9.4.2578
Weippe: 0650
Day One.
Tony lowered himself into the cockpit of his new BattleMech, the hiss of the pressurized hatch sealing behind him. The seat cradled him in a way that felt simultaneously comfortable and commanding, a reminder of the immense power he now wielded. Leaning his head back with an air of relaxed confidence, Tony closed his eyes. The soft hum of the Mech's systems filled the enclosed space, a symphony of precision engineering.
On the armrest, his neurohelmet waited silently, its sleek form a symbol of the connection between man and machine. The countdown loomed ever closer. A few minutes now. Just a few more minutes until planetfall. The Enchantress had already settled into geosynchronous orbit over the atmosphere of their target world. Below, a battalion of infantry and an armored platoon waited in their dropships like caged predators, ready to unleash the will of the Federated Suns upon the planet's surface.
Tony's eyes flicked open, drawn to the tangle of wires above him. The cockpit ceiling was a web of conduits, each one critical to the Mech's operation. To Tony, they were a perfect metaphor for the army he was part of: intricate, vital, interconnected. Every piece had its purpose. Every soldier, every mechwarrior, every ship. Just like him.
He felt a swell of righteous pride as he thought of the mission ahead. Here, on this rebellious world of the Taurian Concordat, they would transform chaos into order, ignorance into enlightenment. The people of this world, Tony mused with a sneer, were aggressive, lost, and indignant savages. Their resistance to the Federated Suns' benevolent rule was a mark of their own failings. They should be welcoming their liberators with open arms, not denying them.
Three minutes and twenty seconds. Tony watched the countdown on his display with calm anticipation. That's all the time left until the Federated Suns shared their brilliance with this dark, backward place. He scanned his dashboard, confirming his lance's readiness. The holographic display flickered with the statuses of all lances, showing them standing by, waiting for his command.
Tony's brow furrowed slightly as he considered the situation. Two first lieutenants in one lance. Himself and Zand, leading the artillery lance together. It was wrong. It was inefficient. Zand had no business in a command role, let alone at Tony's side.
Lieutenant Leonardo Graves, on the other hand, commanded the assault lance with a seemingly practiced precision. His lance was a powerhouse: Jill in a Locust for scouting, flanked by a heavy BattleMech and two medium Mechs. One of those mediums was Tony's old Gladiator. The sight of it under someone else's command sent a pang of irritation through him—a reminder of what he'd been forced to relinquish.
Tony had spoken with Graves before and found him an interesting character: decisive and calculated, with an almost effortless charm. But in Tony's eyes, Graves was poorly suited to lead the assault lance. His laid-back demeanor grated against the weight of responsibility the role demanded. To Tony, Graves' lack of urgency and fire rendered him ineffective—a competent soldier, perhaps, but a lackluster commander.
The third lance was an assault lance—Tony's former command. Its composition of two heavy BattleMechs and two mediums had been a cornerstone of his many victories. Under his leadership, they had been a spearhead, punching through enemy lines with precision and power. Now, they were under the guidance of Lieutenant Hugh Burch, a man Tony deemed effective but painfully risk-averse. Burch's overly cautious leadership reduced the lance to little more than a defensive buffer, safeguarding lives at the cost of opportunities. To Tony, it was a waste of their potential—and a waste of his legacy.
Then there was the fourth lance: the pursuit lance. Defined by speed and agility, it consisted of three light BattleMechs and one medium. Ferne Irvraine piloted a swift and evasive Flea, while Veronica Molbourne commanded a reliable yet unremarkable Commando. Tony couldn't help but sneer at the idea of a pursuit lance in this engagement—it felt like hurling pebbles at a fortress when hammer strikes were what the situation demanded. Yet, he had led Veronica and Ferne before. Though he often criticized their choice of BattleMechs, he grudgingly acknowledged their undeniable skill and effectiveness in the field.
Tony adjusted his gloves, sitting up straighter as his eyes locked onto the countdown.
Two minutes and counting.
Soon, the world below would learn the truth: resistance was futile. The Federated Suns were inevitable—and so was Tony Gutierrez.
