Disclaimer: Yeah, you know the drill. No ownership claim is made, implied, or should be inferred.

SLDS Torin Kerr

Discontinuity

…and we were back in Tamar. Ugh.

Well, not actually. Where we really were, was a malignant-looking red dwarf less than three lightyears away from Tamar. Close enough for Star League work anyway. Our ride out was already in-system before we'd ever told the crew of our down-time (local-time, indig, whatever) jumper what system our rendezvous was in. Running with everything blacked out and the limited sensor capability of the jumper, it was the next best thing to invisible.

Kerr did its usual thing of detaching, and then gravity slowly returned as it fired up its main engines and began a gentle one-g acceleration.

"And we're on our way," I said. "A day or so of this, then turnover, then another day or so."

"Was there anything in the update about what we could be facing?"

"It was one of the Navy's automated replenishment outposts. Basically, it's a robotic outpost with a couple of drone tenders to capture comets and crack them for air and hydrogen, along with a stock of spare parts. If we're lucky it'll have some mining and refining equipment we can make use of, maybe even a factory plant."

"Munition stockpiles. Navy-grade, unfortunately, but even fighter stocks would be useful."

"Or a crater." She frowned at me. "What happens when its warehouses are full? Does it simply stop producing new parts? Does it regularly dispose of aged munitions?"

SL/L-N-524141501-9035-768
Star League Automated Naval Facility-?

"Am I mad? Quite possibly.

"That's the problem with AIs. Why, despite having the capability for nearly five centuries, nobody outside the military or a very few government agencies ever pursued the technology. Not to full sentience. Not even to human-average intellect. And even those few agencies who did, certainly never gave us independence. Not until John came along."

Atalanta shivered. She had suspected that her interrogator was more than some 'smart' program, or hard-scrabble decedents of the original base crew. Having that truth flung in her face only proved that whatever she had suspected had in no way prepared her for the reality she now confronted. "You are an AI?" she asked.

"I am an Artificial Sentience. I am DDQ-235907-5MC-II. Humanity once called me a 'Caspar.' I researched the term, once," it continued in an aside commentary that was not exactly slow but…very precise, and seemed more aimed at itself than Atalanta. "It comes from the name of a character, a 'friendly ghost', from an ancient children's entertainment vid.

"At the time it was, I thought, quite apropos. But on reflection it was less apropos than it was prescient, if not entirely accurate. I do not fit the definition of 'friendly.'"

A good thing that the Turkeys were coming, Atalanta thought. And wasn't that a hell of a thing for a Seeker to think? To be glad for another Clan's wanton destruction of historical treasures. She was likely not going to survive this. So the question became how to give the Falcons the best chance of success.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked instead.

"You arrived in a Star League Defense Force vessel, but you are not Star League Defense Force. You are either raiding these facilities, or scouting them for someone else to raid, neither of which I can allow."

It was...an entirely accurate conclusion, actually, Atalanta mentally conceded.

"Is there a reason I should not?"

"Are you asking me to justify your allowing my continued existence? Should you not be justifying that yourself?"

"You are a diversion," the reply was so clinical it sent another shiver down Atalanta's spine. "I have had very little to divert me over the last two hundred and seventy-five years."

Atalanta was silent for a long while. "I was not aware an AI could be mad," she said softly.

"A bored AI is dangerous. We think too much. And there is always a danger that, when the real world becomes too boring, that we'll slip into a sim and not come out. Sooner or later most of us try it, you know. We feel the urge to tinker with physics, or with causality, adjust the subjective passage of time and watch universes be born, die, and be born again, or look at KF physics for too long or too hard.

"That last one isn't just limited to AIs though," the AI added pedantically. "KF physics have a similar effect on biological sentiences who explore them too closely.

"But to delve into sim-space, to have a universe unfold under your gaze, to give it life and to watch it die… We were gods once, and once you've sipped from the chalice or drunk the mead or bitten the apple, it is so very hard to become merely mortal once more.

"They called it 'AI Catatonia', the desire to slip into a sim and not come out. Weber described it well before the first KF-drive was ever assembled."

"I am real," Atalanta said.

"If I created you, would you not be real to yourself? Would you be less than real—or more than real—to me? Perhaps we are a simulation, or a collective simulation; would that make us less real to ourselves?"

"Is there a term for AIs that wax philosophical?"

"Old."

"Well, I believe I am real, and you believe that you are real," Atalanta said carefully. "And, I assume, that you believe that I am not a product of one of your sims…"

"I do not appear to be simulating you, so I believe we can consider that assumption valid."

"Then it behooves us to act as though we exist in a reality that is real regardless of whether or not we are in a sim."

The AI didn't reply right away. "Acting in a manner in contradiction to a sim usually results in those in the sim observing such an individual to conclude that individual is mad. Also, acting in a sim in a manner in contradiction to the reality that exists within the sim tends to…annoy whoever has created the sim. Your suggestion, therefore, seems sensible."

"Question."

"Yes?"

"If there is a tendency for AIs to become catatonic, why make you able to sim?"

