3 - Trials and Errors

Fourth Talon Cluster Firebase
Persistence, Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
23 November 3053

    Star Colonel Yesukai rubs at her temples and tries to focus on the report displayed on the holoscreen before her. It is harder going than usual, and she turns her gaze aside… to catch sight of another stack of data slates and requisitions dockets waiting to be reviewed.
    I should not have drunk so much last night, she realises glumly. Actually, I should not have had anything to drink at all.
    Up until the Fourth Talon’s posting to Persistence, the idea of consuming alcohol had left her cold. Now, Yesukai is finding that she is having trouble getting to sleep without a drink or two. How long before it is three, or four, or five?
    Talking things over with Bosha the night before had allowed her to vent a lot of pent-up pressure, true enough… but it had been lubricated by some of the local vintage. A lot of the local vintage, she recalls with a start. No wonder her head aches so.
    She manages to smile. Bosha had sunk just as many as she, so he has to be feeling even worse right now…


Camelot Command (Location Classified)
Dark Nebula, Jade Falcon Occupation Zone

    Zoë’s head snaps back from the punch, and she tastes blood in her mouth. She blinks, grins, and spits scornfully onto the front of Colin’s jumpsuit. “Is that it? You hit like a sibko runt, Colin!”
    Her Elemental opponent snarls in rage and lunges at her again, only this time Zoë slaps him hard across the side of the head. Colin reels sideways, his sense of balance thrown out by the blow to his ear. Zoë follows up with a crunching punch into his floating ribs.

    “Frack me, what is this?” Brigitte Olafsdottír can’t quite understand what she’s seeing. She shoulders her way between two of the people crowding around the pair of battling Elementals, only to have Silver catch her by the arm.
    “Do not interfere, Captain.” Silver is shaking her head. “You must not break into the Circle of Equals. Not until the fighting is done.” She turns her gaze back to Zoë and Colin as they lurch sideways across the stretch of open decking. Brigitte rolls her eyes and looks around. She realises, with a start of surprise, that every single one of the people forming the circle around the two fighters is a Clanner. Kyle, Carson, Harold, Kathleen, her arm still in a sling... even Daniel and Angelica are there. This is a ritual...
    A decidedly violent ritual, at that. Colin is taller than Zoë by some seven centimetres and his shoulders may be decidedly broader, but Zoë has the edge on him in terms of speed. She blocks a clumsy overarm swing from her foe, and strikes him hard in the solar plexus with her free hand. Coughing and wheezing, Colin crumples to the floor and falls flat on his face.
    Zoë looks around at the spectators, with a thin dribble of blood and spittle running from her gashed bottom lip. The ferocious expression on her face puts a chill into Brigitte’s spine.
    “This Trial is done,” Zoë barks. “Colin has fallen; I have won. So shall it be!”
    “Seyla!” Each and every one of the expatriate Clanners says the word at once. Two of the Elementals break ranks to step in and help Colin to his feet. Brigitte feels very much the outsider... whom she realises she is.
    “Captain Brigitte,” Zoë says, catching sight of her for the first time. “Are you well?”
    “Um. Yes, I am. What was all that about just now?”
    Zoë probes at her bloody lip with a forefinger and shrugs. “A Trial of Refusal,” she says as if that explains everything. “Colin disagreed with me on how we should divide up our time assisting your Techs. He challenged me to a Circle of Equals.”
    “And you battered the living crap out of him,” Olafsdottír notes as Colin is led away for medical attention.
    “It is the way we were taught,” Silver speaks up. “When two sides disagree, they must fight. The victor is proven right and the loser accepts that... should they survive. It was implemented by Nicholas Kerensky himself.”
    I’m starting to really hate that man, Brigitte decides. It’s just as well he’s dead... “Are you okay?”
    Zoë waves it off. “It is nothing... but thank you for asking, Brigitte.” She breathes out a long sigh. “It is just good to know that I have not lost that much of my fighting edge.”
    “You should have Adele take a look at that cut.”
    “Perhaps later. I still have to help Cameron with the repairs to your BattleMech. Excuse me.” The taller woman gives her a respectful nod and moves away across the floor of the maintenance bay. Like nothing out of the ordinary has happened... and maybe it hasn’t.
    Brigitte turns to look at Silver. “This sort of thing happens a lot in the Warrior caste?”
    Silver nods. “Aff. A Star Captain might issue ’Mech assignments that a subordinate objects to, for instance. They will fight in a Circle of Equals, either with equal weaponry, or barehanded.”
    “You’ve done this yourself?”
    “Many times, Brigitte. I made my first kill in a Circle when I was fifteen.” She makes a neat, ugly little gesture with both hands. “Her name was Siobhán. I dislocated her neck.”
    Manslaughter tarted up as tradition. God above, they really are aliens! What makes it all the more abhorrent to Olafsdottír is that Silver clearly doesn’t see anything wrong with it. She doesn’t know any differently.

