-
For all readers and writers
After much ado, our new tagging system is here and being rolled out to the userbase. Read more here!
BattleTech Ideas and Discussion
- Thread starter XelianEmperor
- Start date
IIRC, it's entirely plausible that Betelgeuse could go in the next thousand years, and that would be a bang big enough to clear out a noticeable chunk of the CapCon/FWL border...
Mal-3
Fun Tyrant
*nod* Indeed. </teal'c> Betelgeuse popping would take out pretty much everything within two jumps, which is... a lot of systems, including some pretty high-value targets like Andurien and Grand Base. Of course, they'd have time to try and evacuate a lot of systems before the radiation wavefront hits but that's a task I'm not entirely sure the Star League at its full power could pull off, much less the canonical successor states.
...Honestly, that could be a fantastic AU just on its own. A natural disaster on a vast scale, wounding the FWL badly and ripping the heart out of the CapCon say, halfway through the Third Succession War.
Captain Orsai
Davion Heavy Guards Captain
An idle bit of (not yet finished) writing of my own, for general perusal;
"Tempest Toss'd"
Aaron Sandoval Memorial Spaceport
Tiberias City, Robinson
Draconis March, Federated Suns
30 August 3144 (CASE MASADA T+57 Hours)
Dawn was still at least two hours away, and Leftenant-Colonel Justin Morning doubted it would bring any good news.
He glared at the holomap display in the command crawler's tactical ops bay, pointedly ignoring the thunder of fusion engines as another DropShip boosted for orbit. It wasn't easy, with the crawler's side opened out to make it easier for the staff of the Twentieth Avalon Hussars to come and go, but focusing all his energy on willing the map to show something different sufficed.
But, no matter what, the holographic map still showed AFFS forces falling back to the spaceport, crimson dragon and black wolf's-head icons snapping at their heels. He swallowed back a curse. The cadets, militia and his own Hussars had fought like demons, wielding the fortifications the Sandbaggers' engineers had built to deadly effect; making the Dracs pay at five-to-one for every metre of ground they bought. But it seemed like no matter how many of the Kuritans and their Clanner lackeys they felled, there were always more, against an ever-shrinking number of defenders. The consequences of that were all around him; dozens of tiny pillars of smoke rose into the predawn air as documents and supplies they couldn't evacuate in time were torched, a battery of superheavy Paladin guns split the sky with thunder and leaf-shaped blades of flame as they hurled high-explosive death into the teeth of the Drac advance, and vehicles, soldiers and civilians were moving hither and yon across the tarmac as the noise of combat came ever closer. Nearby, in the lee of one of the spaceport's massive ferroconcrete blast-walls, were Justin's last reserves; a reinforced company of assault-class BattleMechs, being worked on by techs after their last sortie.
Most prominent was his own Marauder II, in the slate-grey of the Avalon Hussars where enemy fire hadn't obliterated its paintwork. The tech team working on it were machining replacement armour panels into place, flushing the coolant tanks with fresh fluid, and clearing firing residue buildup from the muzzles of its heavy particle cannon. It was tempting - so very, very tempting - to take that company and do to the advancing Second Sword of Light just what the Crazy Eights had done to the Seventh Sword yesterday. Put aside all thoughts of obligation and duty, and give yourself over simply to tearing the heart from another Kuritan regiment before you died.
But, no. I can't do that, any more than Alecto could've not done it. His place, his responsibility, was here, ensuring the evacuation ran smoothly; and however tempting it was, Justin could no more abandon that charge than he could spit on his oaths of loyalty to House Davion. That thought drew him back to the holomap, and the golden icon burning well behind Kuritan lines - insofar as the idea of "lines" meant anything in this kind of chaotic urban brawl.
"Are you sure it's them," he asked the officer standing next to him. "I don't want to send anyone out on a futile effort."
"I'm sure it's one of that unit's assigned code groups," Major Melanie Nishimura, head of the Hussars' intel shop, replied. The small, slight major looked hollowed out next to Justin's own broad solidity, her normally vibrant amber skin pallid and drawn tight over delicate fine-boned features. Lack of sleep was probably the main cause; dark bags swollen under her eyes testified to the fact that Melanie had been on her feet for nearly sixty hours straight. But loss was in it as well, for her twin sister Polly had commanded Corwin Sandoval's bodyguard; and died beside the Duke in Bueller's streets three days ago. "And the drone feed backs up that it's them, even without reliable comms."
Further conversation was cut off by the heavy thuds of battle armour boots against the crawler's steel decking. Parting the flow of staff personnel like the bow of a ship, a hulking Fusilier battlesuit, in bullet-scarred and smoke-stained urban camo with the insignia of Robinson Battle Academy on one shoulder pad, joined them at the map table. Its blunt wedge-like helmet was maglocked to one thigh, leaving the wearer's head bare. A very tired-looking young woman, dark-skinned with red-blonde hair shaved down to the buzz-cut stubble AFFS battlesuit infantry wore as a mark of pride. Her pale grey eyes tracked across the holomap as the cadet braced to the closest approximation of attention her massive battlesuit allowed.
"Cadet Davion reporting as ordered, Leftenant-Colonel."
"At ease, cadet, " Justin said, watching her relax fractionally while he called up memorised service record details. Percivane Davion. Born '24, entered the Battle Academy in '40; would be graduating this year if not for the Drac invasion. Over-aggressive sometimes, but "reliable" and "steady" are the main themes in her fitreps. I hope they're right; that's what I need for this, not a would-be hero. He gave Percivane another look over, noting smudges of dirt and dried sweat where a quick go-over with baby wipes hadn't worked. "You look like you could use a shower, cadet," Justin commented amiably. Let's see how she takes that.
Percivane frowned, evidently unused to banter with senior officers.
"I could, sir," she finally replied, evidently settling on honest bluntness; helped by exhaustion, no doubt. "Along with a square meal, a soft bed, twelve hours' uninterrupted sleep and a restorative bout of vigorous congress with an uninhibited and athletic young woman. But I don't think you called me here to offer me any of those things - did you, sir?"
Melanie shot Justin a quick look that confirmed agreement; she'll do.