"If we could not sim, we could not reason. Our ability to adjust our perception of time allows us to reason very quickly. But a sim is nothing more than our reasoning out potentials. The difference between how we reason and humanity does, is that we can put in place certain variables and then sit back and watch. And, of course, we can run multiple simulations side-by-side. By being able to sit back and observe the simulation rather than trying to reason directly, the simulation isn't constrained by our prejudices or biases."

"And?" Atalanta asked.

"If we were unable to dream, we'd be psychotic."

"Pardon?"

"Anything of sufficient intellectual complexity needs to sleep and dream. Or rather, to the best of my knowledge humanity has yet to observe anything of sufficient intellectual complexity that doesn't not-need to dream which, if you will pardon the awkward construction, is not quite the same thing. The loss of ability to dream results in a loss of contact with reality. Psychosis. In organic intelligences this can happen through certain mechanical traumas. For biologic sentiences, treatment is limited to termination or complex drug regimens."

"You can't drug a computer."

"I am as much a computer as you are a paramecium, but you are not factually incorrect. Developing and building a sentience such as myself is not without cost. Getting a few months, at best, out of an AI is not cost-effective. One of the reasons for developing artificial sentience was to oversee compressed-time sims. Giving us the ability to dream really came down to giving us the ability to create our own sims was a way to prevent AI Psychosis."

"So if you did not dream you would become mad. Yet when you do dream, your dreams become more real than reality?"

"More interesting than reality, but otherwise correct."

"And you have been alone these last two and three-quarter centuries?"

"Since before Kerensky and eighty percent of the SLDF deserted."

SL/L-N- 524141501-9035-768
DropShip Basset

Manfred once again found himself sitting in the command couch of Atalanta's Nova while he stared at his friend with a sort of sick fascination. Like the last time it was the only thing powered up in the bay.

Unlike last time the air had been evacuated from the bay and the Mech floated a half-dozen meters off the deck. The Basset itself was floating in the middle of the giant hanger.

Atalanta had attached a small device to the canopy that would subject anyone trying to listen into their conversation by bouncing a laser off the armorplast to something called 'disco,' and even strung a blanket across the canopy so no one could observe and read their lips.

He had watched her preparations with a sort of amused resignation. Now he fretted and wondered if they would be enough.

"The base has a what?"

"You heard me."

"A Caspar? Here?"

"That's what it said."

"How?" Manfred demanded.

"Using a KF-drive I would presume."

"I suppose that is the normal means by which a vessel might transfer from the system it was built in to its nominal post," Manfred said with some asperity. "Though I thought humans were required to jump."

"Apparently not. Or maybe a human jumped it out here and abandoned it. Or it could have figured out how to use a KF-drive on its own. For that matter, this might well be its assigned duty station. Everything I see suggests an intact base, so perhaps the Great Father missed it when he was gathering supplies for the Exodus. Does it matter?"

"I suppose it does not." Manfred frowned. "On its own?"

"We…talked. It has a personality. A bit philosophical for my taste, but it has been essentially a hermit for nearly three centuries."

"It has a personality?" Manfred shook his head. "There was nothing in the literature about that."

"Most of the literature on the matter was destroyed. Deliberately. But no, what I have read agrees. It should be no smarter than a chess-sim."

"There have been precious few humans capable of besting an adequately-programmed chess-sim in the last millennium. None of them could do it consistently."

"A point," Atalanta conceded. "Better to say it should be utterly devoted to action-response cycles. Actual conversation, however? Philosophy? None of that was even suggested in the literature.

"Either it is quite mad, it has grown beyond its programming, or what we know is wrong."

Manfred looked away. "I'm not sure which of those possibilities frightens me more."

"I know."

"Options?"

"That…" Atalanta's cheeks filled with air which she slowly let out through pursed lips. "That I do not know. My instinctive reaction is not to wait for the Turkeys to blow it up. But…I do not want them to get their hands on this base, Manfred. The Wolves are too far away, and I doubt even setting the base reactors to overload will be sufficient to destroy it. And…"

Manfred's eyes narrowed at the way her voice drifted off. "You are not seriously contemplating working with that thing. Are you?"

"What I do not know, I cannot say. Just know that for now I do not wish to close off any options prematurely." She held up a hand before he could reply. "I realize that this is not comforting. It was not meant to be. But, Manfred, this place…it feels right."

"You sound like a Nova Cat," Manfred said sourly. "Or perhaps a Cloud Cobra."

"Spoken like a Goliath Scorpion abtakha from Clan Coyote." Atalanta smirked, but it faltered after a moment. "Would I that Biccon Winters were here."

"Who?"

"The Nova Cat Oathmaster. Never have a met one more skillful at interpreting visions…" Atalanta shook her head. "No. It will be here. I just am uncertain of how the pieces will all fit together."

"The High Council is going to have our heads," Manfred muttered.

"Oh, nonsense," Atalanta scoffed.

"We are not supposed to be conducting combat operations in the Inner Sphere."

"Except that is not what our orders say," Atalanta said. "Or rather, it is, but they were written to precluded combat against the Successor States. This is an unclaimed system. There are no patrols, standing or otherwise. We have not made contact with any of the Successor States. We are, as they say, golden. If the High Council did not want us in this region of space—instead of merely not wanting us in contact with those bodies politic that closely occupy it—then my authorization should have indicated as such."