    “You really weren’t kidding. This is amazing stuff.” The Tech from Rhonda’s Irregulars scrolls down through the list on the datapad’s screen, shaking his head as he studies the entries.
    Anton Delaney pops the cap off of a bottle of beer. “Can you make any use of it, Henry?”
    Henry Babcock looks up. “Can I? I’ve got a Lancelot that’s been sidelined for five weeks with a frozen knee, and I really could do with these parts you took from that Thorn.”
    Valentine Tyler accepts a bottle from Del and raises it. “So, we can trade.”
    Babcock nods. “I’ll need to check the stuff over and take it to my boss for approval, but yeah, we can trade.” Del hands him a bottle of his own. There’s a sharp click as the bionic fingers grafted onto Babcock’s damaged hand grasp the glass.
    “I like dealing with a reasonable guy,” Delaney says. “You don’t find too many of them around these days.”
    “Tell me about it,” Tyler commiserates.
    Del takes a swig of his beer. “We also got most of the frame from another Lancelot, if you’d want it. It’s just taking up space in our hold. We don’t need it.”
    “Sure. Next to armour plating, that’s been a big goddamn headache – finding suitable parts for these old Star League beasts. It’s like trying to source parts for vintage aircars, only ten times harder.” Babcock knocks back half of his beer in one go and sighs contentedly. “What sort of stuff are you looking for?”
    “Depends on what you’ve got,” Tyler says with a shrug. “You gotta have your own list of shit for trades, right?”
    “Sure I do.” Babcock fishes a datachip out of his breast pocket and slots it into a spare port on the side of the ’pad. “Here you go.”
    Delaney accepts the device back, and Tyler leans in to study the inventory list along with him.
    “We could definitely make use of those,” Del says, pointing at one entry.
    Tyler nods. “Yeah. One for spares and the other to go in that Commando we’re patching up. Those CASE systems as well… I really want Midge’s ride refitted with them.”
    Del offers a grunt of agreement. “Huh. That’s been a worry for me, too. She’s only just gotten used to that Zeus. She doesn’t deserve to have it blown out from under her like the one she had back on Apollo.” He looks out across the maintenance bay. “You thinking about that Falcon machine getting CASE as well?”
    “Why not? Do ’em both together. You did tell me that there’s nothing majorly wrong with that second Zeus, Del.”
    “Gotta say that for the Techs off the Iron Tower – they’re pretty damned sharp. Even if they are all of ’em so uptight.” Del scowls. “Just wish they’d stop calling me ‘Senior’. Makes me feel frackin’ ancient.”
    Tyler smirks. “When we get back to civilization, remind me to buy you a walking frame…”
    Del salutes him with a raised middle finger and an insincere smile worthy of a political candidate.