Soon, they would feel the hammer of the Federation. Soon, he would be the one to bring it down, to forge obedience from defiance. Those uncivilized barbarians clinging to their so-called "culture" would finally understand their place. The Inner Sphere was superior—civilized—while their bull-worshiping empire was nothing more than a relic waiting to be shattered.
Then—
The countdown froze.
T-minus: 0:15.
Tony's brows knit together. His fingers curled into fists as he stared at the frozen display.
I've waited this long to bring them to justice for their transgressions…
How dare they make me wait longer
—-----------------------------------------------
Private Dale Mercer ran a final check over his gear. Chest rig, breastplate—secure. Sidearm, frag pouch—check. Helmet and visor—synced. Pulse rifle, spare mags—loaded. Backpack supply—set. Everything was in place. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to steady his nerves.
This was it—his first real orbital insertion. Training had drilled the process into him, but those were just simulations, chemically induced with drugs and stimulants. They had felt real enough, but nothing could truly replicate the moment before the drop.
Sergeant Cole Richter was his squad commander, and he had given a speech less than an hour ago—one Mercer wouldn't soon forget.
"We stand at the doorstep of the Bulls. They are savages—barbaric spacers with no understanding of civilization. But today, the Federation will bring them order. Today marks the beginning of a beautiful campaign. Today, we drag these backwater spacers into the modern age!"
Richter's words had been fervent, zealous, and filled with righteous certainty. The squad had roared in approval, their anticipation feeding off his fire. Now, as the countdown to the drop ticked away, Mercer clenched his jaw.
Excited. Nervous. Ready or not—he was going in.
As Private Mercer slung his rifle over his shoulder, an automated voice crackled over the intercom.
"All units to your stations. Mechanized infantry to your vehicles. Infantry to your pods. Brace for orbital insertion. Orbital insertion in T-minus ninety seconds."
It took a moment to register. This is it. His body moved before his mind could catch up, legs carrying him toward his pod on instinct.
The pod was hardly a pod at all—more of a vertical coffin with a locking brace. It reminded him of a roller coaster back home, but there was no thrill in this ride. He turned, stepping backward into position. His boots locked into the harness with a solid clank, and the brace snapped shut over his chest.
Eyes closed. Deep breaths.
His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat like a war drum trying to break free from his chest. His lungs swelled, heavy as lead. Fear is in the mind. Fear is weakness. Fear does not exist. He repeated the mantra drilled into him during basic training, clinging to it like a lifeline.
Then—
Clunk. Whirr. Hiss.
A jolt ran through his feet as the pod disengaged from the frigate. Gravity shifted violently. His stomach lurched into his throat, his blood rushing from his feet to his chest in a sickening wave.
His eyes flicked open. Around him, his squadmates were locked in just the same. Some squeezed their eyes shut, lips moving in silent prayers. Others grinned, feverish with anticipation. But no one could hide it.
Fear. Anticipation. Zealotry. A war-born anxiety, coiling with murderous intent.
This was what it meant to be an infantryman in the Federated Suns.
Just as quickly as his heart had risen, it plummeted.
The transport thrusters engaged with a deafening roar, hurling the six platoons onboard toward the planet's surface. The frigate remained in geosynchronous orbit, perched just above the atmosphere, while they were sent plummeting straight into the fire.
Focus. Remember the briefing. Anything to take his mind off the drop.
The Enchantress ground forces would be launched in a Czar-class dropship, fired from the frigate at twenty-two thousand miles above the planet. Their destination: a densely populated city center, already flagged for its anti-air batteries and a defensive force of three battalions of mechanized infantry.
His dropship and three others would hit the ground first—a total of one hundred and eight infantry platoons. Czar 1-2 would carry air vehicles for support and tactical deployment, while Czar 1-1 and 1-3 would carry mechanized infantry and infantry platoons. Air support would launch from Czar 1-2, providing additional firepower once the ground forces hit.
The mechanized infantry would touch down first, followed by regular infantry. The VTOL air support would deploy from Czar 1-2.
Then, as the ship hit the gravity well, everything shook violently. The hull rattled, creaked, and groaned. Mercer's visor lit up, flashing the updated briefing across his HUD.