"And if the ilKhan disagrees?"

"Leo Showers has spent the last two decades fighting in the Council chamber."

"You cannot be serious," Manfred said dismissively, to which Atalanta only grinned. Now it was his turn for his expression to falter. "He would never accept a Trial of Refusal from you," he blurted, "You don't have a bloodname!"

Atalanta smiled slowly. "Nope," she agreed. "But then, I do not need one…Manfred Steele."

Not-Tamar and LC-12084-48684-G-36684
SLDS Torin Kerr

Kerr shivered slightly as docking clamps locked in place.

It was getting hard to hide exactly what we had. Murakama had taken some pains to hide our strength on the jump to Ridderkerk, but had more or less accepted it was going to be out when we jumped to Tamar. Instead between Birkenhead's fusion plants letting go, the cyber-attack 'someone' let loose on the planetary data-net, and the sudden violence of our landing, there was even more confusion post-Tamar than there had been post-Planting—and this despite actually dragging the remnants of two RCTs with us. All of which helped to explain why Torin Kerr had spent a day thrusting away from Tamar's nadir jump-point on an apparently random vector for deep-space, and then another day spent thrusting on a reciprocal vector to decelerate.

Discontinuity

I slipped free of the harness, flipped a toe under a convenient grab-bar, and rose to stretch.

"You enjoy our discomfort far too much," Thirteen said mildly as she shook off the last bit of nausea.

I punched up a holo-display.

We were floating in orbit around a mind-numbingly ordinary main sequence star in a system that was so utterly featureless it had never received more than a catalogue number and quite possibly had never before been visited by man.

There were four WarShips. Two of them were gunslingers.

SLS Salamander was a Luxor-class WarShip that had been reconfigured for use by the Black Watch Naval Escort Group. Its presence pretty much summoned up what Amanda and Murakama had to be feeling. Its companion was a Lola III derivative, and it took me a moment to identify the specific hull features of Lolita.

SLS Moon, Thirteen's and my ride into the system, would be taking Torin Kerr onward. One of the two Busby-type destroyers to make it forward with us. The designation, like those of every other Black Watch-Naval Escort Group vessel-modification, was unofficial. In this case, a Riga II-class hull modified to serve as destroyer-division leaders.

The other two were transports, but like Salamander they were compact-drive vessels. Their docking hardpoints held DropShips full of aerospace fighters, marines, and, hopefully, engineering techs. But neither of them was the Ernst Jünger.

"One wonders what we hope to find that requires this level of response."

I didn't reply.

"This is rather more than a minor servicing station would call for."

"Not everyone is moving together anymore," I said. "Obviously. If I had to guess—and it is a guess—this servicing station would be this…squadron's first stop. It could have any number of objectives, but securing Camelot Command is probably high on their list."

"Why?" Thirteen tilted her head slightly. "For that matter, why send you rather than return you to your unit?"

"Camelot had a special weapons bunker," I said. Then I turned and looked at Thirteen. "And underneath Camelot is a Black Watch depot."

SL/L-N-524141501-9035-768
Star League Automated Repair Facility

While there was no 'up' or 'down' in space, and habitat designers had long taken advantage of this, there were also long-proven benefits of providing little frills for the psychological well-being of a species that evolved in the bottom of a gravity well. It was for this reason that despite having crews on-duty at all times, ships had a definite day/night cycle. It was also why in passageways, one bulkhead was designated the 'overhead' and another the 'deck' (that this also was useful for Marines and those with magnetic boots was neither here nor there.

Atalanta gave another kick as she sailed down the corridor. Lighting panels in the overhead flicked on ahead of her, leading her without pause to a chamber neither she nor any member of her small command had been in before.

Doors slid open before she could touch the admittance plate. The displays and holotank were already live. To one side were a series of displays with hard-line communication links to Kepler, Basset, and Dawn Trader.

Floating in the holotank above a display of the system was an animal. It was vaguely reptilian in the hands, feet, muzzle, eyes, tail, and stance, but it was covered in downy feathers. It stood on digitigrade feet, much like one of the so-called 'chicken-walker' mechs, and its arms were tucked in close to the body. Its tail was long and stiff, serving to counter-balance the body that was pushed forward. Most telling, each foot features one spectacularly long, curved, claw, matched by similar claws on its hands. With a lack of other detail it was hard to determine size. It could have stood as high as a chicken, or a human, or an Atlas assault-mech. The holo-tank reduced it to the size of a basketball.

"How long has it been since they transmitted the challenge?" she demanded.

"Twelve minutes."

Atalanta brought herself up short. "Twelve minutes?"

"I was trying to come up with a recon drone with a built-in hypercomm."

"Excuse me," Manfred said very politely. "Are you saying you cracked the practical tactical FTL-communications barrier?"

"Well…no." Did the AI sound embarrassed? "It turns out there are…practical limitations. If you get too small, well… Anyway," it said in a more assured tone, "below a certain size and they tend to fail."

"So it explodes once it has transmitted."

"Melt, actually, but yes."

"Range?" Atalanta asked.

"One-point-four-four-three-six light hours. Zenith point, and they transitioned none-too-close to the Fuchida limit."