    Slowly… She swings her legs over the side of the cot and pauses. The sluggish lurching sensation she has been getting every time she moves is far less than it has been, but it is still there. Yet she has had her fill of lying down.
    Alessandra stands up gingerly. The fractional gravity helps her there, but she still takes it carefully. She glances down at Star Colonel Mitchell… Neg, she corrects herself. He is no longer my commander.
    The older MechWarrior is dozing fitfully, so Alessandra chooses not to disturb him. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. So far, the nausea is manageable. The Falcon girl decides to do some exploring, before that caustic Medtech comes back and finds her mobile.
    It is remarkably good to simply walk, she discovers. Being stuck in a sickbed does not agree with her.
    Alessandra sets out with no real goal in mind. This ‘infirmary’ she has been confined to is just a converted set of side rooms, possibly an office annex at some time in the distant past. From the looks of the corridor space beyond the exit, she guesses that they must be near a major section of the old Star League base. Off in the distance, she can hear muted machine noises.
    Worth a look, she concludes, and goes to investigate.
    It takes her five minutes to make the journey down to what appears to be a halfway-operational repair bay, with a number of BattleMechs in residence. All the expected tools, parts, and lifting equipment are present, with a crew hard at work on one of the two Crusaders the mercenaries have claimed as isorla. They are cutting away buckled and burnt segments of armour as she ventures onto the floor… but that is not what stands out. Alessandra stops and stares.
    Over to the side, where a dismounted arm from a heavy ’Mech rests on trestles, there is a child sitting cross-legged on top of a crate, concentrating on colouring in a book with crayons. Alessandra guesses that she is maybe seven or eight years of age. What is she doing out of her crèche? She pauses. That is not right. The child has to be a freebirth. Probably the offspring of one of the Techs.
    “The whole ammo feed has to come out. It’s rusted shut. Same with the arming regulator.” The woman saying this emerges from underneath the blocky forearm housing, pushing a pair of goggles up onto her forehead.
    “Aye, well, that’s not to be wondered at. Think about where it’s been sitting.” This is from a big, broad-chested male in coveralls, turning away from a tools cart with a hydro spanner in his hands. Alessandra can barely comprehend what he is saying.
    The blonde child looks up and giggles. “So it’s fracked!”
    “’Becca, what have I told you?”
    “It’s not fair,” the girl says sulkily. “Everyone else gets to use bad language!”
    “Life isn’t fair, ’Becca,” the big man tells her. “When you get to ten, then you can use bad language.”
    The small woman with the goggles straightens up and leans against the disconnected limb. “We ought to pull both of the…” she trails off as she notices Alessandra hovering nearby, watching them. “You okay?”
    When Alessandra tilts her head, unsure of what ‘okay’ means, the woman tries again.
    “Are you all right? Do you need help?”
    “I… am fine. I do not need any help. Thank you.”
    The three of them are looking at her now, and she experiences a moment of mild panic.
    “Are you sure? You look kind of pale. Sit down for a minute.” The woman comes over and steers Alessandra to a perch on a packing crate next to the one the child is using.
    “I’m Amber. Amber Tyler. This is Rebecca, and that’s her father, Cameron.”
    She nods uncertainly. “I am Alessandra.”
    “You were in one of those Trebuchets, weren’t you?”
    “Aff.” Sitting down is helping her regain her composure; she does not feel as dizzy now she is stationary.
    “You were lucky,” Cameron grunts. “Not that many pilots live through an automated ejection.”
    “I do not remember it,” Alessandra admits. “I must have blacked out.”
    “Aye. That can happen when the feedback to your neurohelmet spikes. How’s the sense of balance now?”
    “It is better… but it is still not quite there.”
    “Give it a little more time,” Amber tells her.
    The Falcon girl points over at the massive BattleMech limb they have been working on. “What machine is that from? It must be from an assault model, quiaff?”
    “You’ve got a good eye,” Amber replies. “It’s from a Zeus. Scavenged loot. Seeing as we now have two ’Mechs of the exact same type, we’re seeing if we can fix this piece up for use as a replacement. Just in case somebody gets their ride’s arm blown to bits.”
    “Are you a Tech, Amber?”
    “Nope. I drive a recon ’Mech. I just happen to know a little bit about fixing ’Mechs, so I’m helping out here.”
    The answer leaves Alessandra shocked to her very core. “You… you are a MechWarrior?”
    “Sure I am.” Amber regards her with raised eyebrows. “What’s the problem?”
    Cameron looks over his shoulder, from where he is working to pry open an inspection panel on the forearm’s autocannon housing. “I think what’s got her all astonished is that ye know how to do repair work, hen.”
    “What’s so wrong with that, Cameron?”
    The big man shrugs. “Kyle told me. Clan ’Mech jockeys break them, and their Techs mend them… and never the twain shall meet. Wee Alessandra there doesn’t know the first thing about maintenance. Am I right?”
    “Uh… You are right, Cameron.”
    Amber lets out a humourless chuckle. “You just drag your busted machine back from a battle and start yelling at some poor sap in overalls to fix it… well, that isn’t going to wash here, not if you’re staying with us.”
    Alessandra looks down. “Where else would I go? The Falcons will never take me back. I was dezgra to them, Amber. A failure. It is why I was in the Black Raptors.”
    “What did you do that was so awful they shit-canned you?”
    She feels her face starting to burn with shame. “I failed my Trial of Position. I did not qualify as a MechWarrior.”
    “No second chances, huh?”
    “Neg. I… must have offended someone very important to be sent down to a solahma unit.” Alessandra finds that her hands are clenched into fists where they rest on her thighs. “I was expected to die there.”
    “That’s stupid,” Rebecca says firmly. “They’re stupid to do that.”
    Amber gives the child a quick grin. “Stupid or not, it led you here. You don’t have to take their orders anymore. You’ve got a whole new shot at life, Alessandra.”
    “But… what can I do?” It comes out sounding so hopeless that it makes all three of the freebirths stop and stare.
    “Well, for starters, hen… You can learn a bit about the kind of tools we mere ‘underlings’ use to put right the shite you lot put your ’Mechs through. It’s fetch and carry stuff, but you’ve got to start somewhere.”
    “He’s right,” Amber says. “We all pitch in to help with repairs. Even if it’s just doing basic welding work, it frees up the Techs to concentrate on more important systems.”
    Alessandra nods, a little reluctantly. Put like that it does make a certain amount of sense… and she would rather do something instead of wallow in self-pity.
    “Very well. Show me what is involved…” She pauses. Amber’s attention is elsewhere.
    “Huh? Oh. Okay, come on.” Amber snaps back into focus. Alessandra stands up carefully and follows her.
    Just for a moment, though, she pauses and looks at what Amber was studying. It is the opened book that Rebecca has been drawing and colouring in. She cannot read what is written on the pages… Alessandra shrugs it off and turns away.

