BattleTech: The Field Is Lost

Lance Scarinci

The Field Is Lost

Lance Scarinci

WINFIELD’S REGIMENT COMMAND HQ

FELSONVILLE, WINFIELD

TAMAR MARCH, FEDERATED COMMONWEALTH

20 MARCH 3050

“You’re going to want to see this, Kommandant.”

Ox fumbled for his glasses. He was slow to wake these days. Bad news when bad news called, and no news that came in the night was ever good. He found a bottle of water and sucked a mouthful into his dry throat.

Jenkins was holding out a datastick. Ox snatched it and plugged it into his player.

“Broadband transmission, emergency frequency,” Jenkins yapped. “It’s from Toland.”

“Toland…Marinetti?” The Twelfth Star Guard held that backwater—one of their regiments, anyway. Over the years a kind of gentleman’s rivalry had developed between the Guard and Winfield’s Regiment, one Ox maintained just because.

But it wasn’t Colonel Marinetti who appeared in the grainy holovid image, just some grizzled old MechWarrior. Dried blood plastered what could be seen of his face through his neurohelmet’s tiny visor. He looked to be on the move, eyes bouncing back and forth between the camera and his instruments.

“Fifty-eight years, over forty of them a MechWarrior. Things start to go. Hearing, from running the autocannon too often; sight, from lasers across the cockpit ferroglass; my back, my knees. My reflexes. That will be the killer. One day the other guy’s gonna be faster. One day it’ll be me that loses the draw. I always knew these things, always knew my day would come. My daddy died of cancer at sixty, his daddy died of a heart attack on his sixtieth birthday. Grandma gave him too much of a good thing for his birthday, daddy always said. I’m fifty-eight, but I’m not going to die in bed. No sir, I intend to go out right here, with one hand on the conn and the other on the trigger. No weeping wife, no ungrateful brood fighting over the inheritance. Just me, and ol’ Bess. So if I always knew this, why’s my gut burning? Why’s my throat so tight?” He waved a disgusted hand at his lap. “Why’ve I pissed myself?”

Ox hit Pause. “Who’s this whiner? Marinetti’s really scraping the bottom. Get this out of here, and don’t go waking General Winfield either, you ass.”

He almost tossed the datastick and Jenkins’s scrawny hide back into the night, but Jenkins had long ago developed proven methods of self-preservation, such as reserving important intel for when his skin was on the line.

“There are other files on there,” he said. “This came in about ten hours ago, on a pigeon.”

That raised Ox’s eyebrows. Pigeon was slang for an old-fashioned jump drone, the kind used to send distress signals before the rise of hyperpulse generators. Only the oldest JumpShips still carried them, and they were rarely used since deploying a pigeon meant ejecting the jump core, leaving the jumper an immobile coffin. “Some of the Guard’s JumpShips date back to the early Star League,” he mused.

“Well, they have one less now. There’s an audio-only preface from the captain who launched that pigeon. His ship was under attack.”

Ox got cold. JumpShips were sacrosanct, man’s irreplaceable link to the stars. Only madmen attacked them. Or worse. Something had also set off a veteran MechWarrior on the ground, and the Twelfth Star Guard hired no cravens.

Ox reached into his nightstand drawer, drew out a bottle and two glasses. This felt like a three-finger chill, so he poured, slammed it back, poured again, handed one glass to Jenkins and hit Play.

“I pegged a Snake to have my number, or maybe a lucky Fed. Not a Marik, though; I still can’t take those guys seriously. Well, it’s none of those. In fact, I don’t know who the hell this is, and that’s what’s got my blood pounding. Word was pirates, but pirates they ain’t. No sir. Not with ’Mechs like these. Banshees are a joke with a bad punch line, but they’re damn tough, nothing takes one apart with a laser at almost seven hundred meters, nothing. But this thing did.”

Blurred battleROM footage replaced the MechWarrior, zooming across a smoky field where a tall, ugly ’Mech strode unchallenged. “Seismograph puts it at ninety-five tons, same as that hunk of Defiance scrap metal it sent to the great beyond with Captain Folsom still in it, but I swear that same machine also ran down a Commando. Ninety-five tons at eighty kilometers per hour. And it jumps. I don’t know what it is, but for the record, I got the hell out of there.”

“Jesus.” Ox tossed back his second glass as the ’Mech fired at the camera. “You recognize that thing?” Jenkins just shook his head.

The footage continued. “They popped in at the nadir and announced themselves, just as brazen as a bull. Who does that? ‘We are the Jade Falcons,’ they said, then they asked what forces defended the world. As if an honest answer was coming! Colonel Marinetti told them to go jump in the fire. DropShips arrived a few days later, some kind of modified Unions, and out came these Jade Falcons. That’s a memory burned into my mind. ’Mechs so new and shiny you could almost smell the paint. So clean, so fluid, like their actuators hadn’t ever known a snag, and weird looking, too, all uniform and same-like. Built for function, and to hell with the form that sells so many frames.”

