TEXT: BATTLECORPS
  PALADIN
  by Jason Schmetzer
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Paladin • Page 2
  Jojoken 
  Andurien 
  Free Worlds League 
  12 August, 2528
  Awareness came to Neal Haddon filled with pain and noise. He 
  blinked sweat out of his eyes and saw the blurry flashes of warning 
  lamps through his cracked neurohelmet visor. His hand bumped 
  into the closed visor when he tried to wipe his face. He squinted 
  hard, trying to clear his vision. He was in his cockpit.
  He was on his back.
  A steady beeping forced its way into his consciousness. Part of 
  his mind ran through the various checklists he’d learned when he’d 
  first received the Thunderbolt. That particular tone was the reac-
  tor startup warning; the fusion plant buried in the ’Mech’s torso 
  was ready to power up.
  When had it shut down? And why was he on his back? When had 
  he fallen? Something clicked in his mind.
  “Mesillia!” he said. His hands clutched at the controls above him, 
  long hours of practice letting him find the yokes without seeing 
  them. He pressed the startup button without thinking about it. There 
  was little else in Neal’s mind except getting the Thunderbolt to its 
  feet. He popped his visor and wiped at the pasty blood masking it. It 
  smeared more than cleared, but he could see again. He clapped the 
  visor closed again and twisted the air valve; the brief breach had 
  been enough to let the fetid air of his cockpit into the helmet.
  “Bravo Six to any Bravo,” he said. “Report!” Static answered his 
  radio call. Pain erupted in his face when he spoke, a stabbing pain 
  in the left side of his mouth. Opening his helmet again, he spat a 
  tooth out before swinging the visor shut.
  “Any Bravo element,” he repeated. “This is Six.” Static.
  The Thunderbolt shuddered like an addict as it responded to 
  Neal’s piloting. He rolled the sixty-five ton BattleMech to its feet 
  and looked around. In the distance to the south, Jojoken was burn-
  ing. Neal watched the sky flash as another Capellan artillery strike 
  hit the city.
  “Any Bravo element,” he muttered. His mind was playing sce-
  narios, painting him as the last of his company. The last of the 
  
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  regiment. There were no more Second Defenders, not outside 
  Bravo Company. Not anymore. “Any Bravo,” he said, before a fit 
  of coughing shook him. The pain in his chest and throat distracted 
  him from his mouth.
  “I can’t be the last,” he said.
  To the north, Neal saw the fireworks display of the Liao lines. 
  The Andurien forces were still pressing, still trying to push the 
  Capellan invaders back. Another series of flashes smote the sky. 
  Neal looked at Jojoken in his display.
  The ground erupted barely a hundred meters behind him. They 
  were firing at him.
  “The radio, you idiot,” he said. He stabbed the cutout and moved 
  the Thunderbolt north. He’d learned about direction finding at 
  the Academy. It was a stupid mistake. He noticed the shell cra-
  ters around him and grunted. It must have been an artillery round 
  that had downed him. The ’Mech struggled to get moving. Neal 
  searched his displays until he found the wireframe damage sche-
  matic. More red lines blinked at him than green lines. His left side 
  was almost completely denuded of armor, and he had actuator 
  damage in his left arm and shoulder. His right knee flashed vari-
  able warnings at him, and the ’Mech trembled every third step or 
  so.
  He ignored it all.
  Neal pushed the Thunderbolt harder, moving it around the iron-
  heavy outcroppings and deeper into the Thurmond Preserve. The 
  Liaos were just on the other side of the forest.
  Ignoring the heat in his cockpit, the pain in his mouth, and the 
  screeching sound of a damaged actuator, Neal drove north.
  Duke Allard chose to receive the Capellan embassy in his audi-
  ence chamber. He seldom used the Great Hall, preferring instead 
  to deal with his guests in the small office he kept just off of it. 
  Mesillia had told Neal that her father preferred to be able to look 
  his guests in the eye, something he couldn’t do from the throne, 
  ten meters away.
  
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  “I wonder if he’ll have anything new to say,” Mesillia whispered 
  to Neal. “Now that Sadurni is fighting, perhaps they’ll have some-
  thing more reasonable to ask for than me.”
  Ten years ago Kalvin Liao, mad Chancellor of the Capellan 
  Confederation, had met Mesillia Allard. He had immediately fallen 
  in love with her, or come as close to it as a man like Kalvin Liao 
  could. Mesillia’s father, the Duke, had been as adamant then as he 
  was now: never.
  It had taken ten years, but the petulant child sitting on the Capellan 
  throne had finally pulled the last straw. The Confederation had 
  invaded Andurien. And now Sadurni. All in the name of a mental 
  midget’s infatuation.
  Neal clamped his teeth together at the thought of Sadurni. The 
  Second Defenders of Andurien were there. His regiment, his broth-
  ers. He should be there with them. His entire company had come 
  to Andurien at Mesillia’s summons.
  “It’s a war now,” Neal said. “He can’t call it courtship.” He turned 
  away from the court and gave her a small, private smile. “Besides, 
  I’d have something to say about it, now.” Not that the Duke would 
  listen, but Mesillia would appreciate hearing it.
  He turned back as the chamberlain announced the Liao representa-
  tive. Neal frowned with the rest of the court when the man’s titles were 
  announced. There were no noble titles, no mandrinns or prefects.
  “A colonel,” Neal murmured. It wasn’t common for a military of-
  ficer to act as diplomatic envoy.
  The small man marched forward from the archway, his steps 
  measured evenly as his boot heels clapped against the polished 
  marble floor. The olive green of his uniform clashed horribly with 
  the surroundings, but the expression of supreme confidence on 
  his face negated any possible social damage.
  “Your Grace,” the colonel said, “I am Colonel Dennis Liu, repre-
  sentative of His Excellency, Chancellor Kalvin Liao.” He paused for 
  the inevitable susurrus of disdain from the court before looking at 
  Mesillia. “I have come for your daughter.” The noise from the as-
  sembled court was filled with shock at the bluntness.
  Neal stepped between Mesillia and Liu. He kept one hand be-
  hind his back, fingers intertwined with Mesillia’s, but his eyes met 
  the Capellan’s black eyes. He couldn’t repress a shiver when Liu 
  stared back without flinching.
  