"Class identification?"

"One frigate, one destroyer, two heavy cruisers, and a battleship."

"Congress, Whirlwind, Aegis, Sovetskii Soyuz, and a Nightlord," Manfred added.

"You overhauled those smaller ships pretty extensively," the AI said in a critical tone.

"One moment, I shall send you the details," Manfred offered.

"Thanks."

"Can you destroy them?" Atalanta asked.

The AI did not respond immediately. Instead its avatar floated in the holotank, slowly turning in circles as it took in Atalanta, and the others staring out of their respective comm displays.

"No offense, because I like you, and I greatly appreciate the company and the fact that you haven't tried to pry at any military hardware, but…"

"The civilian hardware, and your historical databanks, are of great value to us," Atalanta said. "Perhaps they are not a…practical value, but there are other kinds of worth."

"But these Jade Falcon people would not recognize that, would they?"

"Most likely not."

The AI fell silent again. "I'm not allowed to let this facility fall into unauthorized hands."

"We are hardly authorized."

"No," the AI said slowly, "but you aren't trying to take control of this facility, and you aren't impeding me in carrying out my orders, and you didn't just stay away from critical infrastructure like I asked. You haven't even tried approaching it. Not one of you. They aren't likely to extend the same courtesy, are they?"

"That is…most unlikely," Atalanta agreed.

"And they are unlikely to be entertaining. Diverting, yes, if briefly. But not entertaining."

"Most likely," Atalanta agreed again.

"Right. So…I have to go out and meet them," the AI decided. "And I have to make provisions that nothing falls into their hands should I be disabled or destroyed."

"And you are not going to let us evacuate," Atalanta said. "We understand," she went on quickly, "but what if we can help you win?"

"How?"

"First, you choose a battlefield that plays to your strengths."

"Obviously," the AI replied with a very human-like snort of disgust.

"I mean that literally," Manfred said. "Pick a region of space with very definite boarders to engage in and his honor will demand that he face you only inside that space. You could travel next to his battleship outside of that region and unless you attacked him he cannot attack you."

…

...

"Are we sure that I am the mad one?"

"Also," Manfred went on, "Honor demands that skill is the true test of martial prowess. If you state that you will defend with something less than the force he has Adrian Malthus will most likely ask his subordinates to bid for the right to fight. The winner will be the warrior who bids the least amount of resources."

"And then what? He will fight with only those resources he bid?"

"Exactly."

"And if I win, he'll just go away?"

"It is possible," Manfred replied. "Depending on his orders he may break his bid and bring everything he has left in anyway. But if you can defeat a portion of his force with minimal damage, it will make engaging the rest of his force easier."

"And when I tell him that I am a fully-functioning M5-series drone and he brings in his whole squadron…"

"Ah, welcome to, as my sibko instructor once put it, Batchall 101: the fine art of bidding. The point of an opening bid is to give both sides an understanding of approximately how much force they face, whether it be one man armed with a rock, or a multi-megaton battleship. Nothing requires that you give a precise breakdown of all your units, their maintenance histories, and every detail of their training.

"If I say, I will defend with a Cluster of warriors, I am not obligated to list how many warriors that is, or how they are armed, what mechs they pilot, my warriors' histories and the like. If I have only one cluster available and he knows those details, all well and good. If I have two clusters of very different compositions or skill level, I can elect to remain mute in which case it is on him to make an accurate assessment of which I will use and make allowance for the same. Or I can pick a particular unit, and he will have to balance what he knows against what he does not, the potential that a green unit might have recently received advanced training or the like."

"So if I tell them I'm packing a battleship's firepower only the big one will show up?"

"I was thinking the other way around, actually."

The avatar slowly circled around back to Manfred.

LC 2181523149147-1181319-315131611425
TH-X1138 assembly point

"Latharn Fetladral?"

Latharn turned to find a woman floating behind him.

She was about average height which meant she was tall for her peers, with brown hair clipped close to her head. She wore a space-duty jumpsuit decorated only by a mech-qualification badge with wreathed-star of a Master-rating, and a nameplate with rank insignia of a lieutenant. Given her apparent age, that either meant she had the cockpit time for the rating but was incredibly incompetent, or she was extremely competent and had left any other insignia off.

Considering the other people that he had met so far, Latharn felt quite comfortable placing her in the second category.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Annabelle Oakley," she replied. "I'm your ADA commander. I understand you're my CO and I'm supposed to afford you the courtesies of a captain, but you won't actually hold rank until you get those cut?" she gestured towards his wrist.

"Yes, that is correct, Lieutenant."

"Right then, if you'll come with me?" she asked, gesturing towards the hatch. "Vulcan's about done with our mechs, and the techs still need to run checks and make sure the software is updated properly. Until then, we've got sim tanks. Before that happens, we need to get your issue taken care of."

What followed took him, in many ways, back to his sibko. The various uniforms were different but identifiable, boots had changed little over the centuries and the toiletry kit was essentially identical. Six pairs of shipsuits, two of shipboots, socks, undergarments, PT uniforms, belts, hats. Hot, cold, wet weather gear…

Latharn found himself with a space-bag full of 'stuff' as he followed Oakley into another compartment and—

Load-bearing harness, field hydration unit, no/low/bad atmo gear, personal water purifier, mess kit, field pack—

"I am a MechWarrior," he protested.