The image changed again, showing three more ’Mechs moving in loose formation. Ox paused and zoomed. He had graduated from the Blackjack Academy, an institute proud of its extensive database of military hardware. He’d studied it long, even had a copy on a datastick somewhere.

He’d never seen any of these ’Mechs before. One sort of looked like a Thunderbolt, another vaguely like an anorexic Warhammer. The third was a chicken-walker as alien as the name. Jade Falcons? Forgoing camouflage, the invaders wore a bright green parade scheme, with the lead machine sporting a bird’s head mural across the torso. Ox zoomed on the T-bolt doppelgänger’s arm. “That’s an insignia. Get Bowers to—”

“Already done,” Jenkins said.

“Stop finding reasons for me to keep you around. What’d he find?”

“Nothing. It matches no known Kurita, mercenary, or pirate heraldry.”

“Run the Mariks, just in case. It is a bird.”

“Strange formations, too,” their narrator said as Ox unpaused him. “Base five deployment. Five, ten, fifteen. Makes ’em stronger than a company by thirty percent.”

“Twenty-five percent,” Jenkins muttered. The man was a perfectionist.

“Then, get this, they came forward and challenged us, one by one, the way Dracs sometimes do when their bushido is up. Said they wanted to honor the Twelfth’s Star League heritage—by slaughtering us, I suppose. Some of the bigger ’Mechs challenged two at once. It wasn’t a fight I’m proud of. There are…were…better MechWarriors than me in the Guard. Young hotshots, old veterans, boys and girls with a gift for piloting a ’Mech the way an artist is gifted with a brush and eye for color. They’re still back there, those gifted. They’re not leaving Toland. I’m probably not either, but maybe this message will. I’m broadcasting wide, hopefully our ComStar compound will pick it up and—Shit! I’ve been made!”

An explosion rocked the MechWarrior’s cockpit. In the silence of Ox’s bunk, it was like a bomb. “You don’t get to do that to me, you little—!”

He looked into the camera, eyes wide and wild. “One more thing, they’ve got…something with them, I don’t know what they are, but they’re smaller than a ’Mech and just as mean. They…climb…God for—”

Then came a shriek like tearing metal, and the BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of high-caliber rounds. The image went red.

Ox backed it up, played it again. Something was there in the last few frames. Again, and again. The fourth time, he paused it just before the end and waved Jenkins closer. “What’s that?”

Jenkins squinted. “Debris? A piece of whatever shattered his cockpit, I suppose.”

“Bullshit. It’s a claw. Some sort of mechanical claw. Look, the shots come from the same direction.” They watched the end of the vid in silence. Ox slammed back his glass. “Did that acolyte say whether Toland’s HPG is responding?”

“It’s not.”

“This gone out to regional yet?”

“Been waiting on your signature.” Jenkins held out a pad, and Ox scribbled.

The comm buzzed. “What?” he yelled.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” came a tinny voice. “We have unknowns at the zenith. No response to hails.”

“How many?”

“Six jumpers, fully loaded.”

The bottle from Ox’s nightstand was nearly empty. He furthered its condition. “Guess we better wake Winfield. You do it.”

“No way. Not without hazard pay.” Jenkins held out his glass, and together they slammed one back.

It was definitely a three-finger chill.

“Alpha actual to bunker. Alpha in position. Handing it over to you, Ox.” Leftenant General Davis Winfield sounded perfectly calm, down there leading his troops like an old-fashioned shootin’ general while Ox sat in the bunker plotting strategy.

That was how they played it these days. Ox didn’t mind. He hadn’t been inside a ’Mech for a decade, ever since the shakes had gotten so bad he couldn’t hold the conn straight. He deserved a cashiering, but Davis had shunted him sideways into the bunker. Ox couldn’t complain. He had a cozy office with a nice mahogany desk and a gold—real gold!—nameplate reading kommandant oscar mason, and an onyx carving of an ox someone had given him. No wet bar, though; Davis had seen to that. The regiment took care of its own, but you’d better be worth taking care of.

He felt the shakes now, not strong, just lurking nearby, waiting. There was a flask in his breast pocket, all discreet-like, just in case. Patting it, he dry swallowed.

Not gonna mess this up, Ox. Not this time.

More jumpers had straggled in since the hostiles first arrived. Those at the zenith were taken by the invaders, but the ones at the nadir brought news. It wasn’t just Toland, but Bone Norman, Anywhere—even Barcelona, home to the Seventeenth Skye Rangers. The Boys of Summer give good, it was always said, but it was winter on Barcelona. Winter for them, maybe for the whole Commonwealth, if rumors could be believed. None of the fleeing jumper captains were sticking around. When they heard what lurked at the zenith point, they spread their sails again. One had even hot-charged to get out early.