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  “Go back to your Chancellor, Colonel,” Duke Allard said after the 
  Hall had quieted. “My answer remains the same: no.”
  Liu inclined his head. “I had assumed as much, Your Grace,” he 
  said. When he looked up, his eyes were hard. “My assault will be-
  gin within the hour. We will take your daughter.”
  Neal’s hand groped at the empty holster on his side. Duke Allard 
  didn’t allow any weapons in his court, not even for his guards. It 
  was a damnable idiocy, Neal thought, even as he considered what 
  a mistake it would be to shoot the Capellan when he came under 
  a flag of truce.
  “When this Palace comes down around you,” Colonel Liu said, 
  looking back at Neal, “remember that I gave you opportunity to 
  spare Jojoken pain.”
  Then, ignoring protocol, the Capellan officer stepped toward 
  Neal and Mesillia. Neal stiffened again. The portly Duke shot to 
  his feet. “I have given you my answer,” he shouted.
  “You wear the uniform of the Second Defenders of Andurien,” 
  Liu said to Neal. He reached out for the parcel an aide placed in 
  his hands. “I give this to you, then.” A small, predatory smile. “A 
  gift from Sadurni.” He dropped it on the floor and strode out of 
  the hall.
  One of the courtiers brought the package to Neal. He frowned at 
  Mesillia as he opened the brown paper enclosing the soft bundle. 
  He stopped when he saw the flash of green and purple. Anguish 
  washed through his head, his heart. He dropped the bundle.
  The battle flags of the Second Defenders of Andurien fell to the 
  floor.
  Neal had gone barely a kilometer forward when he found the first 
  shattered ’Mech of his company. Lieutenant Arthur’s Ostroc was 
  draped across the boulders, one arm and one leg missing. There 
  was no sign of Arthur’s lance, but the lieutenant had remained 
  here. Neal saw the shattered cockpit, the red-edged glass.
  “I guess that settles that argument,” he said, and giggled. Pain 
  stabbed at his jaw and his chest as he laughed. He bit down hard, 
  
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  grinding his teeth until it passed. He looked again at the destroyed 
  ’Mech. Arthur had been his XO for two years. He deserved better.
  Neal moved around the hulk and continued on, but walked more 
  slowly now. The Ostroc had been destroyed by weapons fire, not 
  artillery. Capellan forces had made contact with his company, 
  which meant the artillery park’s defenders would be alerted.
  It had been a simple mission, one well-suited to the last com-
  pany of the Second Defenders. Move north through the forest 
  while the line forces engaged the Capellans and take out the artil-
  lery that was shattering Jojoken. They hadn’t hit the Palace before 
  Neal had left, but the city was taking a pounding. Bravo Company 
  would silence those guns.
  Neal shuddered when a fresh wave of coolant washed through 
  his vest, chilling him. He brought the Thunderbolt’s right arm up 
  as he approached a clearing, readying the heavy laser. His sen-
  sors were clear, but the ground was thick with interference, and he 
  damned the Duke for planting Mosiro rustwoods.
  The ’Mech had taken only one step into the clearing before being 
  struck by missile and cannon fire. Three Capellan ’Mechs emerged 
  from the hash to be painted on Neal’s tactical display. The war-
  book tagged them as two Wasps and a Clint. Alone, none of the 
  ’Mechs would have been a challenge for Neal’s heavy Thunderbolt, 
  but together they threatened him.
  Neal twisted his ’Mech to the left, out of the line of fire, and 
  stabbed at his radio. “Bravo Six to any Bravos,” he called, and 
  read off his map coordinates. “Three Lousy ’Mechs, this location.” 
  He repeated the message while pushing the Thunderbolt through 
  the heavy trees, then switched the transmitter off.
  The Wasps chased him, one running forward to follow the trail 
  Neal was breaking, the other launching itself overhead on flaring 
  jump jets to try and find a way through the canopy. Neal pushed the 
  Thunderbolt around the largest of the trees. His lips drew back in a 
  harsh smile. By splitting up, the Capellans had made a mistake. He 
  brought the Thunderbolt around the tree, waiting while the trail-
  ing Wasp closed. His ’Mech crouched down as Neal manipulated 
  his controls, raising the Thunderbolt’s right arm. He squeezed the 
  triggers as the light Capellan ’Mech strode into view.
  The harsh glaring wash of his large laser combined with a mis-
  sile impact to tear the Wasp’s right arm off at the shoulder, taking 
  its primary weapon with it. His other short-range missile skipped 
  
