TEXT: BattleCorps
  CASE WHITE:
  THE GOOD FIGHT
  Jason M. Hardy
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 
  Riga, Latvia 
  Terra 
  17 March 3068
  They were making up units on the fly. They were all from the 
  Seventy-Ninth, but few of their units had landed whole, and not 
  everyone had made it to Riga yet—assuming they were out there 
  somewhere and still alive. So they matched people together as 
  needed, new arrivals announcing their presence over the comm 
  and listening to a scramble of voices tell them where they could 
  go and which ad hoc unit they could fall into. It was a mess, but 
  Sorrin Buell thought it also was a tribute to the order and disci-
  pline of the Com Guard. They had enough trust in each other and 
  their abilities that they could adapt to the worst of conditions.
  Surprisingly, what Buell had found in Riga was not, in fact, the 
  worst.
  The blitz that had met his landing, the unerring fire of rockets 
  and shells at the landing troops, had fully lived up to the picture 
  Buell had built up in his mind of Terra as an impregnable fortress 
  swarming with Blakists. He had barely survived.
  Then it had been quiet. He’d covered sixteen hundred kilome-
  ters and only once had to fire in anger at a Blakist—a Blakist, as it 
  turned out, that had landed with his unit. The rest of the continent, 
  as far as Buell had seen, was remarkably clear of hostile forces.
  So too was Riga. It was a ragtag, decimated Com Guard force 
  that descended on the city, only to find that they still outnumbered 
  the defenders. Blakists seemed to be everywhere else in the Inner 
  Sphere but here, on their supposed home base.
  So the Com Guard advanced, spurred by overlapping direc-
  tives streaming over the comm.
  “Rybberson, take your units north. Repeat, north. Keep your 
  eyes on the river.”
  “All units, we have group of assaults that just formed coming in 
  from the southwest. Four assaults, repeat four assaults coming in. 
  Let ’em know what you need them to level!”
  “We have fire on all sides! It’s a trap, it’s a trap! Bring support, 
  now!”
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 
  “Beta, beta, beta, look west! Dammit, look west!”
  There was no real chain of command in Riga, so orders were 
  issued by just about anyone who thought of one. Buell ignored 
  most of them. He had plenty to take care of right in front of him.
  He stepped backward, two, three, four steps. His lasers kept 
  the street ahead of him clear while he angled his gauss rifle one 
  way and his PPC the other in an effort to suppress the crossfire. It 
  wasn’t working. Shells and lasers were flying thicker and thicker, 
  and somewhere the hidden Blakists were probably lining up mis-
  sile shots. He couldn’t stay put.
  He backpedaled, relying mostly on his lasers to keep the 
  Blakists from advancing, then ducked left behind a tan building. 
  The exterior cladding on the right side of the building burst into 
  powder as the Blakists’ pursuing fire chewed into it. Ferroglass 
  fragments littered the sidewalk.
  The city was taking an awful pounding, and it was a shame. 
  Buell had come to redeem Terra, not beat the holy hell out of it. 
  But sometimes a good beating was the path to redemption, and 
  as long as the Blakists were falling back, he and his mates would 
  keep pushing.
  First, though, they’d have to regroup.
  Buell switched his comm to the channel of his new unit. “We’ll 
  have to find another way in. I ran into heavy crossfire, had to move 
  back a little. If they press it I’ll have to keep backpedaling.”
  “All right, we’ve moved north,” said Cain. “Hold them there as 
  long as you can but don’t risk too much—you’re more valuable 
  retreating than dead.”
  “Roger,” Buell said 
  Ursula Cain had assumed command of Buell’s new Level II for 
  two good reasons—she’d spent about fifteen years in the saddle 
  of a ’Mech, and she had a Longbow. The other three members of 
  the group immediately deferred to her experience and firepower, 
  and she took to command like a bird to the air. She issued orders 
  as a reflex.
  The fire on his right side was heavier, so Buell kept edging left. 
  That put him in the middle of a block, the very worst place to be in 
  a street fight. Though having jump jets mitigated that somewhat 
  by adding one more option.
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 
  While he had some shelter from the Blakist fire he lit up the 
  jump jets, traveling in a high arc to clear the building behind him. 
  It was a newer building, squat and metal, and when compared 
  to its neighbors it looked like a cardboard box in the middle of a 
  museum.
  A few lasers beamed through the air but his move had been 
  too sudden. The enemy fire wasn’t able to catch up with him be-
  fore he landed a block behind his launch point.