Ground infantry will touch down first.
Mechanized infantry will deploy immediately.
VTOL air support will launch from Czar-1-2.
Czars 1-1 and 1-3 will deploy their full infantry complement.
His squad, an anti-mech unit, would be attached to Command Squads 1-1 and 4-3. Their primary objective: secure the city center's military base. Once it was fully under control, they would fortify it as a forward operating base.
Just survive the landing. Pvt. Mercer thought as the digits on his HUD counted down, each one a reminder that the ground was rushing up to meet them. Four thousand miles, three thousand, two thousand—his heart slammed in his chest, a drumbeat of impending doom.
Almost there, he thought, bracing his body. His muscles locked, straining as if invisible ropes were yanking at the very fibers of his being. His teeth ground together, the pressure unbearable.
Then, the emergency lights flared to life, casting a sickly red hue across the cabin.
Boom! The ship shuddered, the hull rattling violently as flak cannons on the ground ripped into them. The ship screamed in protest, its frame groaning under the pressure. Creaks echoed through the walls, followed by the sharp crack of something giving way. The impact threw everyone against their harnesses, sending a shockwave through the cabin.
Mercer's eyes went wide as a massive explosion tore open the hull several meters to his left. He could see the vacuum breach start to form, but they were already in the atmosphere—still too high for ground fire, but too low to escape unscathed. His stomach lurched as he watched several soldiers from another squad get torn from their seats, sucked into the firestorm.
The cabin stank of burning ozone as fire caught on the jagged edges of the breach. His faceplate hissed, sealing tight as his helmet's internal systems struggled to compensate for the sudden drop in pressure. Air rushed back into his lungs, but it didn't feel like enough.
"We've been hit!" a squadmate screamed across from him. His face was pale, eyes wide with terror.
"No fucking shit, dumbass!" Sergeant Richter's voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos like a whip. "Tighten up your nuts and shut the hell up. We're just about to get started!" His tone brooked no argument, his command laced with fiery intensity.
The ship continued to rattle, the hull shuddering under every impact. The breach in the side stretched wide—two men across, maybe more. The floor beneath Mercer's feet shook violently, and he clutched the edges of his seat as the dropship descended further, the sky outside the viewports a blur of motion. His body shook violently as the turbulence intensified. Outside, he could feel and hear the shockwaves from the flak cannons. Focusing on his breathing and heart rate, he worked to calm himself. The drop insertion was already a mess.
Pvt. Dale felt the ship shudder to a halt as the red hue of the bay shifted to a steady green. In that split second, his pod unlocked with a precise click, freeing him. Instantly, his training kicked in like clockwork. He moved in perfect sync with his squad, following right behind his platoon leader. The mantra echoed in his mind: Rack the slide, power the pulse rifle, follow the yellow brick road to the Czars' bay doors.
They advanced into the deployment hangar where his strike team loaded up on several light infantry vehicles. Each LIV sported a machine gun mounted on its roof for a dedicated gunner. Pvt. Dale slid into the back seat next to the gunner, his role clear—serve as the gunner's assistant: pass him the ammo, cover him during reloads, and be ready with anti-armor rockets to counter enemy vehicles. As a private, his job was simple yet vital—provide cover fire and follow orders without question.
The LIV began to move forward slowly into formation. Dale heard the machine gun's slide rack back with a metallic clack as the gunner chambered a round and switched off the safety. They were merely going through the motions—training that had been drilled into them for a day like this.
Then, the deployment hangar's red lights finally turned green, and the bay doors began to descend. Dale's eyes flicked to his left. Outside, soldiers were busy—chambering rounds, switching safeties, and even slamming fists against their armor to test its integrity. Some were hastily setting up barricades; others took cover behind the LIVs. The atmosphere was tense yet methodical, every man preparing for what was about to come.
The bay doors opened completely, the massive slab of metal hit the ground with a deafening thud. In that instant, hell broke loose. Missiles screamed into the bay, a storm of bullets battered the infantry, and laser fire raked across the exteriors of the LIVs. Through the chaos, Dale watched as his driver—the man at the wheel—succumbed to a hail of rounds that shattered the driver-side windshield. He was dead in seconds.