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  past the lighter ’Mech and blasted a rustwood to iron-colored 
  toothpicks. The three medium lasers mounted in the Thunderbolt’s 
  chest gouged deep welts over the Wasp’s torso armor. The bat-
  tered ’Mech stumbled and fell at Neal’s feet. He saw Arthur’s 
  Ostroc in his mind again, and brought the Thunderbolt out from 
  behind the tree. It was a simple matter to raise the sixty-five ton 
  ’Mech’s right foot. Gravity did the rest.
  The message calling Neal to Duke Allard’s private sanctum was 
  unexpected. He was with Mesillia in her rooms, angry at himself 
  and at her. He should have been on Sadurni with his regiment. 
  His company should have been there, not here with him while he 
  courted a woman he’d never be allowed to marry.
  “I don’t care what my father wants,” Mesillia said. “He’d want me 
  to be happy, in any case.”
  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Neal said. “This is a real war now, 
  not just one of the Butcher of Kearny’s tantrums.” He fell onto a 
  brown leather sofa and leaned forward until he was staring at his 
  boots. “I wouldn’t have time to marry anyway.”
  “I will not marry Kalvin Liao,” Mesillia said. “Besides, Father 
  just got a report. He’s just married that little snap of a girl, Ariana 
  Calderon. I won’t be second wife to a Periphery whore.” She came 
  and kneeled before him, lifting his hands and enfolding them with 
  her own. “I have a plan,” she whispered.
  Neal wondered what she had been talking about as he knocked on 
  the heavy teak door of the Duke’s sanctum. It opened immediately, 
  giving him a breath of cold, sterile air. He counted at least four air 
  purifiers going as he walked toward the massive mahogany desk. His 
  nostrils began to itch immediately from the dry air. He swallowed 
  a frown; the Duke’s hypochondria must be flaring up. Precisely six 
  paces from the desk Neal stopped and came to attention.
  “Flag Captain Neal Haddon reporting to the Duke,” he said. Duke 
  Allard looked up from the small screen inset into his desktop and 
  waved at Neal to stand easy.
  “I have confirmed the Colonel’s news,” Duke Allard said. “Your 
  regiment is gone.”
  
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  The muscles in Neal’s legs threatened to give out. He hadn’t re-
  ally doubted it, not when he was holding the Second’s guidons, 
  but it was still a shock to have it confirmed.
  “The First Defenders are being slowly pushed back,” the Duke 
  continued. “General Bayerlein tells me that we can expect to hold 
  out for two more weeks, less if Liao brings in more BattleMechs.” 
  The Duke sneered as he said it, his mouth forming a petulant moue 
  of disgust. “Bloody ’Mechs.”
  “There are still divisions of the older troops, Your Grace,” Neal 
  said. He knew Duke Allard despised the new BattleMechs, despite 
  having raised two regiments of them. The Camerons had changed 
  the face of warfare on Styx. Neal didn’t dream of entering combat 
  in anything other than his ’Mech, but he’d grown up with them. 
  The Duke and his generation were still afraid of them. “And my 
  company of the Second,” he hastened to add.
  The Duke harrumphed and settled back in his chair. He folded 
  his hands across his ample belly, just below the brilliant platinum 
  badge of Andurien. “Your company is why I called you in here.”
  Neal straightened from his depressed slouch. “Sir. Your 
  Defenders stand ready.”
  “In two weeks it won’t matter,” the Duke said. “Long before the 
  damnable ’Mechs get here the Liao artillery will have pounded 
  this Palace flat. Most of Jojoken will go with it as well.” Another 
  barrage thundered overhead to punctuate the Duke’s point. “If 
  we’re to hold out long enough to settle this, we need to silence 
  those guns.” He looked at Neal full on for the first time, meet-
  ing his stare with his dark brown eyes. Mesillia’s eyes, Neal 
  realized.
  “Bravo Strike will advance and destroy the Capellan artillery 
  train.”
  Neal nodded once, sharply, his mind already planning his route 
  of march. The Liaos were north of the Thurmond Preserve, firing 
  their artillery from beyond the shelter of the forest. If he could slip 
  his company through the forest, he might take the defenders un-
  awares enough to allow his ’Mechs to destroy the big guns.
  It would be costly. Even if they made it through the forest un-
  detected, they’d have to concentrate on the cannons and not the 
  defenders. The Liaos would have a long couple of minutes of 
  free shooting.
  
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  “We can do it,” Neal said, blinking his doubts away. It was what 
  the Duke wanted done. It would keep Mesillia safe.
  “If you can,” the Duke said, looking away, “it might just buy us 
  enough time.”
  “Your Grace?”
  “To fight to a point where we can barter Mesillia away, instead of 
  surrendering her.”
  Neal left the other Capellan Wasp buried beneath a fallen rust-
  wood and ignored the Clint after he burned it’s right leg off. The 
  forest thinned ahead of him. He saw weapons fire through the 
  trees and knew he was getting close to the edge of the Preserve.
  Two more shattered Ostrocs of Arthur’s lance had fallen at the 
  edge of the woods. Neal paused near one of them – Darling’s, he 
  thought – and studied the damage. The thinner armor over the 
  ’Mech’s torso was eaten away by heavy cannon fire. Only heavy 
  armor or ’Mechs mounted that kind of weaponry. The defenders 
  were more dangerous than intelligence reported.
  “Bravo, this is Six,” he said. “Report.” The voice was scratchy 
  through the heavy jamming static, but Neal understood him.
  “We thought you were down!”
  “Only for a moment, Nine. Report.”
  It took only a few moments for his third lance commander to tell 
  him that half his company was gone. They were still half a kilome-
  ter from where the artillery was firing, but the defense was heavier 
  than expected.
  “There’s something else, sir,” Charlton said. “A new kind of 
  ’Mech, something massive. It’s got a huge cannon on it, and the 
  damn thing flies, sir!”
  Neal nodded, his mind still whirling with plans and casualties. “If 
  it’s a ’Mech, Nine, we can kill it.”
  “If you say so, Six. It took out most of Two Lance all by itself.”
  