  He turned the Falconer then leaned forward, urging the ’Mech 
  ahead. He emerged into an intersection, only to have cannon 
  rounds clatter into his leg.
  He saw it, a little over a kilometer away—a Po, surging forward 
  behind a stream of metal darting out of its autocannon.
  He thought about wheeling on it, taking some time to teach it 
  a lesson, but then a volley of missiles drifted over some nearby 
  buildings. He turned again and sprinted east, but there was no 
  way to outrun the missiles. A few of them landed astray but others 
  hit, blowing away some rear armor.
  The backwards jump hadn’t bought him much space. He ran 
  forward, then found just what he needed—a diagonal street that 
  would get him away from his pursuers. It would also take him 
  away from his mates, but he’d deal with that later. Stay alive first.
  v v v
  Most of the battle armor squad lay at his feet. It had been a fool-
  ish charge to make without support, but they must have thought 
  they could surprise him and close on his legs before he could take 
  care of them all. They were wrong. After watching most of their 
  squad fall, the few stragglers had fled. Buell didn’t bother giving 
  pursuit.
  He was alone. He had no idea where the citizens of Riga were, 
  but he hadn’t seen a single one of them since he marched into 
  the city this morning. He’d seen plenty of soldiers, though, from 
  both sides. The battle raged across the city and in the surrounding 
  countryside, but not here. It was a drab neighborhood, filled with 
  plain apartment buildings that were all straight lines and sharp 
  corners. He wasn’t surprised it was empty—who would fight for 
  this?
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 
  He hadn’t talked to Cain in a while—he’d been busy first shak-
  ing his pursuers, then dealing with the battlearmor squad. He 
  hoped his II hadn’t gotten too far away.
  “Cain, this is Buell. I got busy for a while but I’m clear now. 
  Where are you?”
  “Buell, we have orders to converge on the Esplanade near the 
  Old City. We are about five kilometers northeast of there with 
  some interference in front of us. We could use some more help. 
  Get over here.”
  Checking his scanners, Buell saw he wasn’t far off—only three 
  kilometers as the crow flies. But that path would take him straight 
  through some of the Blakists he’d just been avoiding. He’d have to 
  take the long way, north then west.
  “Cain, I’m on my way.”
  “Hurry. We’re moving ahead.”
  “Roger that.” Buell had already started moving over the pock-
  marked streets.
  So they were gathering. At least some of them were. They 
  could group together, then the Blakists could group their own de-
  fense, and the two sides could pound the living hell out of each 
  other and the city around them and see what was left when they 
  were done.
  Explosions and lasers lit the sky around him. Smoke in pillars 
  and clouds climbed toward the sky. And his cockpit stank.
  He should have asked Ingrid back in Bremen if they had a 
  shower he could use. But he was so busy worrying about who 
  they were and what they were doing with him that basic sanitation 
  needs had slipped his mind. And since neither he nor his cockpit 
  had been washed in days, the smell was quite ripe. The interior 
  fans could only do so much.
  To make matters worse, he suddenly felt tired. Sleep—that was 
  another thing he should have done when he had the chance. He 
  needed to find some Blakists soon. Nothing like a little firefight to 
  chase away all thoughts of rest.
  He ran through a business district, signs and ads flashing, sell-
  ing their products to no one. The shops were as empty as the 
  streets.
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 
  Suddenly his comm crackled to life. It was Cain.
  “Broussard, El-amin, get closer to me. Close ranks, close ranks! 
  They’re closing from the east, closing hard.”
  “I’m pinned down!” That was Philippe Broussard, pilot of an 
  Avatar. His nerves were obviously frayed—as soon as any fire 
  came toward him, he complained about being pinned down. He’d 
  wasted a lot of ammo firing at shadows.
  Then the three other members of Buell’s group were all talk-
  ing at once. Cain was shouting at Broussard, Broussard was 
  yelping for help, and El-amin was offering as much support and 
  reassurance as he could, but his calmer tones were drowned out 
  by the other two. Buell could only push ahead, watch the flares 
  to his left, and listen to his mates as they attempted to hold off 
  the chaos.
  ”It’s not that bad! You can move! So do it!”
  “I’ve got sensors flashing all over. I’m hit in the … in the … I’m 
  hit again! I’m losing armor all over!”
  “Dammit, Broussard, hold yourself together and return fire!”
  “I’m coming, I’m coming. Behind you, on your right. I’ll open up 
  some room for you.”
  “Hurry. Hurry!”
  “Now! Move!”