    The planet floating in front of Colonel Rhonda Snord is about the size of a beach ball, surrounded by a handful of glowing data windows that are scrolling details of climate, gravity, and astrographical position. The name of the place is outlined in red: Persistence. She reaches out to the holographic reproduction and turns it like she would a physical globe. Dun-colored mountain ranges and ragged coastlines whirl past until the far side of the world rotates into view.
    There is a crooked gash of green stretching across one of the continents, with a number of place names scattered along it. The mercenary commander regards the region for a moment. “It’s a monument to fundamental human bloody-mindedness,” she says aloud.
    “What is, Colonel?”
    Rhonda looks up. “Oh, Captain Olafsdottír. This is. Persistence. Take a look.”
    Brigitte studies the data boxes. “That’s not too far from here… One of the Jade Falcons’ holdings, isn’t it?”
    “That’s right. Borderline habitable… and that’s only thanks to massive desalination plants. The untreated water on Persistence is so overloaded with salt you can’t actually sink in the stuff. Why the Falcons bothered with it is beyond me.”
    “They’ve got a garrison force stationed there?”
    Rhonda nods. “Yeah. The Fourth Talon Cluster… From what I’ve learned, they seem to have pissed off someone very high up in the Falcons’ Council. They’ve had their entire aerospace section stripped away and sent out to stand watch over one of the Periphery worlds they’ve taken.” She taps a control on the console before her, and the green expanse of vegetation and settled land expands to replace the planetary globe. At this scale, Brigitte can make out waterways, hills, and even roadways.
    A series of small Jade Falcon icons pops into sight, huddled here and there. The planet’s spaceport, the capitol, and a couple of other locations; Olafsdottír figures they’re guarding the water-desalination complexes or power plants.
    “You said ‘aerospace section’… does that include their DropShips?”
    The older mercenary officer grins. “I was told you were sharp. That’s right; they don’t have so much as a Broadsword left for fast transportation. They’re pretty well strung out, all along this watercourse: the Oola River.” Rhonda’s forefinger traces along the river feature.
    Brigitte wonders for a moment just who might have told Rhonda about her, before setting the thought to one side. “This Fourth Talon, does it have any front-line hardware?”
    “It does. OmniMechs and Elementals. You can expect them to pack a lot of Thors and Ullers into their Stars.”
    “I guess that you’re looking at, what, a raid-and-fade mission? Get in quick, hit one site hard, grab stuff, and get the hell back out again…” Brigitte examines the river valley for a long moment. “Just how detailed is your information, Colonel?”