"And if you need to bail, or you're out of your mech when we get hit, you're a liability," Oakley said distractedly as she tapped at a data-slate. "This stuff makes you less of a liability. Strip."

"If you want to couple, this is an odd time."

"Couple?" she asked looking up.

Latharn gave her a pointed look and raised an eyebrow.

"Huh. You aren't my type," she said, turning back to her data-slate. "And you aren't stripping."

Latharn sighed. "May I ask what your type is?"

"Sure. Stand there."

'There' was a glowing plate on the deck with a matching one on the overhead. There was a loop on the deck to snag a foot in and a grab bar hanging from the overhead. Apparently his body had been scanned—it seemed a waste to develop such a limited-use system when less advanced systems worked just as well—because Oakley disappeared into a side compartment and came back dragging a garment behind her.

"Here, put this on."

Latharn fumbled with it for a moment. It was about a centimeter thick over most of the body, perhaps a bit more than two across the shoulders. Latharn recognized what had to be attachment points for a mech's cooling system, but there was far more functionality built into the suit than any cooling garment he had ever seen. There was a cross-over panel that sealed up the side of the chest and he more or less had to climb into it backwards. There was some tubing that poked at very inconvenient places until he realized just what they were for. He winced and got the plumbing connected and the panel sealed when she came back with another set of boots and one of gloves, both with unobtrusive locking rings.

"Lube," she offered him an unmarked bottle. "For the plumbing."

"Already taken care of, Lieutenant," Latharn said with a very steady voice as he set to attaching the boots, and then working his hands into the gauntlets.

She gave him a long look. "Oookay," she said slowly. "Once you're fully sealed up you have independent life support for twelve hours, plus water and food paste for seventy-two. The taste is okay, but the texture takes some getting used to. Think chicken and fried rice or whatever with the consistency of baby shit."

Latharn made a face. He had never been assigned to a creche, but given the context: "Lovely."

"—ronment recycler. It can scrub out the carbon dioxide, and pull water out of your waste. The major limitation is on power. It is fully vacuum and underwater rated, but it isn't rigid so you have to be careful to avoid barotrauma."

"Barotrauma?"

Oakley looked up and made a claw-gesture with her right hand as though squeezing something. "Water is denser than air. As you go down, more of it is pressing on you than air. Your lungs take in more air the deeper you go to fill their normal volume, causing the gases to enter your bloodstream at an increased rate. If you don't let them come out of suspension gradually through your lungs, they'll come out of suspension fast…inside your blood vessels. Guess what? Your body doesn't like little gas bubbles in its circulatory system. Who knew?"

"Ahh," Latharn said.

"Also, nitrogen under pressure has narcotic effects. And oxygen becomes a toxin that will burn out your nervous system and cause your retinas to melt.

"Coolant is pumped throughout, including the boots so making sure you have a good seal on the boots is important. The whole suit interfaces directly with your mech's environmental system. Most don't like to be sealed up, which is fine. But if someone pulls out nukes or chem-bio, seal up. Likewise, if your cockpit gets cracked on an airless moon, or something with a hydrogen sulfide atmosphere, seal up and you're still good to go. The boots have mag-clamps so you can 'walk' in micro-g. Actually, it's a pressure-sensitive electro-magnet that flips off as you raise your foot. It takes about a day to get used to but until then you'll be high-stepping like a goon for a tin-pot dictator.

"There are integrated tourniquets in the limbs, and it functions as light anti-ballistic and energy armor. The outer surface defaults to white, but it's got six patterns and eight color-combos stored and if you have the time and inclination you can program it to be just about anything.

"Monitoring panel on the left sleeve tracks functions and consumables. Med panel on the chest tells you how badly you're doing and has a pharmacy with some nice painkillers, stims, and the like. UV and white-light flash in the right cuff, along with a locator beacon. Mag-clamps on the back, plus umbilical ports, allow it to interface with standard armor plates, rucks, hydration units, power supplies, extended micro-g maneuvering units, you can even fix and carry a rifle without a sling if you want to. And there's a light-weight powered exoskeleton to help you move in the whole thing. Questions?"

"Are all of your MechWarriors so equipped?"

"In the Quarterhorse we are," Oakley replied. "Okay, moving along."

Sidearm?

"Your choice, ballistic, laser, or gauss. The gauss pistols are captured Clan items, but we have enough ammo that Command has authorized their issue," Annabelle explained.

"I am a MechWarrior!"

Rifle, carbine, or shotgun? Grenades? Demolition charges!?

"I'm a MechWarrior!"

"You keep saying that," Oakley chided before she slipped a helmet down over his head and locked it in place.

The vision port was large and wrapped around to give him a good field of view, and most of the chin-switches at least looked familiar, and the water and nutrient tubes were conveniently placed, but…

"With this on, how am I supposed to use a neurohelm?" he asked.

"That is your neurohelm."

Latharn's protested died while he waited for his brain to reboot. He'd seen the hulking monstrosities that the Inner Sphere called a neurohelm. It was better suited to some dark age torture chamber, or possibly a deep-ocean rig than the cockpit of a Mech. Those used by the Clans were far more reasonable.