"Unfortunately not, cadet," Justin agreed, adjusting the holomap's display settings. It zoomed in on a road intersection. "This is the Glassworks District, at the Shelby and Oxcross junction. As of ten minutes ago, we received a burst signal from a retrieval team en route back to the spaceport. They'd recovered their package but had to go to ground in this area. Drac and Dragoon H-K teams are tight on them." He switched to the drone feed; laced with static from jamming as it was, it still showed the flash of lasers and the contrails of missiles as a battle played out, smoke and dust clearing just enough to show a Bushwacker in Battle Academy colours duelling what looked like a Pouncer. "They had a 'Mech lance and a couple of combined tank-infantry platoons for escort; we can't tell for sure how many are still operational, but your platoon's job is to get in there and back them up until more reinforcements can get on-site."
"We've got a heavy company en route, but they're not going to get there in time to protect the package," Melanie explained. "Not without more forces on the ground."
"Exactly what is this HVA," Percivane frowned. "This seems like a lot of resources to commit."
"Not a what, it's a who." Melanie brought up another holoimage; of a young woman, olive-skinned, one side of her head shaved bald and the other a waterfall of straight blue-black hair. Must be a recent holo, Justin noted; that was the latest style favoured by trend-following young nobles, and it makes good camouflage for others. "Lady Jessika Sandoval-Owens, civil engineer and civil administrator in training at the University of Tiberias. She's also an operative for DMI, part of the stay-behind work for Case Masada. That means," Melanie's expression hardened, "the information in her head cannot be allowed to fall into Drac hands - by any means necessary."
There was a momentary flicker of sickness and mulish stubbornness across Percivane's features, then she nodded.
"I understand." The cadet studied the map for a moment. "How are we inserting, by air?"
"No. It'd take too long to dodge around Drac concentrations." Justin highlighted routes under the city streets. "Service tunnels allow for a straight shot from here to there via JI2A1 APCs. Exfil is going to have to be above ground, but there'll be more than enough space on the inbound company for that."
He didn't say what they all knew; that, in all likelihood, there would be fewer troopers coming back than went out.
"Alright then." Percivane locked her helmet into place; her next words came out distorted and muffled. "We'll get this done. Permission to dismiss to duty, sir?"
"Granted." Justin returned the cadet's salute. "And," he added softly, almost too low for anyone to hear, as he watched the cadet battlesuit platoon form up and head for the subsurface access where the personnel carriers waited, "may God stand between you and harm, in all the empty places where you must walk."
"What was that, Colonel?" Melanie asked.
"An old Terran blessing," Justin replied, "one I think those kids're gonna need. Now," he forced himself to put aside thoughts of the people he'd just, very probably, condemned to death, "we have work to be doing. Get me the loading status for the Isidora. I'm pretty sure we can cut some time off her master's estimates."
Glassworks District
Tiberias City
"Sugar-three, Pouncer at your two!"
The infantry sergeant's warning almost came too late. Patricia Anglevik just barely managed to brace, twisting her Bushwacker's heaviest remaining armour into the line of fire as the Dragoon machine came bounding forwards. Shouldering its way through a wrecked building, streamers of blood-red energy pulses slashed through brick dust, reaching for her.
Building facades exploded behind her as chasing laser fire shattered tiles, glass and ferroconcrete rattling against the Bushwacker's rear armour like a sandstorm. More splashed orange and crimson welts across damage readouts, and Patricia swallowed back a curse as her MASC system flashed the orange of major damage.
Her own fire lashed back, a triad of laser beams clawing molten wounds across the Pouncer's chest, a half-score of short-range missiles splintering away more armour from thigh and shin plating, raising puffballs of shattered concrete and asphalt where they missed low. And a screaming plasma bolt punched into the Dragoon 'Mech's centreline, staggering it like a straight right to the sternum.
Heat pulsed through the cockpit, a fist of hot, dry air that left her eyes feeling like they'd been rubbed with sandpaper even as it raised sweat across every centimetre of exposed skin. Blinking fast to clear her eyes, Patricia caught the Pouncer leaping away; tried to send a missile volley after it, but her machine's heat-addled targeting system refused to lock in time.
"Command, this is Sugar-three," she called over the HQ frequency, cursing the rasp the heat made of her voice. "Sugar-lead is down, I have no contact with Sugars two and four. Requesting support urgently." Nothing but static came back, and Patricia flipped channels. "Postman, can you raise Command?"
"Negative Sugar-three," the APC's commander replied. "Not since that rescue call. We do have comms with Sugar-two and -four, but it's not good. Four's still trying to find their way past an inferno like a New Rhodes summer, and Sugar-two's stuck dancing with an Adder."
"Thanks. Get me Two's coordinates." Patricia didn't spare any worry for Cindy Westin - like a bad penny, she'd turn up soon - but Ok-vin's Locust was no match at all for the Clan-designed scout-killer chasing her. Let's see how they like an even fight.
Static crackled suddenly in her headset before another voice joined in.
"Sugar-three, this is Emma-lead," the familiar voice said. "Patricia, can you read me?"
"Perce! Yes, I read you - that is, Sugar-three copies, Emma-lead," Patricia corrected herself hurriedly.
"Clear and loud, Sugar-three. We're seven hundred metres west of your pos," a brief locator beacon flicker confirmed that. "You draw that Pouncer over here, I'm pretty sure we can take him."
"I copy that," Patricia's lips curled in what might charitably be called a smile as she flicked her multi-launchers to LRM mode.
The ground shook, runnels of dust falling from the ceiling above. A few hundred metres away, a half-wrecked building collapsed with a sound like an avalanche as a 'Mech shouldered through it. One of the troopers waiting amongst the ruined coffee shop's debris-strewn floor shifted with a crunch of broken glass, tensing to move.
"Emma-one-three, hold," Percivane Davion snapped tersely over the laser-link. Then, softer; "Carter I know how you feel. But if we go early, we blow this whole thing, and we lose. So stay where you are."
They didn't answer in words, but stopping was enough, even with the twitch of their suit's shoulder-mounted machine gun towards the back of the shop. Where they'd laid out the bodies, with as much care as their suits let them.