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  The jamming static in his helmet cleared for a moment. Neal 
  watched his tactical display, waiting for the Thunderbolt’s com-
  puter to put together a picture of the engagement zone. The screen 
  pinged as the report compiled, a rough raster line painting new 
  images across his map.
  “Christ Jesus in Heaven,” Neal whispered, the pain in his jaw 
  forgotten. A dozen new contacts had appeared interspersed with 
  the long guns. The Duke’s best analysts had predicted only a lance 
  of ’Mechs at the most; the smart money had been on heavy armor. 
  Dangerous, but not too much for the Bravo ’Mechs to handle.
  A full Capellan company of heavy and assault ’Mechs laagered 
  with the artillery. Half were powered down with repair and reload 
  vehicles crowded around them. As Neal watched, a tall assault 
  ’Mech – the scanners counted eighty tons – twisted around and 
  raised the massive muzzle that made up its right arm. Cannon 
  flame belched from it, a massive stream of fire, more than any-
  thing Neal had seen outside a DropShip.
  It was firing at him.
  “You can’t do this,” Mesillia said. “I won’t let you.”
  They were in her suite overlooking Jojoken. The large double-
  doors that led to the balcony were draped, but that wasn’t unusual. 
  Two kilometers was close enough to let the scandalvid holojour-
  nalists get a good angle. Mesillia despised the news media.
  The drapes were slit apart just enough to let through a wisp of 
  the crisp evening air deeply scented with the sharp rustic aroma 
  of pine needles. Neal breathed through his nose, enjoying the sen-
  sation while his mind tried to come up with an original answer to 
  her plea.
  “It’s my duty,” was all he came up with. It was all he’d come up 
  with for the past hour, and Mesillia hadn’t taken it any better then, 
  either.
  “I am a royal of Andurien, Neal. I tell you what your duty is.” She 
  collapsed onto a leather loveseat set against the wall. Neal knew 
  that someone sitting there could watch the sun rise south of Jojoken 
  
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  in the morning, through the one-way ferroglass. “Someone else 
  can do it.”
  “There is no one else, Sil.” He moved away from the wall and 
  sat beside her. “Bravo is all that’s available. Everyone else is out 
  there already, holding the line.” He tried to put his arm around her 
  but she shied away, standing and staring out the window he’d just 
  abandoned. A deep breath filled his lungs as he leaned forward 
  over his knees and cupped his hands between them.
  “I didn’t bring you here to fight,” she said. “I brought you here to 
  show my father that you’re a good enough man to let me marry.” 
  She leaned against the wall, arms wrapped around herself. Distant 
  thunder rumbled through the walls.
  “Then you’ve failed,” he said shortly. He closed his eyes and 
  willed the feeling of completeness her words gave him away. 
  His duty was clear, as was the Duke’s likelihood of letting them 
  marry.
  “Maybe after you come back—” Mesillia started to say.
  “If I come back the Duke will barter you to Liu to save Andurien.” 
  He said the words as quickly as he could, not opening his eyes un-
  til he was finished. She was staring at him, brows drown together, 
  frowning.
  “He told me, Sil.” He wiped his hands across his face and leaned 
  back against the soft back of the loveseat. “He told me I needed to 
  complete this mission so the First Defenders could hold out long 
  enough for a good bargaining position. So when he had to trade 
  you to Liu, it wouldn’t be from a position of weakness.”
  “My father would never do that,” she whispered, but her heart 
  wasn’t in it. She looked away from Neal and toward the floor. Her 
  right hand rose until her fingers caressed the locket that hung just 
  at the notch of her neck and collarbone. “I am not a pawn.”
  Neal watched her for a long moment before sighing. “We’re both 
  pawns, Sil.”
  She shook herself quickly and twisted her head to look at him. 
  “We don’t have to be, Neal.” She stepped in front of him, going to 
  her knees and taking his hands between both of hers.
  “I can get us off Andurien.”
  Neal frowned. “What?”
  
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  “Off the planet, Neal. Out of the system. We can just go and be 
  together, Neal and Mesillia, not the captain and the duchess.”
  “I can’t do that.”
  It was her turn to frown. “Don’t you love me?”
  “Of course I love you.”
  “Then what’s stopping us?”
  “Our duty, that’s what.” Neal pulled his hand out of hers and 
  stood, slipping past her and moving to the balcony. He swept the 
  draped curtains aside and stepped outside, immersing himself in 
  the cool, fragrant air. “I can’t run away,” he called over his shoul-
  der. Not after Sadurni. Not again.
  Mesillia stayed where she was, in front of the loveseat. “I’ve already 
  made the arrangements, Neal. Tomorrow afternoon there’s a DropShip 
  lifting, a merchantman. I’ve got us two berths on her, no questions 
  asked. We can get away from all of this and just be together.”
  Neal’s hands balled into fists at his side. “I have a mission in ten 
  hours, Sil. I have to go.” He didn’t move.
  “Your regiment is dead, Neal. Let them go, and come with me.”
  He didn’t look at her and she didn’t try to stop him as he turned 
  and left her rooms. He left the curtains over the balcony open.
  Neal jammed the yokes to the left, trying to get out of the assault 
  ’Mech’s line of fire. The Thunderbolt turned, actuators screaming, 
  slowly, so slowly. The hailstorm of cannon shells fell well short 
  of his ’Mech, blasting huge furrows in the rocky terrain. Breath 
  exploded out of him as he straightened the Thunderbolt out and 
  moved parallel to the Liao lines, toward the remainder of his com-
  pany. He canted the Thunderbolt’s torso as far as it would go and 
  loosed a barrage of long-range missiles at the assault ’Mech. 
  The damn thing jumped, forty meters into the air and straight 
  back. It landed with a crashing thud ninety meters behind where 
  it had been standing. Neal’s own barrage fell short, spending their 
  high-explosive warheads against rocks and an unlucky rustwood.
  