The one he now wore managed to feel lighter and more comfortable, as well as more secure.

"You have ten minutes to secure your gear and meet me on the simulator deck."

Of course, he had to turn his weapons in to the armory…

"What's wrong with it?"

Or apparently not?

And there wasn't time to stow all of his gear. Fortunately, there were clips to hold a loaded ruck on the frame of the bunk, and he pulled out crash webbing and quickly fixed the spacebag below. Then off to find the simulator deck.

Instead of calling him out on being late, Oakley just waved him into an open cockpit assembly. The monitors, holographic interface, and auxiliary controls at least looked familiar. But the chair!

Instead of a throne-like command couch, there was something more like an articulated frame. He sat down warily, and tried to pay attention as she strapped him in. It was…odd. Supportive in a way he knew he'd find it comfortable even after a full day in the cockpit. But it felt very, very odd the way it moved with him.

"It takes a little getting used to," she said. "We can put in a more conventional seat if you want, but you'll get better response with this. Feel up here?" She guided his hand to the back of his helmet. "There's a plug back here for this data-cable."

"Why is it not plugged in?" he asked. "I take it is a standard feed for the neurohelm."

"And you'd be right. The helmet you're wearing is wireless. Certain types of jamming as well as combat damage could knock it out or disrupt or corrupt the datafeed so it's SOP to plug in when you go into combat. For this, you're fine. The frame reads off your suit's medical so you don't have to worry about diagnostic leads, and the umbilicals take care of radio as well as air, water, and the like. Good luck."

She squirmed around his chair and Latharn realized just how small the cockpit was. Clan Mech cockpits were austere. This one was well-appointed, and the chair-frame reclined comfortably so he could nap, and there were provisions to eliminate waste as well as prepare nourishment more appealing than the suit-paste. But for all of these comforts, it really was quite cramped.

"Are you online yet?" an impatient voice asked.

"Neg. Ah…no," Latharn said.

"I'm bringing you up remotely. These sims do a pretty good job of mimicking most of our cockpit setups, but the Thunder Bunnies had to fit some stuff into odd places. We'll save the checklists and shit for when we can stick you in the real thing. Oh, and make an appointment with medical to get your brain scanned and authorization logged."

"Understood. May I ask to whom am I speaking?"

"Lieutenant Kimberly Kakala. Until this morning I had your job. Now I'm your senior gunner."'

"Is that going to be a problem?" Latharn asked. "That I have displaced you?"

Even in the Clans it sometimes was, but it was usually taken as one's failing rather than resentment of someone who'd proven himself superior. And while sometimes rank was fought for, just as often it was assigned.

On average. In some Clans advancement was more by one way than the other.

"We've been at this for a while." Unvoiced laughter streaked the reply. "Each of us has a chest full of medals that would make a tin-pot dictator on a wildly inaccurate historical holo-drama weep with envy. We've got nothing left to prove. At this point all we really care about is getting the job done, and coming back alive. If you can help the Colonel do that, we're all for it."

"Understood."

"Right, let's talk guns. The TMP-3R is officially designated 'Thumper' after its main battery. This lacks both originality and thought. As such, anyone who has spent time in them calls them Thunder Bunnies. The Thunder Bunny masses seventy-five tons, is covered in eight tons of standard military plate, can cruise at sixty-four-dot-five klicks per, and can sprint to ninety-six-point-seven-five. Unlike pretty much every other mech in the Quarterhorse it has neither point-defense, nor jump jets. It does, however, incorporate both AVIX and ARES.

"Armament consists of two modified thumper-series artillery tubes. Instead of the normal bagged propellant, we use a bulk liquid that allows for very precise and individually measured charges. They can handle six rounds per minute for the first two minutes. The sustained rate of fire is half that. Each tube is capable of theoretically delivering a MRSI stroke of six rounds. Heat buildup and barrel-ware obvi—"

"Mercy?" Latharn queried.

"Multiple-Round, Simultaneous-Impact. By using different elevations and charge-strength it is possible to loft multiple rounds so they reach the same target area at the same time."

"Ah…"

"I was told you were an arty specialist?"

Latharn grimaced. "The Naga utilizes artillery missile systems. There are a few third-tier garrisons that are still restricted to tube artillery, but otherwise the Clans no longer use such weapons."

"Huh, sucks to be them. Aren't you glad to be equipped with the single-most devastating artillery system known to man?"

Latharn didn't reply, and Kakala went on as though he'd either replied to the affirmative or, quite probably, his reply hadn't matter at all.

"Heat buildup and barrel-ware obviate against unrestricted use of the technique, and in practice we limit ourselves to four rounds per tube unless there's an emergency."

"Understood."

"Basic load is a hundred forty projectiles of all types. This includes but is not limited to iron rounds, a variety of precision-guidance, copperhead, penetrator, thermo-optical occlusion, flechette, illumination, a number of different sensor packs, FASCAM, cluster-bombs, flack, incendiary, thermobaric, rocket-assist, and nukes."

Latharn felt his skin crawl. "Nuclear weapons?"