Percivane swallowed back anything else she might say, recognising pain that nothing she could say would help. A pain that she shared; old Tam Breckinridge had been a battlesuiter himself, commanding one of the Second Strikers' battlesuit battalions back in the 'twenties, and had made his shop a safe haven for the armoured infantry cadets. Somewhere they could unwind, and step away, just for a while, from the Battle Academy's high pressure demands. That he'd done that while raising two children solo after their mother died was nothing short of miraculous, and he'd deserved to die in bed; old, honoured and rich, with his children and grandchildren in attendance.
He and his didn't deserve what the Dracs had done to them.
Nobody ever does, Percivane thought grimly, closing her eyes and biting her lip to try and push down old memories. It didn't work.
For a moment, she was eight years ago and more than a hundred lightyears away. No longer an adult wrapped in two tons of myomer and titanium-carbon fibre weave armour composite, but again a lanky adolescent-awkward twelve-year-old in a thin silk nightgown. The cushioning feel of the gel-filled helmet liner was replaced by the cold metal circle of a pistol muzzle pressed tightly under her chin. And the sound of the squad feeds and her own heartbeat transformed into guttural Kuritan accents and thready cries of pain.
"Emma-lead, this is Two-one. Perce, your vitals just spiked; what's wrong?"
Daniel Colton's calm, level voice brought her back to the here and now, and Percivane drew in a deep breath. It was hard to remember, sometimes, but she hadn't died that night. Part of her soul had, sitting in the wardrobe's darkness, swallowing back sobs as she listened to her parents die. Crawling past their broken, hacked bodies, through pools of their blood. And killing her first man; boy, really, a Drac irregular only a few years older than she'd been, for his clothes and weapon and hoverbike.
Some days, it was distant; almost like it'd happened to someone else. Others, so close Percivane could still smell copper and salt and her own sweat …
"I was … away for a moment, Daniel. I'm back to myself now," she settled on. Daniel didn't need to hear more; he'd been orphaned in the Reach fighting as well.
More buildings crumbled, closer now, and Percivane set herself, readying for action.
"Emma-lead to all elements," she said over the platoon net. "We go on my mark. Remember, aim for the gyro housing; if you can't get that, go for the heat exchangers and jumpjets."
Aaron Sandoval Memorial Spaceport
Tiberias City, Robinson
Draconis March, Federated Suns
30 August 3144 (CASE MASADA T+57 Hours)
Dawn was still at least two hours away, and Leftenant-Colonel Justin Morning doubted it would bring any good news.
He glared at the holomap display in the command crawler's tactical ops bay, pointedly ignoring the thunder of fusion engines as another DropShip boosted for orbit. It wasn't easy, with the crawler's side opened out to make it easier for the staff of the Twentieth Avalon Hussars to come and go, but focusing all his energy on willing the map to show something different sufficed.
But, no matter what, the holographic map still showed AFFS forces falling back to the spaceport, crimson dragon and black wolf's-head icons snapping at their heels. He swallowed back a curse. The cadets, militia and his own Hussars had fought like demons, wielding the fortifications the Sandbaggers' engineers had built to deadly effect; making the Dracs pay at five-to-one for every metre of ground they bought. But it seemed like no matter how many of the Kuritans and their Clanner lackeys they felled, there were always more, against an ever-shrinking number of defenders. The consequences of that were all around him; dozens of tiny pillars of smoke rose into the predawn air as documents and supplies they couldn't evacuate in time were torched, a battery of superheavy Paladin guns split the sky with thunder and leaf-shaped blades of flame as they hurled high-explosive death into the teeth of the Drac advance, and vehicles, soldiers and civilians were moving hither and yon across the tarmac as the noise of combat came ever closer. Nearby, in the lee of one of the spaceport's massive ferroconcrete blast-walls, were Justin's last reserves; a reinforced company of assault-class BattleMechs, being worked on by techs after their last sortie.
Most prominent was his own Marauder II, in the slate-grey of the Avalon Hussars where enemy fire hadn't obliterated its paintwork. The tech team working on it were machining replacement armour panels into place, flushing the coolant tanks with fresh fluid, and clearing firing residue buildup from the muzzles of its heavy particle cannon. It was tempting - so very, very tempting - to take that company and do to the advancing Second Sword of Light just what the Crazy Eights had done to the Seventh Sword yesterday. Put aside all thoughts of obligation and duty, and give yourself over simply to tearing the heart from another Kuritan regiment before you died.
But, no. I can't do that, any more than Alecto could've not done it. His place, his responsibility, was here, ensuring the evacuation ran smoothly; and however tempting it was, Justin could no more abandon that charge than he could spit on his oaths of loyalty to House Davion. That thought drew him back to the holomap, and the golden icon burning well behind Kuritan lines - insofar as the idea of "lines" meant anything in this kind of chaotic urban brawl.
"Are you sure it's them," he asked the officer standing next to him. "I don't want to send anyone out on a futile effort."
"I'm sure it's one of that unit's assigned code groups," Major Melanie Nishimura, head of the Hussars' intel shop, replied. The small, slight major looked hollowed out next to Justin's own broad solidity, her normally vibrant amber skin pallid and drawn tight over delicate fine-boned features. Lack of sleep was probably the main cause; dark bags swollen under her eyes testified to the fact that Melanie had been on her feet for nearly sixty hours straight. But loss was in it as well, for her twin sister Polly had commanded Corwin Sandoval's bodyguard; and died beside the Duke in Bueller's streets three days ago. "And the drone feed backs up that it's them, even without reliable comms."
Further conversation was cut off by the heavy thuds of battle armour boots against the crawler's steel decking. Parting the flow of staff personnel like the bow of a ship, a hulking Fusilier battlesuit, in bullet-scarred and smoke-stained urban camo with the insignia of Robinson Battle Academy on one shoulder pad, joined them at the map table. Its blunt wedge-like helmet was maglocked to one thigh, leaving the wearer's head bare. A very tired-looking young woman, dark-skinned with red-blonde hair shaved down to the buzz-cut stubble AFFS battlesuit infantry wore as a mark of pride. Her pale grey eyes tracked across the holomap as the cadet braced to the closest approximation of attention her massive battlesuit allowed.
"Cadet Davion reporting as ordered, Leftenant-Colonel."