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  “I told you, Six,” Lieutenant Charlton said. “That’s the bugger 
  that’s been getting us.”
  “It’s still a ’Mech, Nine,” he said, but his mind was reeling. Little 
  ’Mechs, faeries like the Wasps he’d crushed earlier, leapt through 
  the air. Even the heavier Clint could leap. Assault ’Mechs did not 
  leave the ground. It was a rule. What could lift that much mass 
  off the ground, and land it, without crushing itself? He forced his 
  voice to a normal pitch. “We can still kill it.” From a distance.
  “I’ve got a sightline on the artillery, Six,” Charlton said. “Half a 
  kilometer due north.”
  Neal paused his ’Mech out of sight of the press of Capellans and 
  thought hard. He had less than two lances of ’Mechs to destroy 
  two full companies – twenty-four, maybe thirty tubes – of fixed 
  artillery. Normally it would be a cakewalk. The ’Mechs moved, 
  and the long guns didn’t.  The fans in his cockpit clicked on as he 
  mulled ideas, blowing the hot, rank air around him. It should have 
  been easier than this.
  But there were Capellans out there. ’Mechs, tanks, who knew 
  what else. And whatever that assault ’Mech was, the victor of ev-
  ery engagement so far. Neal thought of Mesillia’s balcony, and the 
  blinds she kept over them. He thought of how they blocked her 
  view of Jojoken, of how they hid her from her people. From her 
  duty.
  He had no blinds to hide behind.
  “Six to all Bravos,” he said. “Bravo Strike will charge, targeting 
  only the artillery.”
  “There’s a full company of Lousy ’Mechs out there, Captain!”
  “We’re not here for the ’Mechs. We’re here for Jojoken. We’re 
  here for the Duke.” He didn’t say they were here for Mesillia, to 
  show her what duty was. He didn’t say it. “After the long guns are 
  silent, fire on the big one. I want that ’Mech taken down before it 
  does any more damage.”
  “That’s suicide, Captain,” Charlton said on a discreet channel. It 
  was his duty now, with Arthur dead and no other officers in the 
  company.
  Neal toggled for the same channel. “We’re living on borrowed 
  time anyway.” He switched back to the company channel and tight-
  ened his grips on the Thunderbolt’s control yokes. “Our brothers 
  
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  and sisters are dead on Sadurni,” he said. “We are the last of the 
  Second Defenders of Andurien. This is our land. This is our home.”
  “Defend Andurien.”
  The ’Mech bay beneath the Palace was nearly empty. Only the 
  dozen machines of Neal’s Bravo Company were left, the only unal-
  located forces left to the Duke of Andurien. Duke Allard had finally 
  given them a mission, and Neal had just briefed his troopers in to 
  what that mission entailed.
  “That’s suicide, Captain,” Lieutenant Arthur said after they had 
  dismissed the MechWarriors and the three company officers were 
  gathered around the foot of Neal’s Thunderbolt. “You know that.”
  Neal nodded. He didn’t meet the two lieutenants’ gazes, instead 
  rubbing at a patch of corrosion on the Thunderbolt’s armor plate. 
  “It doesn’t matter. The Duke has given us a mission and we have to 
  carry it out.” He did look up then, wearing a ’Mech company CO’s 
  face. “It’s a good mission, too.”
  Charlton shrugged and kicked a loose screw. He dug his hands inside 
  the open halves of his cooling vest, scratching. Arthur watched the 
  screw roll across the floor and shook his head. “It’s your fault, Neal.”
  “It’s my fault we’ve got orders?”
  “It’s your fault we’ve got to go and kill ourselves. We should have 
  stayed on Sadurni, where we might have made a difference. Instead 
  we’re here, in the bloody Palace! We’re here, getting suicide mis-
  sions from the Duke himself! And all for a woman!” Arthur stood 
  his ground, back straight, chin out, daring Neal to argue with him.
  “That’s enough, Lieutenant.” Neal liked to let his officers speak 
  their mind – his first CO had done so, and it seemed a sensible 
  practice, as long as it didn’t affect morale or his authority. Arthur 
  was getting close.
  “It’s not enough, Captain,” Arthur said.
  “It doesn’t matter why we’re here,” Charlton put in. He reached an 
  arm out, pleading, placing his hand between the two men.  “We’re 
  here now, and we’ve got a mission.”
  
  BATTLECORPS
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  Neal opened his mouth to respond, but a shout from across the 
  bay stopped him. All three men turned and straightened up a lit-
  tle more. From the smallish corridor that led to the Palace proper 
  came a small troupe of people. Mesillia Allard walked across the 
  lubricant-stained floor, flanked on either side by her father’s arms-
  men – two guards in the Allard livery, wearing emblazoned green 
  body armor and carrying assault rifles. The bay did open to the 
  outside, after all. It could be infiltrated.
  “Captain Haddon,” she said, giving no emotion to the words.
  “Your Grace,” he answered, dropping to one knee. Whatever 
  their opinions, both lieutenants did the same behind him.  All three 
  looked at the floor at Mesillia’s feet.
  “My father tells me your company goes to save us all, Captain.” 
  She beckoned them to their feet, where they stood at attention. 
  From experience Neal knew that both Charlton and Arthur were 
  staring just over Mesillia’s shoulder. “I’ve come to wish you and 
  your men luck.” She looked up at his Thunderbolt, then around at 
  the other Bravo BattleMechs. “Such incredible machines, aren’t 
  they? How can anything of Kalvin Liao’s stand against them?”
  “The Chancellor maintains BattleMech regiments as well, Your 
  Grace,” Lieutenant Arthur said. “Two of them are out there now, prob-
  ing at your father’s First Defenders even as their artillery batters us.”
  Neal resisted the urge to glare at his subordinate. He instead 
  watched Mesillia’s face, watching for any change, any sign that 
  she might begin to understand what they had to do, what she had 
  to do. For the people of Andurien.
  “I mourn your lost comrades, Lieutenant, on Sadurni. I mourn ev-
  ery soldier lost here on Andurien, and anywhere Kalvin the Mad’s 
  troops force them to suffer. I understand from Captain Haddon 
  here the service you’re about to give.” She looked past Neal to 
  force Arthur to meet her stare. “I thank you, sir.” She bowed her 
  head, and then turned.
  “Captain Haddon,” she said over her shoulder, “please walk with 
  me.”
  Neal took a moment to glare at Arthur before following her and 
  her guards. She stopped at the entranceway to the Palace. A glance 
  moved the two guards far enough away to give them some privacy.
  “Thank you for that,” Neal said, not letting her speak. “They 
  needed that.”
  
