A Call to Arms

Two elements of aerospace fighters dove down on the Clan warriors with the fury of angered hornets. A mixed flight of F90 and F92 Stingrays paired off, leaving an element of heavy Rapiers anchoring their line. The Clan OmniFighters rose to meet them, weapons reaching out ahead to peel back paint and armor from the local defenders. One Stingray took a gauss slug directly into the cockpit, gutting the control section and leaving the pilot as little more than a smear over the back fuselage. The fighter rolled over out of control, falling for the budding battle between ground forces.

Laren Mehta wished he could take credit for such a handsome shot, but gave credit where it was due. “High marks, Pilot Sascha.”

A rattle of autoca

Sometimes the locals made it all too easy.

Agave Dales

Achernar

At the controls of his Hatchetman, Erik Sandoval-Groell swiped the BattleMech’s large, titanium blade at a passing Shandra. Missed. His targeting computer more than compensated for the scout vehicle’s high speed, however, and in the next instant he had tracked a stream of autoca

Heat washed through his cockpit as the laser’s energy draw spiked demand from the BattleMech’s fusion reactor. Circulation fans pulled it away quickly, though, as the power level settled back into the green band. It hardly broke a sweat over Erik’s forehead. Still, he was not about to let the daring crew off so easily.

“Sergeant Bosley, there is a Shandra coming up fast on your flank.” If he was correct in placing his Gnome battle armor, in fact, the Shandra would be driving right into their waiting arms. “Weak right side. Finish it.”

“Got him,” the battlesuit infantry leader responded. “Missing one wheel. Now two. It’s in our hands, Commander.”

Quite literally. Erik paused at the top of a smooth rise, saw the Shandra being disassembled by his squad of Gnomes. He could almost hear the tearing-metal shrieks of wheels being ripped free from axles and armor shredded under mechanical claws.

“Commander, Able-Victor Six.” Erik’s lance of Mark II Scimitars. “We are still pushing back the Steel Wolf Elementals. Some trouble from strafing runs—got a couple of aggressive Visigoths over here—but they seem to be happy enough to hold us north of their line. Do we press forward?”

Having force-marched a mixed company of troops over the Taibek Hills, Erik still hadn’t decided on how much aid he would give the local defenders. The Steel Wolves seemed content to poke and prod at his lines, but so long as he held back near the foothills that eventually became the Taibeks (and further north, the Tanagers), they were content to hold him off the main battle.

Able-Victor Six was the more expendable lance, as Erik preferred not to risk his valuable ’Mechs or any of his Swordsworn-converted battlesuits. Not beyond reason, anyway.

“Push them, Able-Victor. Don’t threaten that DropShip, but drive for the Flatlands.” Dropping from the Dales and into the River’s Run Flatlands would allow his Swordsworn to link up and coordinate efforts with the militia. “See if they will let you approach the Republic forces.” Erik bet they wouldn’t.

Of course, it wasn’t his life he wagered with.

In his pause, Erik’s own lance had caught up with him. Three converted MiningMechs stormed up behind him, their tank treads cutting at Achernar’s ground. Diamond-bit cutters slashed the air. One launched a brace of missiles from its shoulder-mounted launcher, the projectiles falling far short of the nearest Steel Wolf target, blasting small craters into a hillside.

“Short–range missiles,” Erik berated his driver. “Short! That Condor was half a klick distant. Watch your range-finder.”

“Yes, Lord. That is, I don’t have a range-finder, Lord.”

“Eyeball it, then,” Erik snarled. “Better yet, don’t fire expendables unless you see another ’Mech fire them off first.”

Erik switched off the frequency for his own lance, not wanting to hear any more sycophantic whining. The mining drivers were masters in their own right, but they weren’t soldiers and he shouldn’t expect them to be. That would come with experience.

He switched his frequency open again. “Forward at your best rate,” Erik ordered them. “Concentrate fire on targets. Garibaldi, you call them out.” He levered his own Hatchetman into an easy walk, coming in behind the MiningMechs, keeping an eye on his HUD and always watching through the forward ferroglass for any sign of a shift in battle.

Garibaldi put the trio of converted machines on a hoverbike squad, chasing after the fast-moving craft. One of the mine drivers actually managed to cripple one hoverbike with a (probably) lucky missile barrage. Seeing that speed meant a great deal on the battlefield, as opposed to the static course they had trained on, Garibaldi started to angle after slower targets. Working together, they managed to threaten a D1 Schmitt into breaking off its attack run.

“That stirred them up. Pull back, pull back!”

On Erik’s HUD, one of his armored vehicles flared bright sapphire and then winked out of existence. “Able-Victor Six, report!”

From his height, swaying three stories above the battlefield, Erik saw his remaining Scimitars race back from a boiling fury of VV1 Rangers and Elementals. He balled up one fist, smashed it down on the armrest of his command couch.

“We opened a hole in their line,” the lead Scimitar reported. “By accident more than intention,” he admitted, “but for a second we had an open shot to rendezvous with the Republic Guard. Those Visigoths and a Jaga–something pounced on us and strafed us full of holes. Then the Rangers and Elementals hit with a vengeance. They don’t want us getting through there, Commander.”

Message received, Erik silently told the Steel Wolf commander. If the Swordsworn wanted to push through, these Clan wa

“AV-6, pull back north nor’west. Let them think they can split us. Do not make further attempts to press forward.”

“Copy that.”

Erik reigned in the cowboy warriors in the converted ’Mechs as well as his various infantry squads. With a bit of stage direction, he pla