"At ease, cadet, " Justin said, watching her relax fractionally while he called up memorised service record details. Percivane Davion. Born '24, entered the Battle Academy in '40; would be graduating this year if not for the Drac invasion. Over-aggressive sometimes, but "reliable" and "steady" are the main themes in her fitreps. I hope they're right; that's what I need for this, not a would-be hero. He gave Percivane another look over, noting smudges of dirt and dried sweat where a quick go-over with baby wipes hadn't worked. "You look like you could use a shower, cadet," Justin commented amiably. Let's see how she takes that.
Percivane frowned, evidently unused to banter with senior officers.
"I could, sir," she finally replied, evidently settling on honest bluntness; helped by exhaustion, no doubt. "Along with a square meal, a soft bed, twelve hours' uninterrupted sleep and a restorative bout of vigorous congress with an uninhibited and athletic young woman. But I don't think you called me here to offer me any of those things - did you, sir?"
Melanie shot Justin a quick look that confirmed agreement; she'll do.
"Unfortunately not, cadet," Justin agreed, adjusting the holomap's display settings. It zoomed in on a road intersection. "This is the Glassworks District, at the Shelby and Oxcross junction. As of ten minutes ago, we received a burst signal from a retrieval team en route back to the spaceport. They'd recovered their package but had to go to ground in this area. Drac and Dragoon H-K teams are tight on them." He switched to the drone feed; laced with static from jamming as it was, it still showed the flash of lasers and the contrails of missiles as a battle played out, smoke and dust clearing just enough to show a Bushwacker in Battle Academy colours duelling what looked like a Pouncer. "They had a 'Mech lance and a couple of combined tank-infantry platoons for escort; we can't tell for sure how many are still operational, but your platoon's job is to get in there and back them up until more reinforcements can get on-site."
"We've got a heavy company en route, but they're not going to get there in time to protect the package," Melanie explained. "Not without more forces on the ground."
"Exactly what is this HVA," Percivane frowned. "This seems like a lot of resources to commit."
"Not a what, it's a who." Melanie brought up another holoimage; of a young woman, olive-skinned, one side of her head shaved bald and the other a waterfall of straight blue-black hair. Must be a recent holo, Justin noted; that was the latest style favoured by trend-following young nobles, and it makes good camouflage for others. "Lady Jessika Sandoval-Owens, civil engineer and civil administrator in training at the University of Tiberias. She's also an operative for DMI, part of the stay-behind work for Case Masada. That means," Melanie's expression hardened, "the information in her head cannot be allowed to fall into Drac hands - by any means necessary."
There was a momentary flicker of sickness and mulish stubbornness across Percivane's features, then she nodded.
"I understand." The cadet studied the map for a moment. "How are we inserting, by air?"
"No. It'd take too long to dodge around Drac concentrations." Justin highlighted routes under the city streets. "Service tunnels allow for a straight shot from here to there via JI2A1 APCs. Exfil is going to have to be above ground, but there'll be more than enough space on the inbound company for that."
He didn't say what they all knew; that, in all likelihood, there would be fewer troopers coming back than went out.
"Alright then." Percivane locked her helmet into place; her next words came out distorted and muffled. "We'll get this done. Permission to dismiss to duty, sir?"
"Granted." Justin returned the cadet's salute. "And," he added softly, almost too low for anyone to hear, as he watched the cadet battlesuit platoon form up and head for the subsurface access where the personnel carriers waited, "may God stand between you and harm, in all the empty places where you must walk."
"What was that, Colonel?" Melanie asked.
"An old Terran blessing," Justin replied, "one I think those kids're gonna need. Now," he forced himself to put aside thoughts of the people he'd just, very probably, condemned to death, "we have work to be doing. Get me the loading status for the Isidora. I'm pretty sure we can cut some time off her master's estimates."
Glassworks District
Tiberias City
"Sugar-three, Pouncer at your two!"
The infantry sergeant's warning almost came too late. Patricia Anglevik just barely managed to brace, twisting her Bushwacker's heaviest remaining armour into the line of fire as the Dragoon machine came bounding forwards. Shouldering its way through a wrecked building, streamers of blood-red energy pulses slashed through brick dust, reaching for her.
Building facades exploded behind her as chasing laser fire shattered tiles, glass and ferroconcrete rattling against the Bushwacker's rear armour like a sandstorm. More splashed orange and crimson welts across damage readouts, and Patricia swallowed back a curse as her MASC system flashed the orange of major damage.
Her own fire lashed back, a triad of laser beams clawing molten wounds across the Pouncer's chest, a half-score of short-range missiles splintering away more armour from thigh and shin plating, raising puffballs of shattered concrete and asphalt where they missed low. And a screaming plasma bolt punched into the Dragoon 'Mech's centreline, staggering it like a straight right to the sternum.
Heat pulsed through the cockpit, a fist of hot, dry air that left her eyes feeling like they'd been rubbed with sandpaper even as it raised sweat across every centimetre of exposed skin. Blinking fast to clear her eyes, Patricia caught the Pouncer leaping away; tried to send a missile volley after it, but her machine's heat-addled targeting system refused to lock in time.
"Command, this is Sugar-three," she called over the HQ frequency, cursing the rasp the heat made of her voice. "Sugar-lead is down, I have no contact with Sugars two and four. Requesting support urgently." Nothing but static came back, and Patricia flipped channels. "Postman, can you raise Command?"
"Negative Sugar-three," the APC's commander replied. "Not since that rescue call. We do have comms with Sugar-two and -four, but it's not good. Four's still trying to find their way past an inferno like a New Rhodes summer, and Sugar-two's stuck dancing with an Adder."
"Thanks. Get me Two's coordinates." Patricia didn't spare any worry for Cindy Westin - like a bad penny, she'd turn up soon - but Ok-vin's Locust was no match at all for the Clan-designed scout-killer chasing her. Let's see how they like an even fight.
Static crackled suddenly in her headset before another voice joined in.
"Sugar-three, this is Emma-lead," the familiar voice said. "Patricia, can you read me?"
"Perce! Yes, I read you - that is, Sugar-three copies, Emma-lead," Patricia corrected herself hurriedly.