  BATTLECORPS
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  “I didn’t come for them,” she said, anger seeping into her voice. 
  “I came for you.”
  “We’ve been over this, Sil,” Neal said.
  “I know I can’t stop you,” she said. “I’ve come to give you this, for 
  when you come back.” She held a silver holodisc out to him. “It’s 
  the name of the DropShip, Neal. I’ll be on it, whether you come 
  back or not.” She waited until he took it out of her hand and then 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Paladin • Page 17
  threw herself against him. Behind them a whine and then a gentle 
  thud announced the movement of one of his ’Mechs. Neal put his 
  arms around Mesillia’s narrow waist and pulled gently, stopping 
  her for a moment.
  “I love you, Mesillia Allard,” he whispered. He didn’t know if she 
  heard him or not over the sound of the rest of his company begin-
  ning to move. He didn’t hear a response before she shifted out of 
  his grasp and fled up the corridor. The two guards followed with-
  out a look.
  All the Bravo ’Mechs but two were in motion by the time Neal 
  reached the foot of his Thunderbolt. Arthur waited there, cooling 
  vest zipped and secured, missing only the bulky neurohelment to 
  make his appearance complete.
  “I don’t care about that,” he said, leaning in close so that his 
  snarled whisper could be heard. “When we come back, you and I 
  will settle this like men.”
  Neal simply waited for Arthur to release his vest and walk away. 
  He climbed the chain-link ladder to the Thunderbolt’s cockpit with-
  out thought or feeling. He concentrated solely on the gentle grind 
  of the holodisc against his chest, where he’d secreted it in his 
  cooling vest.
  There were four Capellan ’Mechs in range when the remnants of 
  Bravo Strike broke from the forest. The rest moved toward the incur-
  sion almost at once. Neal’s was the second ’Mech, his Thunderbolt 
  pacing just behind Murray’s Ostroc. The last ‘Warrior from Two 
  Lance led the charge, anxious to avenge his lancemates. The two 
  heavy BattleMechs trampled the crumpled edges of the forest, 
  fallen rustwoods and saplings alike. Behind them came the remain-
  der of Bravo Strike, Franke’s Thunderbolt and the four brand-new 
  Dervishes of Three Lance. Duke Allard had purchased those ’Mechs 
  only recently – the design had unveiled in 2520 – and Neal was 
  counting on the Liaos dismissing the lightweight support ’Mechs.
  “Nine, you and yours concentrate on the artillery. Bombard the 
  positions. If you can’t get the guns, get the crews. Get the cais-
  sons. Get the radar. The rest of us will cover you. Murray, Franke, 
  if you get a shot at a tube, take it. Keep them off Three Lance.”
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Paladin • Page 18
  Acknowledgments flickered through his com system as the Liao 
  jamming fell across the field. A series of explosions sounded 
  as Murray’s ’Mech ripped through the antipersonnel minefields 
  around the artillery park, but Neal ignored them. He directed his 
  scanners to search for the big gunner ’Mech. The new one.
  Unlike the Camerons, and the Anduriens who emulated them, 
  the Liaos did not mass specific ’Mech types into component com-
  panies and lances. Each of Bravo’s lances was made up of one 
  specific ’Mech design – Thunderbolts for One, Ostrocs for Two, 
  and Dervishes for Three. The Liao company was a hodgepodge 
  of designs.  The Thunderbolt’s computer counted two more Clints, 
  another Wasp, and two hulking Mackies. A host of other machines 
  remained undefined behind the jamming, but the new design 
  was sprinting forward, the maw of its right-arm cannon leveled 
  at Murray’s Ostroc. The machines that had been powered-down 
  were blossoming on his IR scans. The support crews were sprint-
  ing for bunkers.
  “Murray!” Neal shouted, but his warning was swallowed by the 
  jamming static. Murray must have seen the Lousy ’Mech, though. 
  He hitched the Ostroc to the right, twisting its torso and flashing 
  the assault ’Mech with his large lasers. The heavy beams cut the 
  armor over the Liao ’Mech’s heart and right arm, and Neal felt a 
  moment’s hope. Maybe the cannon would jam.
  The Lousy MechWarrior controlled the ’Mech’s stumble and 
  sighted on the Andurien Ostroc. The big cannon belched fire and 
  hot steel. The stream of fire ate the arm off of Murray’s ’Mech. 
  The ‘Warrior tried to keep the sixty-ton ’Mech on its feet but failed. 
  The bulbous machine fell among the artillery guns it was charging, 
  rolling across a long tube and crushing it.
  Two wide-bodied assault ’Mechs charged up to support the 
  leading Liao ’Mech. The Thunderbolt’s computer tagged them as 
  Strikers. They fired past Neal at Franke and Three Lance. Lightning 
  flashed as they staggered Charlton’s advance with PPC fire. The 
  slender support ’Mechs slowed but kept coming.
  Neal slowed the Thunderbolt from its charge to a steadier pace 
  and brought his weapons up. The red targeting crosshair flashed 
  across the Liao ’Mech’s outline, teasing him with a flicker of gold 
  as the computer fought inertia and jamming for a lock. He took a 
  chance and blind-fired the short range missiles mounted in his 
  chest. Both fat missiles corkscrewed past the big Liao machine 
  and exploded behind it. One demolished a tent, and Neal tried to 
  salve his anger with the hope he’d managed to destroy something 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Paladin • Page 19
  vital and not just a mess tent. He couldn’t afford to waste shots, 
  not with the Liao juggernaut bearing down on them.
  The Liao machine raised its left arm toward Neal’s ’Mech as 
  eighty long-range missiles roared overhead from the Dervishes. 
  The wash of their exhaust rocked Neal’s sixty-five ton ’Mech and 
  clouded his view. He could well imagine the tart and caustic stench 
  of their propellant from long hours on the range. Neal checked the 
  Thunderbolt’s pace, trying to throw off the Liao ’Warrior’s aim. He 
  partly succeeded.
  A quartet of husky short-range missiles erupted from the Liao 
  ’Mech’s chest as Three Lance’s barrage fell behind it. Neal squint-
  ed against the glare as he clutched in his controls, stopping the 
  Thunderbolt dead in the hopes the Liao pilot had been leading him.
  The world in front of him exploded.
  A compression wave washed over his ’Mech and tossed it on 
  its back. The already-damaged left arm snapped off at the elbow, 
  taking his machine guns with it. Neal shook his head as his neuro-
  helmet rapped him on the back of the head. New pain whispered 
  through his skull. He bit his tongue. The left side of his cockpit 
  exploded in sparks. He rocked himself to the right in his seat, eyes 
  straining to see the secondary monitors on that side.
  The four humanoid ’Mechs of Three Lance were still on their feet, 
  still deployed in a rough diamond a hundred meters from the edge 
  of the woods. As he watched each machine took two steps back-
  ward and raised both arms. Another wall of missiles tore from the 
  boxy launchers on the Dervishes’ shoulders. Charlton was a good 
  troop. They’d fired on the farthest targets first, already beginning 
  their withdrawal to a support position should the other Bravos 
  survive the confrontation with the Liao ’Mechs. Neal smiled and 
  spat blood through the broken faceplate of his helmet. Not that 
  any of them were going to survive.
  The big Liao ’Mech was on the ground as well, but it was already 
  struggling to rise. Neal did the same, watching his monitors as 