Dale didn't hesitate. He flung open the door and dismounted as the gunner let loose a furious barrage. Each thunderous boom from the machine gun unleashed a spray of bullets, cutting down enemy combatants with brutal efficiency. Dale took a moment to peek out of the side. In that instant he took in a valuable mountain of information.
Just beyond his cover the loading bay was abuzz with activity. Soldiers like himself swiftly moving from cover to cover with practiced ease, Squad leads relaying orders with hand signals, LIV gunners returning firing and providing cover fire. Towards the exit of the loading bay he saw a calm and authoritative figure relaying orders to the entire platoons as he entered his company command vehicle. His comms units crackled in his ears.
"Push them back, squad gunners suppressive fire, all infantry load mount up and run these bastards over" the platoon leader's voice commanded.
Right beside him, his squadmate unleashed bursts of pulse rounds from the LIV's mounted gun. Dale fired burst after burst out of the landing bay's open doors, praying he'd hit something—anything. The mounted gun clicked empty, the sharp metallic sound lost in the chaos. He barely registered his squadmates yell over the thundering firefight.
"RELOAD!" the gunner shouted.
Instinct kicked in. Dale moved before his mind could catch up, scrambling toward the rear of the LIV as slugs hammered into the vehicle's armor. He ripped a fresh box battery free—a hefty, brutal thing charged to sling nearly four thousand rounds. The gunner tossed the smoking, spent battery aside, hands already reaching for the fresh one. Dale slapped it into his grip and spun back out of the LIV, pulse rifle barking hot bolts of plasma into the storm of enemy fire.
"DALE, GET US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" the gunner bellowed as he opened fire.
"On it!" Dale snapped back, diving into the driver's seat. The stench of charred flesh and chemical propellant clawed at his nose. The driver was beyond dead—the Taurian slugs had torn through him, reducing flesh to ragged ruin and leaking ichor over the seat. Across from him, a squadmate leaned against the door, slipping on blood-slicked plating. Red soaked his chest and arm from two jagged wounds. He'd bleed out without a medic.
In the back, another squadmate—or what was left of her—lay crumpled near the passenger side. Her faceplate had been flash-melted to her skull, the brutal aftermath of a laser bolt. Dale clenched his jaw. It was just him, the gunner, and their bleeding squaddie.
Where's the Sarge? Dale scanned the motor pool, eyes darting.
The loading bay was a war zone, projectiles streaking in and out of the open bay doors. A missile screamed overhead, slamming uselessly into a tank that rumbled forward, leading a column of artillery and command vehicles out into the fight. Unit leaders barked orders, herding squads into formation.
Sergeant Richter wrestled with his own scattered squad—four out of ten dead, three too wounded to fight. Even Richter's battered armor was peppered with dents and scorch marks.
"Sorry about this, Corporal," Dale muttered as he dragged the driver's corpse from the seat, muscles straining against dead weight. He laid the body down as gently as urgency allowed, then climbed into the blood-soaked seat. He checked on the gunner and wounded squaddie. Both were ready.
"Hold on to your nutsacks!" Dale shouted, slamming the accelerator.
The LIV roared forward, swerving between armored vehicles and fellow transports. Around him, more LIVs and even a few heavy columns thundered out of the bay, engines screaming as drivers caught on. The command vehicles lingered, but Dale hesitated only a moment.
"Sergeant, get in! I need orders!" he shouted out the passenger window.
Sergeant Richter grinned, a wicked, blood-smeared expression, and hauled himself inside.
"I'm gonna need six more of ya!" Richter yelled over the engine's howl.
Dale glanced back in time to see the command vehicle deploy a swarm of drones, their optical lenses glimmering as they zipped into the air. The commander's eye in the sky—tracking the battlefield from above.
"Orders have changed, son," Richter said, voice hard. "We're not linking up with the other commander. We're escorting our own to the military encampments in the city. Priority one is disabling any live mechs and shutting down those orbital guns."