“We are the Jade Falcons,” came the audio-only message eight days ago, full of bravado and swanky arrogance. “What forces dare defend this world from our steel talons?”

Davis had answered him like a good Lyran general, informing him Winfield’s Regiment would meet him on the field of war. Then the invaders had requested an LZ.

“Someplace our artillery can shell them the rest of the way down,” Ox had suggested, but Davis had other ideas.

“Let’s see what they bring. I’m curious.”

“You did watch everything on that datastick, didn’t you, General?”

“Repeatedly over the past four days. I didn’t see anything about these Jade Falcons deploying artillery of their own.”

“Doesn’t mean they don’t,” Ox grumbled.

“I did see a lot of one-on-one fights. That smacks of bushido to me. These Falcons have a code, and arty isn’t a part of it. Figure out what is, and we can exploit it.”

And Ox had shut up. The enemy were given a clear landing zone ten klicks from the command bunker, Davis mobilized the regiment and its attendant armor and infantry assets, readied the planetary militia, and they waited. Ox wasn’t counting on reinforcements. Precentor Salome apologized fiercely for not being able to send Winfield’s report to regional—some acolyte had apparently missed a line in his prayers and the HPG was down—but the precentor offered Davis a discount once the machine was running normally again. He could still hear Davis’s voice, telling him it didn’t matter: “This is Winfield, and by God, Winfield’s Regiment will defend it. That is that.”

And that is that. Us, and just us, and only us. Winfield is the breadbasket of the Tamar March; whoever takes it can feed an army indefinitely. And that is that. Ox patted his breast pocket, found his courage was still there, and hoped he could save it for after.

The bunker was surprisingly calm. The techs were scared, these low-level products of the Lyran military machine, but they were still too cocky to show it. Fear was there, though, a subtle, rotting stink under their veneer. Ox had smelled it before, during the Fourth War. Liezen, and the Altenmarkt Militia. The non-coms had remained calm then, too, right up until the first missile hit the HQ, then it was shit city.

Ox leaned over one of the younger girls—what was her name?—to get a look at her screen. “Why is MacPherson deployed like that? I swear, that man’s a Kuritan plant. Tell him to get his lance back in formation, or else he’s leading the van.”

“Yes, sir,” the girl said, then got it done. She was almost as good as Jenkins.

Ox hated to admit it, but he noticed Jenkins’s absence. Didn’t exactly miss him, not that he’d ever confess to, but things did run much smoother when he was around. Now, every able-bodied warrior was out on the field, and unlike Ox, Jenkins could still call himself a MechWarrior. Damn the man. So Ox had to make do with…Clover—that was her name, just Clover. She was from one of those stupid subcultures where people only used one name. Pretty thing, too, he couldn’t help noticing. Nice hourglass. She turned her head, saw him looking, and gave a nervous smile. Ox blinked, felt himself reddening. He was noticing the wrong things. Little green and red blips in the holotank, those were his concern now. So far all the blips were green, arrayed in a rough circle around the projected LZ, but there would be red soon enough.

“I’ve got visual,” Clover said. Six DropShips dropped into the holotank, translucent fist-sized balls in exact formation. They looked like Christmas baubles, all red and shiny. Into the center of their ring descended a seventh ship, easily twice as large. Ox was as hesitant to brand it an Overlord as he was to call the smaller ones Unions and Intruders, but it was close enough.

“Good formation,” someone muttered.

It certainly was. Ox had rarely seen one so tight. The seven hostiles put down in a ring, with the Overlord at the center. Overlapping fields of fire, command ship protected—what more could one ask from an LZ? Then the bay doors rolled up and centimeter-high BattleMechs began trundling out.

“Ready when you are, Ox,” Davis said.

Ox’s focus dropped over him like a cloak, banishing the shakes and putting the steel back in his spine. Everything was patterns, and when you saw them you owned them. Ox was man enough to admit he was a mediocre MechWarrior, but his gift for seeing patterns had earned a bit of bragging. Right now, he liked what he saw.

“Bravo Battalion, send a company to grid two-six. Charlie, loosen formation and deploy into five-two. Alpha, spread out to the northeast until you link with Charlie. We’ve nearly got their LZ encircled. We’ll close the loop, then tighten it. Drive them back, maybe even overrun them and capture a nice new Union or two.” He called up a projected range-bubble for the enemy DropShips. “Bravo, not so eager, you’re getting under their guns. Pull back half a klick and get into two-six already.”

The regiment complied, three green amoebas stretching arms toward each other to encircle and swallow the invaders.

“Hauptmann Johns is requesting orders, sir,” a tech said.

“Tell her to hold as long as her boys have fuel.” Overlapping fields of fire classified any run by Winfield’s fighters as suicide. “Prioritize targets of opportunity as they arise. That’ll be your call, ah—”

“Stent,” Jenkins whispered in his head.

“—Stent. Keep them alive, Leftenant, or I’ll send you out there with a rifle. Clover, give me a count on hostiles.”