"Clear and loud, Sugar-three. We're seven hundred metres west of your pos," a brief locator beacon flicker confirmed that. "You draw that Pouncer over here, I'm pretty sure we can take him."
"I copy that," Patricia's lips curled in what might charitably be called a smile as she flicked her multi-launchers to LRM mode.
The ground shook, runnels of dust falling from the ceiling above. A few hundred metres away, a half-wrecked building collapsed with a sound like an avalanche as a 'Mech shouldered through it. One of the troopers waiting amongst the ruined coffee shop's debris-strewn floor shifted with a crunch of broken glass, tensing to move.
"Emma-one-three, hold," Percivane Davion snapped tersely over the laser-link. Then, softer; "Carter I know how you feel. But if we go early, we blow this whole thing, and we lose. So stay where you are."
They didn't answer in words, but stopping was enough, even with the twitch of their suit's shoulder-mounted machine gun towards the back of the shop. Where they'd laid out the bodies, with as much care as their suits let them.
Percivane swallowed back anything else she might say, recognising pain that nothing she could say would help. A pain that she shared; old Tam Breckinridge had been a battlesuiter himself, commanding one of the Second Strikers' battlesuit battalions back in the 'twenties, and had made his shop a safe haven for the armoured infantry cadets. Somewhere they could unwind, and step away, just for a while, from the Battle Academy's high pressure demands. That he'd done that while raising two children solo after their mother died was nothing short of miraculous, and he'd deserved to die in bed; old, honoured and rich, with his children and grandchildren in attendance.
He and his didn't deserve what the Dracs had done to them.
Nobody ever does, Percivane thought grimly, closing her eyes and biting her lip to try and push down old memories. It didn't work.
For a moment, she was eight years ago and more than a hundred lightyears away. No longer an adult wrapped in two tons of myomer and titanium-carbon fibre weave armour composite, but again a lanky adolescent-awkward twelve-year-old in a thin silk nightgown. The cushioning feel of the gel-filled helmet liner was replaced by the cold metal circle of a pistol muzzle pressed tightly under her chin. And the sound of the squad feeds and her own heartbeat transformed into guttural Kuritan accents and thready cries of pain.
"Emma-lead, this is Two-one. Perce, your vitals just spiked; what's wrong?"
Daniel Colton's calm, level voice brought her back to the here and now, and Percivane drew in a deep breath. It was hard to remember, sometimes, but she hadn't died that night. Part of her soul had, sitting in the wardrobe's darkness, swallowing back sobs as she listened to her parents die. Crawling past their broken, hacked bodies, through pools of their blood. And killing her first man; boy, really, a Drac irregular only a few years older than she'd been, for his clothes and weapon and hoverbike.
Some days, it was distant; almost like it'd happened to someone else. Others, so close Percivane could still smell copper and salt and her own sweat …
"I was … away for a moment, Daniel. I'm back to myself now," she settled on. Daniel didn't need to hear more; he'd been orphaned in the Reach fighting as well.
More buildings crumbled, closer now, and Percivane set herself, readying for action.
"Emma-lead to all elements," she said over the platoon net. "We go on my mark. Remember, aim for the gyro housing; if you can't get that, go for the heat exchangers and jumpjets."
is it bad i really want the AFFS and LCAF and their political morons to not be full of morons from the second the jihad ends and for the drac and capellan plot armor that let them get away with cheating on disarmament without consequences for decades not exist.
like seriously i can buy the suns and lyrans needing some time to focus on the economy but even then.....
the lyrans didn't even rebuild their yard capacity basically at all.
like seriously i can buy the suns and lyrans needing some time to focus on the economy but even then.....
the lyrans didn't even rebuild their yard capacity basically at all.
Last edited:
Mal-3
Fun Tyrant
Dragging this one out of mothballs for a moment. Maybe nostalgia, maybe general creative frustration? I don't know either way really. But this is a thing. -- Uncle Fun Tyrant
Unity City, Terra
21 June 2572
It was supposed to be simple. That was what Ian Cameron's mind kept repeating over and over while he stewed in his office. It was supposed to be simple: a momentary show of force, largely nonhostile, to remind the Periphery of what the Star League had at its disposal and how it could be used both for and against them. A short police action in the Outworlds Alliance ought to have been one of the lightest duties possible for the SLDF – it's not like a bunch of quiet pacifist yokels could've done anything more than complain.
But then, Ian noted absently, it wasn't the Outworlds Alliance anymore, was it? While he'd been... distracted with events on Terra, the Third Andurien War and the diplomacy surrounding the formation of the Star League, somebody had come out of nowhere and taken hold of the Outworlds. The Fen, as they called themselves, were fond of outlandish stories and had trinkets that could outmatch even the most cutting-edge technologies found in the darkest Hegemony black lab. With this they – somehow – usurped the Avellars and founded their Grand Convention, a new state of quiet pacifist eccentrics lying on the base of the old one.
And then – and then! – this gang of quiet pacifists managed to quietly and peacefully round up most of an entire SLDF Corps before they could so much as set foot on their territory.
The office intercom chimed. "The ambassador is here, sir," his secretary said.
"Send him in," Ian ordered.
Through the door came the Convention's official ambassador to the Court of the Star League. Ian didn't know all that much about Samuel Wildman – his intelligence apparatus was still trying to sort out truth from bullshit when it came to the Fen – but the man apparently was a former member of the Convention's inner council on what amounted to a retirement tour. Wildman was to all appearances a fairly average man of European extraction, somebody who wouldn't register as all that interesting if he didn't cultivate a personal image the Court had collectively declared "affably sinister." Wildman's shaved head, carefully-trimmed goatee and conservative suit with Mandarin collar, combined with a constant bemused smile on his face, gave him the feel of some kind of devil.
"Ah, Lord Cameron," the ambassador said brightly. "Good to see you again. It's a pity about those pirates, but we'll get this business cleared up quickly."
Ian blinked. He'd been expecting recriminations, anger, bluster about how dare the Star League interfere with their worlds. "Pardon?" he asked, slightly baffled.