  he did so. He had to see how they were faring. Whatever they’d 
  blown, there was a good chance it helped the Anduriens more 
  than the Capellans. The scan screens were clearer, more detailed. 
  The overpressure must have taken out the jammer.
  The heavier Capellan ’Mechs had withstood the blast better than 
  the Anduriens. The two Strikers were already flanking their leader. 
  Behind them, the lighter Lousy ’Mechs were climbing to their feet 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Paladin • Page 20
  and charging forward. Missiles fell out of the sky from ’Mechs too 
  far away for his computer to tag. Time to move.
  “Murray, get out of there. Franke, cover him,” Neal said as he 
  brought the one-armed Thunderbolt to its feet. “Charlton, keep 
  it up.” He brought the right-arm mounted laser up as quickly as 
  he could and stabbed another glowing weal across the Capellan 
  ’Mech’s upper torso, near the bulbous head.
  Murray’s Ostroc rose shakily to its feet and turned back toward 
  the cover of the Preserve. Franke followed Neal’s lead, painting the 
  unknown Liao ’Mech with his laser and peppering it with missiles 
  for good measure. The Ostroc took advantage of the distraction 
  and stepped forward, out of the artillery pit it had fallen into.
  Combined fire from the two Mackies and a lumbering Striker 
  blew the thin back armor of the Ostroc to memory and nicked 
  the short-range missile magazine. Murray never had a chance. A 
  scream ripped through the channels as his neurohelmet fed elec-
  trical feedback into his brain. The upper section of the Ostroc 
  disappeared in an earth-shattering explosion.
  Neal screamed and brought his long-range missile launcher 
  down. He squeezed the trigger as hard as he could, one eye watch-
  ing the large laser recycle. All fifteen missiles missed the dodging 
  Liao ’Mech. The Thunderbolt rocked from the loss of more than 
  half a ton of armor over its heart as the Capellan lasers raked him, 
  and the trailing Clints contributed a scratching of cannon fire. With 
  his scanners clear he could finally identify the remaining lance of 
  Capellan ’Mechs, and his chest tightened as the computer anno-
  tated each icon with an ID tag.
  Four seventy-ton Archers. Big missile boats, bombardment 
  ’Mechs well suited to sieges and defensive positions. Neal brought 
  the trembling Thunderbolt under control just as the Capellan 
  Archers disappeared beneath a shroud of missile exhaust. He 
  thought of dodging, thought of maneuvering, but instead just 
  closed his eyes. The laser recycler pinged its readiness at him. He 
  remained still. Acrid smoke filled his cockpit, leaking into his hel-
  met through the shattered faceplate. He tasted blood, smelled it 
  drying on his console, on his skin. His entire head hurt, and he 
  waited for the barrage to fall.
  It fell on Three Lance.
  One of the Dervishes went down without an arm. The others 
  fired again, and Charlton’s triumphant voice rang from Neal’s hel-
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Paladin • Page 21
  met speakers. “That’s all of them, by Jesus,” he shouted. “Get out 
  of there, Bravos!”
  Neal opened his eyes. The Capellan artillery park was burning. 
  Bent tubes grew out of each firing pit, and bodies and detritus 
  were strewn everywhere. Fires dumped oily black smoke into 
  the sky, flickering across the morning sunlight like shrouds. He 
  checked the scanners again. No active artillery fire.
  The Liao BattleMechs fell on his company like a storm crowds a 
  wheat field.
  The strange ’Mech led the charge, but the other Capellans did 
  more damage. The Mackies and the Strikers concentrated their 
  PPCs on Franke’s mired Thunderbolt, crushing its chest and va-
  porizing the gyro embedded there. It fell to the ground, thrashing 
  as Franke tried to fight gravity.
  The Archers and the lighter Liao ’Mechs concentrated on Three 
  Lance. Charlton and his troops struck back, concentrating their 
  missile fire on one of the Clints. It collapsed, riddled with missile 
  strikes and missing its right arm and head. The Liao assault de-
  stroyed two of the Andurien Dervishes, though. Sergeant Tomlin’s 
  reactor breached stroboscopically, painting every shadow on the 
  field in stark black and white for an instant.
  The victorious Liao BattleMech cratered the ground at Neal’s feet 
  with cannon fire, daring him to move. He waited, feeling in his gut 
  what was coming. The woods were too far away.
  “Andurien commander,” a familiar, cultured voice said on a gen-
  eral frequency.
  “Charlton, get in the woods,” he said on the Bravo channel. “Get 
  back to the Palace.”
  “But Six,” Charlton said, “I can cover your retreat.”
  “That’s an order, Nine.” He moved the Thunderbolt forward, rais-
  ing both of its arms – what remained of the left, anyway – over 
  its head. Switching to the general frequency, he tried to keep the 
  fatigue and pain wracking his body out of his voice.
  “Colonel Liu,” he said. “That’s quite a BattleMech you’ve got 
  there.” His computer painted the unknown design as the trans-
  mission’s source. He kept the Thunderbolt moving closer, away 
  from his company. The one remaining Bravo icon on his screen 
  moved away from him.
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Paladin • Page 22
  “A well-fought engagement,” Liu said. “Is this really the same of-
  ficer I gave those flags to yesterday?” With all that his ’Mech had 
  been through in the last few hours, Neal was surprised the ram-
  pant crest of the Second Defenders had survived, but he bowed 
  the Thunderbolt slightly from its waist.
  “Flag Captain Neal Haddon, Colonel,” he said. Charlton crossed 
  the wireframe boundary into the preserve. Neal smiled again, ig-
  noring the pain as his tongue rubbed against another loose tooth. 
  “At your service.”
  The Liao colonel’s ’Mech halted where it was, a hundred and 
  fifty meters or so away. Through his ports Neal watched the thick 
  black smoke waver between the two ’Mechs. A secondary infrared 
  screen painted the assault ’Mech well enough, but Neal preferred 
  his eyes. Charlton’s icon disappeared from his scanner, swallowed 
  by the masking rustwoods.
  “Your troops are destroyed, Captain. Do you surrender?”
  Neal thought of Mesillia. He released his left control yoke and 
  touched the bulge in his cooling vest where her holodisc resided. 
  It would take him hours to get back to the Palace even if he turned 
  his ’Mech and started running. She would be safe so long as her 
  DropShip got away.
  So long as the Liaos were occupied.
  “It won’t matter in the end,” Liu continued. “My Chancellor has 
  more ’Mechs, more troops, to throw at this world. I will have 
  Mesillia Allard from her father, and my ’Mechs and troops will 
  leave Andurien. You cannot stop me.”
  Neal thought of Mesillia’s hair, of the gentle softness of it. He 
  thought of the way it smelled in the morning, the light cinnamon 
  of her shampoo and the almost-unnoticeable musk of woman 
  beneath it. He thought of the way her body felt against his, the 
  warmness. He thought of her eyes.
  “You’re already stopped,” he whispered, and moved.
  Gravity helped him more than the Capellans, bringing the 
  Thunderbolt’s heavy right arm down in line with the Liao assault 
  ’Mech. The big laser spat white-hot death at Liu’s ’Mech, digging 
  deeper into the scars over the big machine’s heart. His torso-
  mounted lasers compounded the damage, digging deeper still. 
  While his missiles missed wide, disappearing into the wasteland 
  