Red reflected in her eyes. “Forty-five, all BattleMechs. The droppers can’t have deployed their full complement, but nothing else is emerging.”

“Why would they be holding back?” Ox scratched stubbly cheeks. “Tell Hauptmann Ross to let Cargill run. Have him get as close as he can to those droppers. I want a visual right into their holds, if he can get it.”

Cargill piloted the regiment’s lone Ostscout, and no finer a recon platform could be found. Within moments, Ox had a clear image of the advancing ’Mechs as MechWarrior Cargill sailed by them at the limit of LRM range. The invading ’Mechs’ sameness was eerie. He counted several different frames with identical arms, and some with identical leg assemblies even though Cargill’s sensors tagged them at varying masses.

Ox recognized the same four chassis from the Twelfth’s data and felt his neck skin crawl. For all he knew it was the very same machines, come to haunt Winfield. Some seemed to eye the Ostscout, but ultimately ignored it.

“He’s under the dropper’s range bubble, but they’re not firing,” Clover said.

“He’s too fast,” someone else replied. “They’re not wasting ammo on something they can’t hit.”

“No.” Ox dialed up the resolution, watched a gun turret track the Ostscout. “They’re not shooting because they don’t see him as a threat. They want us to see. They’re showing off. Bunker to Alpha actual.”

“Go ahead.”

“These guys have one severe case of arrogance, General. Those ’Mechs aren’t marching, they’re strutting at you like peacocks.”

“Arrogance, Ox, or confidence? One’s worse than the other.” Davis sighed. “Whichever it is, let’s make it a fatal case. Are we in position?”

Bravo had finally gotten into two-six, and most of the advancing Falcons were out from under their DropShips’ guns. “Good as it’s going to get. Time to welcome them to Winfield.”

He flipped to broadband. “Charlie Battalion, they don’t seem to have noticed you yet. Stay in those trees until I say otherwise. Alpha and Bravo, you are free to engage the enemy. These are the guys who shot your dog, defiled your sister, and called your mama a whore. Go knock their teeth out.”

Alpha and Bravo complied, and Ox sat back to wait for the patterns to roll in. How did the enemy handle charges? Feints? A target in their rear? Did they rely on missiles, ballistics, or energy weapons? What formations did they prefer? And most importantly, which ’Mech did the orders seem to be coming from? He steepled his fingers, waiting for it all to emerge.

“Bunker to Bravo actual,” he radioed. “Larson, your boys are closest, engage those five to your southeast. Don’t baby them; send a full company. And I want visual from all.”

“Roger, Bunker. MacPherson’s group going in.”

A dozen live feeds appeared in the holotank, giving Ox a choice of who he wanted to see die in real time. An enemy ’Mech fired. He watched the same pair of lasers flash from twelve viewpoints, then one went to fuzz. Chatter immediately filled the comm.

“Danton is down. No ejection!”

“Twelve hundred meters—”

“A Marauder, I think. Or a Catapult? With arms?”

“Missiles incoming—”

“Evasive maneuvers, and keep charging!”

The Winfield ’Mechs closed. Ox split his attention between the live feeds and the big picture floating in the holotank. The little ’Mechs danced, and lights began to blink out. Green lights. One, two, three. Something in him was screaming, but it was buried deep. Here and now he needed to be detached, not think of those blips as people he’d lifted a cup with. They were pawns on his chessboard, just little green pawns. And they were vanishing. Finally, a red went out. Cheers on the chatter. Another, then a third, then it was only green in that corner of the map. Five green dots, where once there had been twelve.

“Jesus,” Ox muttered. So much for charging. Tactics would have to adapt.

As per usual, time passed far too quickly. Ox had to bellow for coffee when he realized two hours had vanished. Jenkins would have had it in his hand an hour ago. Much of what went on in the holotank was feints and probing as Winfield felt out the attackers. The Jade Falcons saw no need to probe. They rushed headlong toward whichever Winfield ’Mech presented itself, blasting with lasers, missiles, and some weird gun that shot metal slugs at incredible velocity. The invaders’ guns outranged his, so Ox kept his ’Mechs in the trees or beyond rolling hills. Some of them had a modified machine gun that shot down incoming missiles, so he ordered those destroyed with PPCs and autocannon fire. Winfield’s numerical advantage seemed to mean nothing. Every time a red light winked out, it took two or more green ones with it, and Ox’s throat itched for relief. Single combat reigned among the Falcons. Each ’Mech picked out an opponent and pursued him until one or the other was down. When Winfield ’Mechs concentrated their fire, the Falcons responded in kind, but once the offenders were destroyed it was back to dueling.

The sheer power of their weapons clenched Ox’s bowels. One ’Mech pegged at 35 tons obliterated a Winfield Warhammer. Sure, the Whammy was a castoff from the Third Succession War that walked with a permanent limp and bled coolant from every joint, but it was still a Warhammer. That little ’Mech with the broad hood answered its PPCs, and each shot sheared off an arm. Damage analysis said those PPCs hit with approximately 50 percent more kinetic energy than they should have.