"This business on Niles and Bad News, of course," Wildman replied. "A nasty business to be sure. I doubt anybody expected pirate bands to have the balls to try and spoof SLDF recognition codes, but thankfully ConSec was on top of things and we managed to corral them all before things got out of hand. Since they didn't manage to actually do anything," the ambassador added, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "we'll let the bulk of them off with a fine, possibly property confiscation."
"That's..." Ian shook his head, "That's what you're going with? Pirates in SLDF colors?" It was audacious, he'd give the Fen that. Just flat-out denying that they'd deliberately intercepted and forced most of VI Corps to surrender.
Wildman leaned back in his chair. "As we liked to say back home, that's our story and we're sticking with it," he said. "I mean, it only makes sense that pirates would attack the Convention. Everybody knows we're the land flowing with milk and honey after all, and it's not like the Star League, the great hope for galactic peace led by the great peacemaker Ian Cameron, would do something as antithetical to it's own mission statement as invade a neutral state without so much as a declaration of war, would it?"
The First Lord's eyes narrowed. "You're baiting me," he growled.
"A bit, yes." Wildman's small smile never left his lips. "The official statement by our government is going to be that this was an attempted pirate raid. Likely multiple bands working on a galaxy-brain plan to try and force the Convention and the Star League into a conflict so they could take advantage of the chaos, the standard supervillain shit you see in the vids. ConSec successfully apprehended them, no injuries on either side, roll credits."
"I see. And unofficially?"
"Unofficially..." the ambassador paused. "Take the hit, Ian."
"What?"
"Take the hit. You lost, Lord Cameron. In the interests of peace our official story will maintain that you didn't send the SLDF to try and bully us into submission, but understand that we know full well that these weren't pirates hiding under VI Corps colors. We're also fully aware of Directive 21, and we don't particularly find it funny. If you try it again we will consider it an act of war and respond accordingly. Your people will be repatriated by the end of the year, though we'll probably keep most of the gear as compensation for the bullshit stunt you just tried. Other than that?" Wildman spread his hands. "Status quo. We don't want a war any more than you do. Just be good neighbors and don't try to park armies on our lawn uninvited."
"So noted," Ian said dryly. "If you'd just be willing to sign the Accords–"
"We won't," Wildman interrupted. "The Plurality voted – and the Board agrees for what it's worth – that the Accords are fundamentally incompatible with the Convention's system of governance and our moral codes. We're still willing to discuss any number of agreements with the Star League, either as a whole or between it's constituents, but we insist on being treated as equals. We're not wayward sheep or unruly vassals, Lord Cameron. You can't treat us like that and expect anything good."
Unity City, Terra
21 June 2572
It was supposed to be simple. That was what Ian Cameron's mind kept repeating over and over while he stewed in his office. It was supposed to be simple: a momentary show of force, largely nonhostile, to remind the Periphery of what the Star League had at its disposal and how it could be used both for and against them. A short police action in the Outworlds Alliance ought to have been one of the lightest duties possible for the SLDF – it's not like a bunch of quiet pacifist yokels could've done anything more than complain.
But then, Ian noted absently, it wasn't the Outworlds Alliance anymore, was it? While he'd been... distracted with events on Terra, the Third Andurien War and the diplomacy surrounding the formation of the Star League, somebody had come out of nowhere and taken hold of the Outworlds. The Fen, as they called themselves, were fond of outlandish stories and had trinkets that could outmatch even the most cutting-edge technologies found in the darkest Hegemony black lab. With this they – somehow – usurped the Avellars and founded their Grand Convention, a new state of quiet pacifist eccentrics lying on the base of the old one.
And then – and then! – this gang of quiet pacifists managed to quietly and peacefully round up most of an entire SLDF Corps before they could so much as set foot on their territory.
The office intercom chimed. "The ambassador is here, sir," his secretary said.
"Send him in," Ian ordered.
Through the door came the Convention's official ambassador to the Court of the Star League. Ian didn't know all that much about Samuel Wildman – his intelligence apparatus was still trying to sort out truth from bullshit when it came to the Fen – but the man apparently was a former member of the Convention's inner council on what amounted to a retirement tour. Wildman was to all appearances a fairly average man of European extraction, somebody who wouldn't register as all that interesting if he didn't cultivate a personal image the Court had collectively declared "affably sinister." Wildman's shaved head, carefully-trimmed goatee and conservative suit with Mandarin collar, combined with a constant bemused smile on his face, gave him the feel of some kind of devil.
"Ah, Lord Cameron," the ambassador said brightly. "Good to see you again. It's a pity about those pirates, but we'll get this business cleared up quickly."
Ian blinked. He'd been expecting recriminations, anger, bluster about how dare the Star League interfere with their worlds. "Pardon?" he asked, slightly baffled.
"This business on Niles and Bad News, of course," Wildman replied. "A nasty business to be sure. I doubt anybody expected pirate bands to have the balls to try and spoof SLDF recognition codes, but thankfully ConSec was on top of things and we managed to corral them all before things got out of hand. Since they didn't manage to actually do anything," the ambassador added, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "we'll let the bulk of them off with a fine, possibly property confiscation."
"That's..." Ian shook his head, "That's what you're going with? Pirates in SLDF colors?" It was audacious, he'd give the Fen that. Just flat-out denying that they'd deliberately intercepted and forced most of VI Corps to surrender.
Wildman leaned back in his chair. "As we liked to say back home, that's our story and we're sticking with it," he said. "I mean, it only makes sense that pirates would attack the Convention. Everybody knows we're the land flowing with milk and honey after all, and it's not like the Star League, the great hope for galactic peace led by the great peacemaker Ian Cameron, would do something as antithetical to it's own mission statement as invade a neutral state without so much as a declaration of war, would it?"
The First Lord's eyes narrowed. "You're baiting me," he growled.
"A bit, yes." Wildman's small smile never left his lips. "The official statement by our government is going to be that this was an attempted pirate raid. Likely multiple bands working on a galaxy-brain plan to try and force the Convention and the Star League into a conflict so they could take advantage of the chaos, the standard supervillain shit you see in the vids. ConSec successfully apprehended them, no injuries on either side, roll credits."
"I see. And unofficially?"
"Unofficially..." the ambassador paused. "Take the hit, Ian."
"What?"