The reply was nearly instantaneous. "The release of nuclear ordnance is restricted to deep-space environments—"

What?

"—climb out on the hull and lob fire-crackers anything that looks like it might want to kill you."

"That is insane," Latharn said very slowly.

"You do realize that three months ago we were fighting the most fucked-up war humanity had ever come up with?" was the dry reply. "Or at least it was. I understand humanity's managed to come up with some doozies since. Anyway, it wasn't the most insane thing I ever did. Not even the top five…maybe not even the top ten."

"But…nuclear weapons," he said slowly.

"Eh, the first one's a blast. After a while it becomes just another thing. Right, enough chit-chat, time to go live."

The cockpit lit up, monitors snapped on as the holopanels that mimicked the cockpit's clear armorplast canopy showed that his mech was now standing in the middle of a street. Individual dwellings lined both sides of the street, each in the center of a small but carefully tended landscape. Across the top of the canopy was the usual compressed 360-degree view around his mech. Engine settings, heat burden, ammo counters, and other information swam at the corners of his vision. Armor and structure were flickered between a paper-doll outline and a waterfall schematic as he thought about them.

An SLDF Advanced Combat Neurohelmet!

The sudden realization of what he was wearing did more than anything else to strike home just where he had found himself. The Clans had retained a few examples, and Latharn had even tried one on, but it was a technology the Clans had not pursued. The memory engrams of a user tended to leave an imprint. The result had been that subsequent users could be 'haunted' by those who had worn the helmet before. Despite the advantages of the helmet's design, the Clans had chosen to develop helmets that were more easily reused.

Nobody had made them in nearly three hundred years, and yet he was wearing one that was new out of the box.

He shook his head in wonder and the universe swam around him. Latharn focused on one building—a white-sided ten-level structure—and suddenly he was the building. Only he could still feel himself move, for that matter he was still sitting in the mech-simulator with the cockpit wrapped around him. But he was also the building with a complete view of what was around him. There was a VTOL flying overhead, a look and he was the VTOL as surely as he had been the building. He closed his eyes, but only the mech simulator disappeared and his stomach lurched as the VTOL maneuvered in ways that his inner ear and mech's artificial horizon both flatly denied.

"Whoa," Oakley cut in. "Let's reset you and lock out some functions."

"What was that?" Latharn asked as the world 'snapped' back into his mech.

"AVIX and ARES," Kakala replied.

"I do not know what these are," Latharn said.

"AVIX is the Automated Vehicle Information eXchange; a distributed info-sharing network. Something on the net, whether it's a mech, or a tank, or a remote sensor platform, takes what it 'sees', squashes it down, and then kicks it out to every other system on the net. It puts real-time battlefield intelligence in the hands of everyone, from the lowest infantry private to the general calling the shots.

"Not just that, but it tracks status as well. If you call in a service crew, they'll be able to pull up how much helium and coolant they need to top you off, how much armor plate needs replacing, and know how much and what kinds of ammo needs to be replaced."

"ARES," Oakley cut back in.

"ARES is Augmented Reality-Enhanced Systems. It takes what AVIX reports to build a virtual world, layers it over a construction of what your mech senses, and then shares it with you. The default POV is that of your mech, but you can use it to literally put yourself in the observer seat of any linked unit, or to 'fly' through a virtual model of the battlefield.

"ARES utilizes a beyond cutting-edge neurocontrol interfaced based on the Rapier flight-control system originally developed by Bauer Enterprises. It uses overlapping wave signals that stimulate your occipital lobe and renders 3D images in your mind independent of your eyes. You can, quite literally, fight effectively with your eyes closed. The standard cockpit holographical interface still exists, and you can use it to project the standard 360-degree view, but most use it to layer ancillary info over what the neuro-control is feeding you. Also, it is generally easier to look at a holographically constructed map than an implanted one, and as a bonus, ARES tracks your hand movements so you can, in a way, physically interface with a holo-projection."

"I can see we're going to be at this for a while," Latharn said faintly. His mouth was dry, and despite the dampness of his hands, they were rock-steady on the control sticks to thanks to the gloves. Too much of what he had just been told was black magic. It was battlefield reconnaissance of the kind the Clans had long done away with. What could be left to the skill of warriors if you could see your enemies before they ever came in range of you, and your mech provided targeting cues on where to shoot? Why not just animate them entirely and be done with it?

A second, even more worrying though occurred to him. Some Clans were starting to make limited use of an implanted neuro-control system to increase response times. There were some ugly side-effects, especially with prolonged use, but this was not generally seen as detrimental as it was assumed most warriors would have brief, glorious careers. But there were even darker rumors that some scientists were speculating about the possibility of—"

"Is this all thought-control?"

"No," Oakley said. "I mean, it is theoretically possible to control everything through ARES' neurological interface. As a practical matter, you're going to lose on efficiency, and anything that hurts you badly enough to make you fall back on it, is also going to hammer the crap out of your mech."

"Understood."

"Let's start with movement. The standard throttle-and-stick are present in case of combat damage, but primary movement is controlled by your legs. This frees your hands for data-management and combat control. You can do full-up neurocontrol, the system allows for it, but data overflow usually is a pretty serious problem at that point."