Who the hell are these guys?

The damage was beginning to show. Alpha and Bravo were reporting almost 30 percent casualties. Charlie lurked in reserve, and though Kommandant Cummings had thrice requested permission to engage, Ox held that advantage close. It was his only one.

Ox pulled off his glasses and rubbed that damn spot where they pinched the bridge of his nose. “An ace. I need an ace.”

“Sir?” Clover asked.

“An ace in the hole. Don’t have one hiding anywhere, do you?”

“Well…” She bit her lip. “Not an ace, but maybe a jack? The enemy appears to be ignoring our armor and infantry.”

“Eh? How so?”

“They’re focusing on our ’Mechs. I’ve had at least four tank crews report an enemy ’Mech passing up a shot at them, unless they fired first.”

“Bugger all. Really?” Ox called up a tally of the green dots representing his tanks and infantry and found them to be nearly 100 percent intact. Damn his MechWarrior bias. He’d discounted his conventional assets. Greater tacticians had died for such neglect. “We can use this. Hot damn, we can use this! Bunker to all commands, the enemy is reluctant to attack armor and PBIs. Use them like an anvil and smash the bastards!”

Clutching his third cup of coffee, he sat back to watch it unfold. Little green ’Mechs baited little red ones into a sea of tanks and fools, which surrounded and consumed them like white blood cells on an infection. The reds winked out but left fewer and fewer greens behind each time.

With more than half their number extinguished, the reds began to regroup, carefully herded into a corner of grid five-three, right where Ox wanted them.

He smiled. “Finally. Bunker to all commands: Bravo, disengage and pay a visit to the enemy LZ. I want a few new Unions on our tarmac, kindly go and get some for me. Alpha, hold position and act like an immovable object. Charlie actual, do me a favor. Charge.”

Three dozen green ’Mechs emerged from the holographic trees, pouring south from grid five-two like a waterfall, attended by hovercraft and a pile of tanks and infantry. The red swarm halted so suddenly that some of the trailing ’Mechs ran into the leaders. Missiles arced, lasers flashed, and the Falcons turned back, right into the guns of Alpha.

Cheers rang in the bunker. Ox hoisted his cup with the rest of them. Coffee. See, Ox, you’ve still got it. His ’Mech might walk with a permanent stagger, but he could still manage a good dustup. He could see the patterns, position his pieces, and drop his ace when it mattered.

But the Falcons had an ace of their own.

“Hostiles!” Clover pressed a hand to one ear over the cheers. “The Intruders are debarking some…something.” Ox leaned over her, the holotank lighting every wrinkle on his face. They’ve got…something! His hands began to tremble. “What the hell am I looking at?”

“Unidentified. I…the warbook keeps pegging them as infantry, but they’re too big, moving too fast.”

“Jesus, how many of them are there?” Ox rasped.

The new hostiles oozed like a river of blood from their DropShips. Wherever they met Bravo’s line of advance, green lights winked out. Chatter filled the comm, sounding like a death knell. “Too big to be gropos, too small to be ’Mechs. Get me a feed. God damn it, someone get me a feed!” Someone delivered. It was a bouncy image as the MechWarrior ran away, but it gave Ox enough to go on. “Freeze and zoom. Not that part. Find me a frame that isn’t blurry.”

Ox stared, uncomprehending. It wasn’t a ’Mech, but it wasn’t a man, either. It had two legs, two arms, and something of a head on which a glaring, green falcon perched in painted glory. What it most resembled was a suit of armor, but if it was, then the man inside it would have to be a giant. The suit was over three meters tall, and save for a few freaks, no one reached such a height. Ox unpaused in time to see the thing fire a missile from its back, and that wasn’t its only weapon. The right arm ended in a laser muzzle, and the left—

A claw. Ox remembered the dead MechWarrior from the holovid message that had started this whole shitstorm. Three fingers, with a submachine gun slung underneath. It was the same. They climb, the MechWarrior had uttered before God called him home. “Bravo, pull back!” Ox shouted over the comm. “Do not engage new hostiles at close range! Repeat do not—”

But it was too late. The little monstrosities caught Bravo’s ’Mechs in their swarm, and what a swarm it was. Ox’s live feeds showed him ’Mechs crawling with the bastards, like hapless cattle torn apart by blood limpets. Wherever they landed on a Winfield ’Mech, those lasers dug into its armored skin, those claws tore chunks away and reached in to rip loose the guts. He watched a Centurion swat feebly at the monstrosity ripping open its LRM launcher, saw the thing hit the ground, rise and reattach itself to the ’Mech’s knee like an obstinate leech. Another one climbed a shoulder and peeled off the Centurion’s face. The ’Mech toppled over, the little beasts jumping free just in time to deny it the final revenge of crushing them in death.