"Aye, sir! Let's get some!" the gunner shouted, slapping a heavy hand on the LIV's roof.
Pride surged back into Dale's chest. These barbarians—Taurians—had claimed the lives of too many friends in the opening moments of the expedition. The news nets hadn't exaggerated their savagery.
Outside, the swarm of drones zipped out of the loading bay, trailing the armored columns and the platoon's worth of LIVs—Dale's included. He glanced over at Sergeant Richter.
"Sir, Riley's taken a few shots. She's bleeding all over the backseat," Dale said, checking the rearview mirror as he spoke. He was almost impressed by the woman's tenacity. She'd already broken out the trauma kit every soldier was issued. The kit wasn't meant for deep wounds, but it could seal life-threatening injuries long enough for proper treatment.
Private Second Class Riley worked fast. She sprayed antiseptic over the wound, the nozzle firing a precise stream that bubbled and hissed as it ate away at the contamination. The searing sting was worse than the initial injury, but she gritted her teeth and pushed on. Next came the coagulant—a thin, translucent sheet she pressed over the wounds. It sizzled and smoked, the edges melting into her torn skin. Medics called it synth-skin, but it felt more like flexible glass.
Dale followed the rest of the convoy with confidence. The storm of fire that had greeted them on arrival had died down significantly. Dale figured the Taurian Defense Force must've taken heavy losses and retreated. But what he saw next would haunt him for the rest of his days.
The LIV dropped off the lip of the Czar's bay door and bounced hard along the surface of the planet. Ahead lay the so-called defensive line.
"Holy shit," Riley breathed from the back.
Even the gunner, perched above with a full view, had gone silent.
"Steel yourselves, Marines," Sergeant Richter said, his voice flat, as he swallowed hard. "These sights aren't going to get any easier to digest." He leaned into the comms unit, clicking it on with a grimace.
Through the dust-caked windshield, Dale saw it for what it really was—not a line of defense, but a last-ditch effort.
A bunker stood less than a mile from the landing zone, half-hidden behind a tsunami of smoke and dust. The roads were clogged with wreckage. The buildings were shells. The armored column didn't distinguish between Taurian vehicles or personnel.
Civilians—some barely teenagers, others too old to stand without shaking—held rifles they had no idea how to use. They were either restrained, beaten, or gunned down outright. The AFFS infantry laughed. Some jeered. A few took photos.
Tanks churned forward, dragging corpses beneath their treads, the red muck clinging like bubblegum. They didn't slow down. They didn't care. Half-track transports offloaded new squads, reloaded the old ones, and prepared for the next objective. Some squads were ordered to push forward. Others stayed behind to "secure" the bunker—or to babysit the survivors.
Dale's stomach turned. He wanted to throw up. Human bodies had been reduced to stains. Just filth now. Blackened metal husks—once cars, or maybe military trucks—were piled in the wreckage. He stared, paralyzed, until—
Crack.
His helmet snapped sideways.
"I'm talking to you, Private." Richter had slapped the side of his head. "Stay focused. We're following the armored column. Our orders are to secure buildings and extract any operational data. We'll be joining another unit when we get there—ours got shredded in the drop."
Dale blinked hard, pushing down the bile rising in his throat.
"Sir, yes sir. Following the convoy."
They drove for a while. Two kilometers. Three. Four.
Not a single sign of armed resistance.
Only civilians—clutching loved ones, cradling the dead.
Anyone who so much as raised a rock was gunned down with brutal, clinical precision. It rivaled the massacre at Tintavel, the one they'd studied back in the academy. That slaughter was supposed to have changed how wars were fought.
But here, in this dust-choked border world, nothing had changed.
The silence was shattered by the gunner above. Dale's ears rang as the mounted weapon screamed to life, spitting beam after beam of white-hot energy into the haze. He saw the target just in time: a young girl, barely more than a silhouette, holding something large on her shoulder.
The beams caught her mid-step, tearing her to shreds. A mist of red hung where she'd been.
"Good shooting," Sergeant Richter barked. "She would've turned us into a scorch mark. Keep it up."