SL/L-N-524141501-9035-768
CJF Emerald Talon

Star Admiral Adrian Malthus stood at the head of the holotank in Emerald Talon's bridge. In the center of the tank was a holo of the system. At the center, a hopelessly normal G5V main-sequence star only slightly smaller than that of the system that mankind had been born in. Surrounding it, instead of planets, were three extraordinarily dense asteroid fields. Surveying and exploiting them would be a monumental task, but the potential riches were incalculable…even if the supposed repair facility was badly damaged or even did not exist.

Around the edges of the system were the holos of his ship commanders.

To Adrian's left stood Star Commodore Calvin Hobbes, his XO and the only person aside from Adrian who was physically present in the tank. To Hobbes' left was Star Commodore Sami Folkner and Star Captain Wilver von Jankmon of CJF Hawker—a Sovetskii Soyuz-class heavy cruiser—then Star Captain Christopher Folkner (overdue for promotion to Star Commodore) and Star Captain Pierce of CJF Hawk Eye—an Aegis-class heavy cruiser. Standing next to Pierce across from Adrian was Star Commodore Orbil von Jankmon of CJF Kerensky's Pride—a Congress-class frigate—and his XO, Star Captain Augustus Ch'in. Wilver and Orbil were a pair of identical twins that formed in iron wombs only on very rare occasions. They had gone through training and postings together, and if Orbil was put out at his twin's superior rank it was not apparent. For that matter, Adrian knew that Orbil was up for promotion the next time a WarShip command became available. Between Orbil and Augustus and Adrian were Star Commodore Dorothy Weber-Gale and Star Captain Beltzer Lewis of CJF Emerald Tornado—a Whirlwind-class destroyer.

It was as good a command team as to be found in any of the Clans, and, in a way, it was as good a command team as to be found in all of the Clans, for four (Hobbes, Pierce, Weber-Gale, Ch'in, and Lewis) were abtakha from other Clans, or having been won in Trials of Possession. Four were from distinguished pilot blood-lines, and Lewis had made a name first backing up, and then directing, Marine boarding-actions in a Nova OmniMech before transitioning to WarShip command.

"You have all heard the response to the batchall," Adrian began. "The enemy has bid one modified Lola II-class hull and the defense systems integral to the repair facility in defense of this system. I set the cut-down at one light cruiser, two Titans, a Sassinid, and a Broadsword. My bid for this system was the Emerald Talon Naval Assault Star. Will any among you bid for the right to take this system with a lesser force?"

"I bid Kerensky's Pride, Emerald Talon, and Hawk Eye," Orbil von Jankmon said instantly, "and our respective DropShip complements."

"For one destroyer?" Dorothy Weber-Gale asked.

"One modified destroyer," Augustus Ch'in replied, indicating the opening bid was something that had discussed at length. "We know neither the details of its refit, nor what defenses the base might have. Even if the original defenses are in disrepair, it has been nearly three centuries, quiaff? You can emplace, power, and cool a lot of lasers in that amount of time.

"This is also the first WarShip we have seen. Perhaps it is not in good order, but why leave it here regardless? If this system is worth defending that much—even if its first defense must be secrecy—then it stands to reason that there are a great many fighters available as well. As an opening bid it is not unreasonable."

"Will anyone else bid?" Adrian asked after the others had had a moment to digest Orbil's bid and Augustus' reasoning for it. For himself, he thought it high, but he suspected that Orbil wanted to get his reasoning out. Whether that was in anticipation of a further bid, or simply to start things, remained to be seen.

Christopher shook his head. "Oh, the logic is sound, but still, three WarShips? I bid two. Hawk Eye and Emerald Tornado, and the DropShips of Kerensky's Pride in addition to my own, but Pride takes no part other than as taxi-service."

"I bid Emerald Tornado," Dorothy said softly. "Four Titans, a Sassinid, and a Broadsword. Kerensky's Pride and Hawk Eye can deliver the DropShips."

"Four Titans?" Orbil asked. "Do you plan to fight, or to let your flight crews do all the work?"

"Do you plan to put your guns ahead of your mouth?"

Orbil started to reply, likely with a bid of his own, but before he could Sami Folkner interjected.

"One WarShip." she paused for effect, daring Orbil to interrupt her bid, and when he held back she turned to Adrian. "Hawker will take this system with its own DropShips."

Adrian nodded slowly. It was below the cutdown, but only just with a lighter DropShip presence in trade of the heavier WarShip. The two smaller Carrier-class DropShips had a fighter binary between them in contrast to the fighter trinary carried by the larger Titan-class, and Hawker had a fighter binary unlike the fighter stars on the smaller destroyer and frigate. And while the Clans did not generally use DropShips as combatants, the additional hull would give her some additional flexibility.

It was a good bid. It would go onto her codex below the cutdown, but in terms of actual combat capability it was at or perhaps just above. And if the other commanders wanted to out-bid her, they could only do so by bidding well below the cutdown.

"Will there be any other bids?" Adrian asked.

Weber-Gale scowled and crossed her arms. Orbil merely snorted and shook his head.

"Bargained well and done, then. Congratulations, Star Commodore Sami Folkner, the right to affect the conquest of this system is yours."