Ox felt a hole inside. Jenkins piloted a Centurion.

His other live feeds—the ones that didn’t fuzz out—played similar movies. Most of Bravo’s slower machines were overrun, and when a few faster Falcon ’Mechs broke through Bravo’s failing line to join their tiny cousins, the bastards swarmed them too, but not to kill. The Falcon ’Mechs acted as taxis, depositing their cargo close to Winfield’s faster machines. All pretense at dueling was gone, washed away by Charlie’s charge. The Falcons laid on the firepower indiscriminately, and everywhere their lasers landed, a Winfield ’Mech fell.

“Keep them split!” Ox had to clear his throat to keep his voice from breaking. “Don’t let their ’Mechs get through Alpha and Bravo’s lines.” His hands worked a symphony inside the holotank. “Where is O’Halloran’s company? Send her to plug the line, keep this lance from breaking through—”

“O’Halloran is out of commission, sir,” Clover said. “She was moving to reinforce a breach, but the enemy overran her. They hit her company and just kept going. The survivors have regrouped with Hauptmann Kerntz.”

“How many does that give Kerntz now?”

Clover swallowed. “Seven.”

Seven. From two dozen. Two companies of ’Mechs reduced to half of one. Ox took a good, hard look. Charlie was mostly intact, but Alpha was a battalion in name only, and Bravo…

Ox looked down at his hands, willing them to be still. “Bunker to Alpha actual. Davis, drop back and join ranks with Charlie. Let the Falcons through. Stent, get Johns and her boys in there. Tell her to cover Alpha’s retreat and try to dig out what’s left of Bravo.”

Leftenant Stent looked up, gray faced. “Johns is gone, sir.”

Ox looked round at him. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“I—shot down, sir. I had Johns strafe to cover Alpha, and the Falcons shot them down.”

“The DropShips?”

“No, sir. The ’Mechs. They returned fire on her second pass. Johns is gone. They’re all gone.” Stent looked on the verge of tears.

Ox stared into the holotank, seeing little. They were toying with us. The whole time, just playing at war. Now it’s real.

“Larson is down!” Clover pressed her earpiece tight, eyes wide as they sought Ox. “Bravo actual is down!”

Less than a company of green Bravo ’Mechs remained, ringing their commander’s fallen Awesome. Micah’s company was fastest, and mostly intact. “Charlie actual! Cummings, send Micah’s boys in to reinforce Bravo’s position. Then link with your armor and turn north; you’re going to flank them.”

“Belay that!” Davis sounded like he hadn’t slept in a week. “Bravo, fall back, Alpha and Charlie will cover. It’s over, Ox. We can’t take them.”

“What? No. No! General, we can salvage this. Those little buggers don’t have much range, and their ’Mechs are hurt bad. Regroup in grid five-three—”

“Then they’ll have us in one place. A nice little package deal for when that Overlord dumps its load.”

Ox looked at the red lump at the center of the enemy LZ. Its doors remained closed, but did the Jade Falcons conceal yet another battalion in its hold? Like a dirigible losing its gas, Ox’s shoulders began to slump. A bitter emptiness spread from his gut, filling the back of his scratchy throat. So quickly had it all gone wrong. Luck was no lady, not today.

“You did good, Ox,” Davis said, “but I can’t let anyone else die today. You have my permission to signal the bunker’s surrender.”

“Understood, general.” Permission, not order. There was a world of difference between the two, and Ox loved his old friend all the more for it. He nodded slowly to Clover, and she got it done. “What about you, sir?” he asked Davis.

“We’re disengaging. The Commonwealth will need us elsewhere.”

“We’re abandoning Winfield?” someone asked.

Dumb silence fell over the bunker. Clover turned questioning eyes to Ox, but he had no answers for her. In one flip of a DropShip’s door, his world had unraveled. He had interpreted the patterns to read victory, but these invaders read it quite differently. Ox broadened his vision, saw an Inner Sphere where veteran units like Winfield’s Regiment were dismantled in a matter of hours by a force half their size. This pattern did not spell victory.

Davis broadcast on general. “This is General Winfield, to all defenders of the world that bears my name. This is the most sickening order I’ve ever had to give, and one that will haunt me forever. The field is lost. All forces are to make for their DropShips.” His weariness drove home his words.

The field is lost.

A thousand outraged voices filled the comm, questioning, yelling, not understanding why they were being told to abandon their homes and families. Davis shouted them all down.

“We cannot beat these Jade Falcons! We can’t, and if my regiment—the best troops on this side of the Sphere—can’t do it, I don’t know who can. This is about more than us and our one world. Toland, Here, and Barcelona have all fallen. The Commonwealth is under attack, and they’re going to need every gun. We stay here and die, or we live to fight again tomorrow. These invaders will have Winfield, but we’ll get it back, I promise. Now get to your droppers. Once in the sky, it’s every ship for herself. Tell the jumper captains not to wait. We need to get the word out. All surviving forces regroup at Butler. Godspeed to you all.”

