing with her brainwaves, using her own sense of balance to keep the 70-ton machine upright. Next she made sure her "spurs"—little blades on the sides of her boots—were secure in the grooves in the seat; this would help prevent flail damage in case she had to eject. Though the Shruiken was based on the Wolfhound, it lacked that 'Mech's full-head ejection system; Sheila would have to ride her seat out like most MechWarriors. Finally, she plugged in the leads of her cooling vest to the 'Mech's coolant system. "Ugh," she said aloud, as the feeling of icy tendrils ran across her breasts as the vest's tubes filled with cold coolant. It was not a pleasant feeling, and she shivered. Luckily, it faded quickly. One last thing—Sheila pulled the pin out of the seat, arming it.

Now she was ready to go, and she pressed the largest button on the instrument panel. "Welcome aboard, MechWarrior," the 'Mech's computer said. As part of its experimental nature, TharHes had programmed the computer to use the voice of a young, cheerful woman—with the impression that male MechWarriors were more likely to listen to it. Unfortunately, it was a bit lost on her; Sheila always thought it made her war machine sound like a peppy teenager. "What's your name?"

"Sheila Allegra Arla-Vlata."

"Voiceprint pattern match obtained. What do your parents call you?"

"Snowbird."

"Voice authorization confirmed. I'm ready to go, Sheila." She always had to smile at that. The 'Mech came fully to life now, the monitors glowing and targeting system coming on. Sheila thumbed her radio switch. "Alpha Charlie Two to Alpha Charlie elements. Radio check."

"Alpha Charlie Three, check," Kaatha replied calmly.

"Alpha Charlie Four, check!" Drax was nowhere near as calm.

Sheila switched to the company net. "Alpha Charlie Six, Charlie Two. Lance is up," she radioed Kazikawa.

"Roger, Charlie Two. Stand by." Sheila waited, but the seconds stretched to minutes, and she began to fidget. The old story—hurry up and wait. The knowledge that Athenian hoplites had been given the same order five thousand years ago didn't really help. She moved the Shruiken's head down and saw Maysa standing there, light wands in her hands, looking as confused as Sheila felt.

Finally, the radio crackled. "Alpha Charlie elements, Alpha Charlie Six," Kazikawa said. "Power down, but do not dismount. Raid count is one single Leopard-class DropShip. Beta Battalion has the intercept." A Leopard? Sheila thought. That's only four 'Mechs. Got to be pirates, who didn't get the word the Sentinels were onplanet. Kurita wouldn't be that dumb…unless it's a decoy? Sheila leaned back in the seat. Well, that's above my pay grade, so I guess I'll let Dad worry about it. Four 'Mechs? Geez. Not even a fight, unless it's Morgan Kell, Jaime Wolf, Natasha Kerensky, and Hanse Davion. Sheila laughed to herself at that. When she was a kid, she dreamed of being the one who would take down the Black Widow, and had even drawn herself—poorly—standing on the burning remains of Kerensky's legendary Warhammer. Now, as an adult, Sheila knew that the Black Widow would reduce her Shruiken to slag in a minute, then laugh about it. Good thing Kerensky is on our side...

To her surprise, her radio crackled again. "Alpha Charlie Two, Charlie Six. You are ordered to dismount and join Big Six in the CP."

Sheila was confused. "Alpha Charlie Six, did you say Big Six wants me?" Big Six was her father.

"Preferably immediately, Alpha Charlie Two." The sarcastic tone of Kazikawa's voice was back.

"Roger that, Charlie Six. On my way." Sheila sighed, then began the laborious task of disconnecting everything. Well…I had to go to the bathroom anyway.