Dale swallowed, his eyes fixed on the empty space where the girl had been."We must be getting close. That looked like an explosive launcher," he said, voice hollow. "Hard to imagine a civvie getting their hands on that."
"Keep your head on a swivel then," Riley muttered, flicking the safety off her rifle. She mounted it on the passenger-side window.
"Better safe than sorry," Dale murmured.
Then the convoy jerked to a full stop.
The ground shook—artillery screamed overhead. Tanks wheeled in reverse, firing shell after shell as they scrambled to pull back.
One shell landed so close it threw a cloud of dirt across Dale's windshield, nearly crushing the front of their vehicle.
The gunner screamed over the comms:
"BATTLEARMOR!"
Dale didn't hesitate. Instinct took over as he threw the LIV into reverse, tires screaming against the torn concrete. Up ahead, the tanks followed suit, backing away while still unloading shell after shell into the monstrous battle armor. Explosions bloomed against its hull—some glancing off, others landing true—but the thing didn't slow.
Too late.
The ugly, angular box of a machine turned its attention toward the retreating armor column. A pair of chest-mounted lasers ignited—red-hot and furious. One tank caught both beams square in the turret. Its hull liquefied before the fuel and ammo ignited, detonating in a fireball that shredded two more tanks nearby with molten shrapnel and flying shells.
Then came the boom.
Its shoulder-mounted autocannon fired. The shell, nearly the size of a tank itself, slammed into the dropship with a thunderous crack. Dale stared at the massive hole it left.
No way we're taking that down, he thought. Not without another mech.
The ground trembled with every step as the mech advanced, laying down suppressive fire. Laser beams raked through infantry positions. The tanks up front kept hammering away, but their shells barely made a dent. He'd seen these monsters in vids. Up close? It towered—an iron juggernaut. Dale felt something cold settle in his gut.
Then the LIV's doors hissed open.
One word cut through the chaos:
"Disembark."
Richter's voice triggered something primal. Dale grabbed his shoulder-mounted anti-armor laser, slinging the heavy weapon as his secondary—Bastion—hoisted the battery cell behind him. He jumped out, boots hitting the pavement hard.
Around him, squads moved fast, sprinting across debris-strewn streets toward a half-collapsed building—their temporary stronghold.
On the second floor, above the crowd, the lieutenant stood tall. Younger man. Pale gray hair. Stubble. Respirator on. Calm, collected—too calm. Dale watched as the officer tapped on his forearm device. His HUD dimmed, replaced by a tactical overlay. Squad movements and building grids lit up in real time.
The lieutenant's voice rang clear through the comms:
"Gather up and listen. I'll only say this once."
The chaos outside kept roaring—artillery and autocannon fire echoing like the end of the world—but inside, it all narrowed to the lieutenant's voice.
"We've lost good men. That doesn't change the mission."
He tapped again. HUD shifted—unit markers, corridors, enemy projections.
"Rocket teams: on me. Spread across the 9th, 12th, and rooftop. Hold fire 'til I say. When the order comes, light up laser-painted targets and don't stop until you're out of rockets or out of blood. Then exfil and regroup at Rally Point Lima."
A marker blinked—half a click west. Five clicks north of an active anti-air site.
"Laser teams: across the street. 5th, 8th, 12th floors. Prioritize magazine hits and weak armor plates. If you can tag the cockpit, blind the bastard. Drain your cells. Rally at Delta."
Delta was southeast—close to the second Czar dropship, just outside the city. A supply depot marked nearby.
"Load up on explosives and meet at Rally Point Epsilon."
Epsilon lit up—barely 250 meters from the anti-air site.
The map vanished. HUD flared back to normal. The lieutenant was already checking his gear, unshaken.
"If we can't kill it," Richter muttered beside Dale, "we'll hurt it."
Dale nodded, throat dry. "Aye, sir."
Then the squad was moving—boots pounding concrete, commands bouncing over comms, the sky screaming with artillery fire.
Dale adjusted the weight of the laser on his back. He glanced once more at the smoking crater where the tank column had stood, then up at the beast—still advancing, still burning everything in its path.
This wasn't a battle.
It was a delay.
And they were the ones buying time with blood.