“Should I sound evacuation?” Clover said, with trembling lips.

“There’s no time.” Ox wiped at his clean glasses. God, the shakes! “We stay behind. There’ll be a militia. There’ll be resistance. That’s our job, until Davis and the others come home.”

“But shouldn’t we—”

“No, damn it!” Ox called up a star map, zoomed in on local systems. “Toland. Winfield.” One fat finger traced a line down through the two worlds and on to a third. “What’s that say, Corporal?”

“Trell I.”

“Trellwan. Thought so.” He called up the world’s data, including defenders. “And what’s that say?”

“Twelfth Donegal Guar—Oh!”

“Yeah, oh. We tie them up for as long as we can. Every Falcon here is one less on Victor’s doorstep.” How the hell had he become responsible for the safety of the Archon’s heir? The flask in his pocket was so heavy, he needed to lighten it, just a bit.

Clover put a finger to her ear. “I have a message from the enemy star…Star Colonel? She’s incoming to…to accept our surrender.”

Silence fell. Some of the younger techs seemed close to tears; other just stared into their monitors.

“It happens,” Ox said, by way of apology and comfort. “You don’t win them all. This time we lose, next time we won’t. General Winfield and the others will be back, and when they come they’ll have friends here waiting for them. For now, we surrender. We behave. We show respect, because that’s the way it’s done. Remember this. Remember how it feels to lose, so that when the day comes to fight again you’ll do that much better, kick the other guy that much harder, make him be the one to kneel with bile in his throat. There’ll be a next time, people. Be strong, and be ready.”

In the holotank, a group of red blips approached the bunker. Ox zoomed. It was one of the Thunderbolt knockoffs accompanied by a delegation of infantry transports that had debarked one of the Falcon’s DropShips. They reached the bunker too soon. When the base gates opened, the guns remained silent. The new lords of Winfield came home.

Ox took his courage from his pocket and looked at it. Outside, Winfield’s new master was debarking her ’Mech. Fumes wouldn’t rise from her breath. Willing the shakes away, he pocketed the flask. Damn, this was going to be hard.

There came a banging on the door that made the techies jump. A few cried out, and a few more drew sidearms. Ox straightened his uniform. “Stand down.” He had to wave a few of the more zealous idiots back. “Stand down, you dim-witted…”

The door opened, and a giant stepped into the room. The man had to duck to get in, and once over the threshold he kept coming and coming and coming…There was so much of him that surely the bunker would burst before he was inside. His head scraped the ceiling, and when he took in a breath there was no air left for Ox. He was followed by a woman just as broad and muscled as her companion. No petite hourglass for this one, just an assault rifle Ox would need a forklift to move. Now Ox knew, it was armor that had undone his defense, the armor of the gods, and gods wore it. Giant gods with green eyes, green feathers.

“Star Colonel Diane Anu,” the giant announced in a voice like grinding stone.

Nearly lost between the two behemoths came a woman clad in a cooling vest and a smug smile. Jeez, she’s a kid! Can’t be thirty.

Ox looked closer. They were all kids. Even the scarred, hard-eyed giants dripped youth, though theirs came with a flavor of offended hurt. They were soldiers who had known too much defeat. It put a deep unease in Ox’s gut. Who had made them like this? What foe had tempered these Jade Falcons? What holocaust had put such steel into warriors so young? Another thought turned his blood to ice: how close on their heels was that foe?

Ox stepped forward and saluted. Enemy or not, she was a colonel. “Kommandant Oscar Mason, of Winfield’s Regiment. This base and its remaining facilities are yours. Sir.” That cost him something to say, something that might never grow back. Still more needed to be said, and it was him that had to get it out. “Our people are retreating. I trust you’ll let them? They’re good soldiers. I’d hate to see them slaughtered.”

Something Ox said caused the girl to grimace, but she nodded all the same. “No honor is lost retreating before a superior foe. We have a word for it: hegira. Do not look so dour, Kommandant. Defeat only brings shame when one fails to fight to their fullest, and your people fought bravely, and surprisingly well. Your comrades are free to go.” She swept a hand in a broad gesture, looking around the room. “Go to the Commonwealth and the Combine, to the League and the Suns. Tell them to spread the word far and wide. We are Jade Falcon. We are coming.”

No amount of liquid courage would ever warm the chill that ran up Ox’s spine, but damn him, he’d try. He pulled out his flask. “Star Colonel, perhaps you’ll join me for a drink? God knows I need one.”

“Certainly.” Diane Anu put and arm around Ox’s shoulders and smiled as if they were old friends. “I am told it was you who oversaw your defense. It was a fine combination of strategies which may have worked against a Wolf or a Ghost Bear, but we are Jade Falcon. All of us. Tell me, have you ever heard the term ‘bondsman’?”