  BATTLECORPS
  Paladin • Page 23
  behind the ’Mech, a bloom on his infrared display told him he’d 
  dug a penetrating hit into the Liao machine’s armor.
  Liu’s monstrous autocannon fired and fired, and the armor-pierc-
  ing rain tore the Thunderbolt’s right arm off at the shoulder. Neal 
  jerked the machine to the left and spun, sprinting for the cover of 
  the trees. He toggled the ammunition ejection controls as he ran, 
  ignoring the Liao shots falling around him. Sparkling blue particle 
  projection bursts flashed past like lightning. A single stream ate 
  into the Thunderbolt’s rear armor, pushing the sixty-five ton ma-
  chine forward an extra step. Neal fought the controls and kept the 
  ’Mech upright, still moving toward the woods.
  “You haven’t stopped me, Captain,” Liu’s voice announced. “If 
  not today, then another day.” Neal heard respect in the colonel’s 
  tone. Respect, and determination.
  “You’re welcome to try tomorrow,” Neal spat, then flicked the 
  system off.
  He was barely thirty meters from the trees when the Capellan 
  colonel’s ’Mech fell out of the sky and blasted him.  The cannon fire 
  chewed through what little protection was left on the Thunderbolt’s 
  back and annihilated the delicate gyro that kept the heavy ’Mech 
  balanced. Neal cursed as the sixty-five ton machine went from a 
  war god to a newborn, staggering off-kilter and without coordi-
  nation. His neurohelmet whined as it tried vainly to connect with 
  something that was no longer there. It didn’t matter. He was close 
  enough. He reached over his head as the ’Mech fell, finding the 
  yellow-and-black handles, and jerking. The Thunderbolt’s head 
  exploded as he ejected, and his ’Mech died without him.
  The Liaos didn’t pursue him into the Preserve. Neal stayed away 
  from the tracks his ’Mechs had made coming toward the artillery 
  park and moved slowly, content to wait at places where he could 
  see the sky to the south. No more artillery flashed and screamed 
  overhead. All he heard was the occasional distant rumble of battle, 
  and the sounds of birds and trees sighing. And once, in the after-
  noon, he saw the golden flare of a DropShip tearing itself free of 
  gravity.
  He left his neurohelmet and cooling vest on a fallen log in the 
  Preserve. When he walked out of the forest, he carried only a small 
  survival kit and a single silver holodisc.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/Paladin - Jason Schmetzer.pdf