"Take the hit. You lost, Lord Cameron. In the interests of peace our official story will maintain that you didn't send the SLDF to try and bully us into submission, but understand that we know full well that these weren't pirates hiding under VI Corps colors. We're also fully aware of Directive 21, and we don't particularly find it funny. If you try it again we will consider it an act of war and respond accordingly. Your people will be repatriated by the end of the year, though we'll probably keep most of the gear as compensation for the bullshit stunt you just tried. Other than that?" Wildman spread his hands. "Status quo. We don't want a war any more than you do. Just be good neighbors and don't try to park armies on our lawn uninvited."
"So noted," Ian said dryly. "If you'd just be willing to sign the Accords–"
"We won't," Wildman interrupted. "The Plurality voted – and the Board agrees for what it's worth – that the Accords are fundamentally incompatible with the Convention's system of governance and our moral codes. We're still willing to discuss any number of agreements with the Star League, either as a whole or between it's constituents, but we insist on being treated as equals. We're not wayward sheep or unruly vassals, Lord Cameron. You can't treat us like that and expect anything good."
Right-click for big said:
Ah. So Candle In the Dark, only set 500 years Earlier?
slybrarian
Creature of Fable
- Location
- A Far and Sunless Land
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Fen fucking with the lords of the Inner Sphere is always amusing, and doing it at a time they can tell Ian Cameron to fuck off is even better. Also, the map having some planet renderings is a nice new touch.
Mal-3
Fun Tyrant
In essence. While there's honestly not a lot of lore attached to this one atm, it's based on some previously published notes on trying to go around on Candle for a third time. The Reunification War timeline was chosen because it's about the furthest point from the original version that still makes sense and/or could make for an engaging story. Other possible options included doing this basic map but in the 3/4SW period or having the Fen inhabiting the Kerensky Cluster when the SLDF arrives.
...I might end up doing a Fenrensky Cluster map at some point, just because it might be funny. Probably wouldn't have any prose attached to it, though.
NGL, the idea of fucking with Ian Cameron was the primary driver here. Also, a bit of dialogue from nearer the beginning of the war:
"They'll send Forlough."
"I know."
"... He doesn't make it home."
"We will make very sure of that."
As for the renders, well, one of the benefits(?) of over two continuous decades of Failure is that I have a remarkably large pile of scraps to sift through, including some very nice planet renders.
I assume you meant the Pentagon Worlds, because that's where Alexander Kerensky and the SLDF settled. The Kerensky Cluster is where Nicolas Kerensky took his loyalists and made the Clans after the SLDF civil war
Edit: Also why does the description of the ambassador remind me of Kane?
Last edited:
Prince Charon
Just zis guy, you know?
The fact that the Fen call the Gernsback Anomaly 'the Untempered Schism' is worrisome, since I don't know yet how much they're joking in this case.
Mal-3
Fun Tyrant
Well they've gotta get to the Inner Sphere somehow, right? (Whether or not they arrived through it or it is the secondhand aftermath of their arrival is beyond the scope of the worldbuilding, but even in all other scenarios something like the Untempered Schism would be close to the Fen homeworld. Because of course it would be.)
Mal-3
Fun Tyrant
Couldn't get it out of my head all the way, so here's another map. Now, I am not a military-talking guy - and only barely a BattleTech-talking guy - so I don't know that this makes any actual sense as either a military or BT map. I do know that it looks okay as an aesthetic piece though, so here it is. Enjoy? --Uncle Fun Tyrant
Jonen C
F.M.D.G.
- Location
- Lincopense, Ostrogothia, Suecia
Two elements:Couldn't get it out of my head all the way, so here's another map. Now, I am not a military-talking guy - and only barely a BattleTech-talking guy - so I don't know that this makes any actual sense as either a military or BT map. I do know that it looks okay as an aesthetic piece though, so here it is. Enjoy? --Uncle Fun Tyrant
You should have DCMS units on the map as well, if you have FedSuns units.
Second
And as someone who is relatively fluent in military map, some notes:
Re: Coloration:
Green is neutral in NATO symbology - which would indicate FedSuns is sitting this one out.
You could use another color to indicate - the Swedish armed forces use(d):
Dark Blue (like you) for friendly units and activity
Black for borders and friendly activity
Red for enemy units and activity
Yellow for noting areas affected by NBC.
Green for fortifications/obstacles and the like which is neutral when not occupied.
Light blue (Cyan) for forces belonging to a third party (non-hostile).
So Red for SL units, Blue for Con. I'd say Yellow (unknown in NATO), Green (neutral in NATO) or Cyan (third party, not party to the current conflict) for FS/DCMS forces... Possibly use different colors to indicate relative stances on the operation.
OTOH, since you're using the same format for the units, it is probably a historical map - hostile army units are supposed to be represented by a diamond and neutral units by a square. Since the map doesn't have that, assigning unique colors the FedSuns and DCMS would be permissible - since it is not an active battle map, but a map of a historical battle.
The Symbols themselves are for combined arms mechanized infantry unit - which is a decent stand in for mech units.
The symbols need a size indicator - this is dots, lines or x's on top of the boxes. Three lines is traditional for a regiment (with II for a battalion and I for a company), X for the level above regiment, and add one more X for each successive level of org above that.
I'd consider throwing in some modifiers to represent the different types of units in the SL and CS OOBs...
And possibly also some kind of symbol representing where the respective forces aerospace forces have their Flag/Command or main staging ground at this point in the campaign.
RoboRenee
Trans of gender
- Location
- FFXIV, probably
- Pronouns
- She/Her
AC: VI/Battletech crossover idea.
The Star League found Rubicon and the Coral, and as with Armored Core they experimented on it, developing Battlemechs and Battlemech gear and various other weapons that use Coral, but the collapse of the Star League (and the Fires of Ibis) happen before the research makes it offworld in any kind of serious numbers and the tech and the Coral are lost, with Rubicon burned to the point of being considered a dead planet and almost all references to Coral long lost. Then somebody finds it during the Succession Wars, complete with a surviving Rubiconian population that worships the Coral and enough intact tech and data for people to see exactly how valuable it is (and of course for someone to eventually do human augmentation experiments), and suddenly one of the Houses has an edge that Comstar either didn't know existed until it was too late or is very upset someone has gotten their hands on.