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NOVELS

Decision at Thunder Rift by William H. Keith Jr.

Mercenary's Star by William H. Keith Jr.

The Price of Glory by William H. Keith, Jr.

Warrior: En Garde by Michael A. Stackpole

Warrior: Riposte by Michael A. Stackpole

Warrior: Coupé by Michael A. Stackpole

Wolves on the Border by Robert N. Charrette

Heir to the Dragon by Robert N. Charrette

Lethal Heritage (The Blood of Kerensky, Volume 1) by Michael A. Stackpole

Blood Legacy (The Blood of Kerensky, Volume 2) by Michael A. Stackpole

Lost Destiny (The Blood of Kerensky, Volume 3) by Michael A. Stackpole

Way of the Clans (Legend of the Jade Phoenix, Volume 1) by Robert Thurston

Bloodname (Legend of the Jade Phoenix, Volume 2) by Robert Thurston

Falcon Guard (Legend of the Jade Phoenix, Volume 3) by Robert Thurston

Wolf Pack by Robert N. Charrette

Main Event by James D. Long

Natural Selection by Michael A. Stackpole

Assumption of Risk by Michael A. Stackpole

Blood of Heroes by Andrew Keith

Close Quarters by Victor Milán

Far Country by Peter L. Rice

D.R.T. by James D. Long

Tactics of Duty by William H. Keith

Bred for War by Michael A. Stackpole

I Am Jade Falcon by Robert Thurston

Highlander Gambit by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Hearts of Chaos by Victor Milán

Operation Excalibur by William H. Keith

Malicious Intent by Michael A. Stackpole

Black Dragon by Victor Milán

Impetus of War by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Double-Blind by Loren L. Coleman

Binding Force by Loren L. Coleman

Exodus Road (Twilight of the Clans, Volume 1) by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Grave Covenant (Twilight of the Clans, Volume 2) by Michael A. Stackpole

The Hunters (Twilight of the Clans, Volume 3) by Thomas S. Gressman

Freebirth (Twilight of the Clans, Volume 4) by Robert Thurston

Sword and Fire (Twilight of the Clans, Volume 5) by Thomas S. Gressman

Shadows of War (Twilight of the Clans, Volume 6) by Thomas S. Gressman

Prince of Havoc (Twilight of the Clans, Volume 7) by Michael A. Stackpole

Falcon Rising (Twilight of the Clans, Volume 8) by Robert Thurston

Threads of Ambition (The Capellan Solution, Book 1) by Loren L. Coleman

The Killing Fields (The Capellan Solution, Book 2) by Loren L. Coleman

Dagger Point by Thomas S. Gressman

Ghost of Winter by Stephen Kenson

Roar of Honor by Blaine Lee Pardoe

By Blood Betrayed by Blaine Lee Pardoe and Mel Odom

Illusions of Victory by Loren L. Coleman

Flashpoint by Loren L. Coleman

Measure of a Hero by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Path of Glory by Randall N. Bills

Test of Vengeance by Bryan Nystul

Patriots and Tyrants by Loren L. Coleman

Call of Duty by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Initiation to War by Robert N. Charrette

The Dying Time by Thomas S. Gressman

Storms of Fate by Loren L. Coleman

Imminent Crisis by Randall N. Bills

Operation Audacity by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Endgame by Loren L. Coleman

A Bonfire of Worlds by Steven Mohan, Jr.

Embers of War by Jason Schmetzer

Betrayal of Ideals by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Forever Faithful by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Redemption Rift by Jason Schmetzer

YOUNG ADULT NOVELS

The Nellus Academy Incident by Jennifer Brozek

Rogue Academy: Iron Dawn by Jennifer Brozek

NOVELLAS/SHORT NOVELS

A Splinter of Hope by Philip A. Lee

The Anvil by Blaine Lee Pardoe

Not the Way the Smart Money Bets (Kell Hounds Ascendant 1) by Michael A. Stackpole

A Tiny Spot of Rebellion (Kell Hounds Ascendant 2) by Michael A. Stackpole

A Clever Bit of Fiction (Kell Hounds Ascendant 3) by Michael A. Stackpole

ANTHOLOGIES

Shrapnel: Fragments from the Inner Sphere

Onslaught: Tales from the Clan Invasion!

The Corps (BattleCorps Anthology, Volume 1)

First Strike (BattleCorps Anthology, Volume 2)

Weapons Free (BattleCorps Anthology, Volume 3)

Fire for Effect (BattleCorps Anthology, Volume 4)

Counterattack (BattleCorps Anthology, Volume 5)

Front Lines (BattleCorps Anthology Volume 6)

Legacy

Kill Zone (BattleCorps Anthology Volume 7)

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BATTLETECH: THE FIELD IS LOST

Cover art by Alex Iglesias

Design by Matt Heerdt & David Kerber

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