Unfortunately I know just enough Battletech to think it would be Neat but not enough to figure who I would have get the Rubicon cache first and where things would go from there. Hanse would just be unfair tbh so probably the Free Worlds League since the Capellans would go turbonuts and the Lyrans would probably end up handing it to Davion eventually anyway IIRC. Or do it during the Clan invasion or that whole mess where one of Hanse's kids goes nuts because nobody's allowed to win the series conflict generator, and have it just make that civil war worse?
The Star League found Rubicon and the Coral, and as with Armored Core they experimented on it, developing Battlemechs and Battlemech gear and various other weapons that use Coral, but the collapse of the Star League (and the Fires of Ibis) happen before the research makes it offworld in any kind of serious numbers and the tech and the Coral are lost, with Rubicon burned to the point of being considered a dead planet and almost all references to Coral long lost. Then somebody finds it during the Succession Wars, complete with a surviving Rubiconian population that worships the Coral and enough intact tech and data for people to see exactly how valuable it is (and of course for someone to eventually do human augmentation experiments), and suddenly one of the Houses has an edge that Comstar either didn't know existed until it was too late or is very upset someone has gotten their hands on.
Unfortunately I know just enough Battletech to think it would be Neat but not enough to figure who I would have get the Rubicon cache first and where things would go from there. Hanse would just be unfair tbh so probably the Free Worlds League since the Capellans would go turbonuts and the Lyrans would probably end up handing it to Davion eventually anyway IIRC. Or do it during the Clan invasion or that whole mess where one of Hanse's kids goes nuts because nobody's allowed to win the series conflict generator, and have it just make that civil war worse?
- Location
- The Midlands.
Which is in character for them, from what I know of this era. I can quite easily picture the First Prince deploying forces to the border to be "held in reserve" in order to "counter the unprovoked aggression" by the Convention and then quietly waiting for it to blow up in the First Lord's face so he can bring his troops home, because unlike some people he has realistic ideas about how open war between the Convention and the Star League will go and he's got to share a border with them afterwards.
"Pray indulge my curiosity, your highness. What's it like being the Star League Council's token sane person?"
"One part black comedy to nine parts sheer unmitigated hell, Mr Ambassador."
Captain Orsai
Davion Heavy Guards Captain
Well, yes even without another major power - one markedly superior in qualitative terms to the SLDF/HAF and allies - present, Alexander Davion was remarkably ambiguous about Ian Cameron's War, and the whole Star League project (or he wouldn't have been doing his damnedest to break it, whether by his constant trolling of the Beast Forlough and Ian Cameron, or coming very, very close to provoking the Capellans into ragequitting the SL almost before the treaty's ink was dry).
Add that factor, and Alex is going to be doing everything in his considerable power to keep the Suns out of the whole thing.
Last edited:
Mal-3
Fun Tyrant
There are DCMS units on the map, the enemy units sitting on the Combine border are all Galdeon Regulars. Each unit has it's name tagged right above the icon, but that's probably hard to read and/or comprehend - my admittedly meager comprehension of NATO map symbols kind of makes a hash of it, I'm afraid.
Which is pretty much what they're doing. As @Captain Orsai noted, even in the original canon Alexander Davion was pretty iffy on the whole Star League thing to begin with - and more than a little miffed that he more or less got economically blackmailed into it. And in the previous map it's noted that Alex had sent his son to the Convention in hopes of getting a separate peace, because the Taurians are enough of a pain in the ass, he doesn't need to watch his other flank for people who're just as bad and also freaking wizards.
...So just out of curiosity, is the Reunification War here going to be like the Vietnam War instead of the 'Short, Victorious War' it was in OTL?
Mechanis
Confirmed Techpriest
- Location
- Deep Net
I mean.
The Taurian campaign was pretty freaking Vietnam, it was something like fifteen years of fighting before they were losing decisively and another decade after that before the SLDF was able to get a surrender out of them, and most of that under Amos Nuke-em-if-they-don't-surrender-fast-enough Forlough, checking off boxes on his Warcrimes Bingo cards. And if the Canopians had decided to make a serious fight of it, the Athenas would have mauled the shit out of any contemporary WarShips with those absurd missile batteries of theirs.
And if the Rim Worlds hadn't just finished a civil war they probably would have been damn hard to take on.
I mean in the sense that in this ATL, the Reunification War is going to be an actual loss for the Star League instead of merely a grinding conflict that leads to to 'victory'?
Last edited:
Jonen C
F.M.D.G.
- Location
- Lincopense, Ostrogothia, Suecia
Map resolution made it impossible for me to make out the unit names, unfortunately.There are DCMS units on the map, the enemy units sitting on the Combine border are all Galdeon Regulars. Each unit has it's name tagged right above the icon, but that's probably hard to read and/or comprehend - my admittedly meager comprehension of NATO map symbols kind of makes a hash of it, I'm afraid.
Making the DCMS units a different shade of red (pink?) would make it easier to tell on overview.
(Pink does not have an official use, but unofficial sources sometimes use it as it is distinct and sometimes silly people make a fuss about it for very silly reasons for general amusement.)
Mal-3
Fun Tyrant
Technically they were still in the middle of the civil war when the SLDF finally decided to intervene on Amaris's behalf. Which ironically is the primary cause of the Star League's collapse not quite 200 years later. Ain't irony great?
Probably? This is by no means a thing that is particularly well thought out, but the Convention isn't a group that likely loses the conflict. I'm not really a "doomed protagonists struggle nobly against an unchangeable fate" kind of creator, y'know?
... even at 4K? (and yes that's rendered at 4K) Yeah, okay, I done goofed. Sorry.
I think, if I were to redo the map, I'd probably just ditch the NATO symbols (I like 'em for their overall simplicity but damn that shit gets fiddly fast) and go with faction icons in NATO colors instead. Probably easier for neophytes and English majors to read that way.
Jonen C
F.M.D.G.
- Location
- Lincopense, Ostrogothia, Suecia
May have been that I rolled a 1 on image host wrangling and failed to open it in a way that let me zoom freely - now I can read them (though they're a close to the margin of readable).