  “They’re shifting! Push ’em, push ’em!”
  “There’s too many! Where’s Cain?”
  “Just keep moving. She’ll find us—there! There we go!”
  “How are you holding up?”
  “I’m fine, Broussard is—well, you know. Keep that fire coming.”
  “Their left is looking battered. Shift down, shift down. That will 
  get us closer to the Esplanade.”
  “Okay, we’ll—there’s more of them! More of them coming down 
  from the north!”
  “We don’t have time to be graceful. Full speed!”
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 
  Then they said nothing. When the fighting got really heavy, 
  most pilots usually shut up.
  He followed the battle as much as he could on his scanner. It 
  looked like Cain and the others would make it, passing by the end 
  of the Blakist lines to meet the troops at the Esplanade. That was 
  the good news. The bad news was that the Blakist forces near the 
  Espalanade now included four ’Mechs and assorted ground sup-
  port. And there was more, another force coming in behind Buell. 
  They looked smaller than the group in front of him but were mov-
  ing faster. They could probably herd him right toward the larger 
  group, which would then annihilate him.
  He’d have to cross about four kilometers to rejoin his lance and 
  the other troops massed on the Esplanade. That short distance 
  now seemed a lot longer than the sixteen hundred kilometers he’d 
  crossed to get here.
  His mind wandered. He should focus, but he was very, very tired. 
  Death was pressing down on him, and it brought exhaustion with 
  it. Besides, he didn’t know how much time he’d have left to think, 
  so his mind could be indulged with at least a few moments of 
  distraction.
  v v v
  He hadn’t had too many chances to speak with his father. It’s 
  not that his father was ashamed of him—for as long as he could re-
  member, Buell’s father was happy to admit his parentage. But his 
  father was always in motion, and he seldom came to low-profile 
  planets like Hamilton. 
  But the time eventually came when, thanks to Buell’s enlist-
  ment in the Com Guard, the two of them were in the same place at 
  the same time, and his father took a few hours to meet with him.
  Buell didn’t know what they would talk about, but his father 
  had no such problem. He filled their entire time together speaking 
  about his favorite subject. He could speak endlessly about Terra.
  “It is the pattern. The template. It’s what we have 
  been trying to replicate for hundreds of years. It is the 
  masterpiece of planets. You may hear, as you travel, 
  some people say that one planet’s climate may be more 
  temperate than Terra’s, or that another has richer soil, or 
  that another has more mineral resources. But none of 
  them have what Terra has—Terra has us. Most of us have 
  never been there, of course, but that doesn’t matter. It is 
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 
  our mother. It is our history. That’s why they took it. They 
  wanted to claim our history for their own. They were trying 
  to steal the heritage of the entire human race. Which makes 
  what they did the most monstrous crime of all time—with 
  the possible exception of Amaris’ treachery, since the effect 
  was much the same.”
  Buell left the conversation frustrated, upset that they had spent 
  so much time talking about Terra that he never learned much about 
  his father, about what made him tick.
  As he got older, he finally understood that that was exactly 
  what that meeting had taught him.
  v v v
  The distraction served its purpose—it cleared his head. 
  When his mind returned to his predicament, his course of ac-
  tion was clear. How could he have thought there was any other 
  choice?
  He let himself be herded. He spent some time being indecisive, 
  going so far as to wander a block toward the group to the east, 
  then headed back west. Once the first salvos from the eastern 
  group fell in front of him, he started jogging west, staying ahead 
  of one force while acting nervous about approaching the other. 
  Then, before the heavy fire started raining down from the west, 
  he moved, angling southeast on a diagonal street, running at full 
  speed, shaking the earth while pieces of stone and glass fell, torn 
  loose by the shells raining down from both sides. Most of the 
  shots fell behind him—they hadn’t adjusted to his speed yet. They 
  would soon.
  The street ended after another short span—the Old City had no 
  regular, square blocks—but that suited Buell fine. He reached the 
  intersection, darted left, then jumped.
  He landed, quite literally, right on top of a tank. The impact 
  crushed the tank and sent him staggering. He pulled on the sticks, 
  willing the gyros to do their work while he fired his lasers and 
  PPC (he waited on the gauss—the recoil might put him on his ass). 
  Infantry swarmed toward him, more tanks turned corners to close 
  on him, and behind them came the ’Mechs, a Hammer on one side, 
  Blackjack on the side.
  He chose the Hammer.
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 
  Keep moving, keep moving. The secret was motion. Press 
  ahead, let the armor do its work, scatter them with the lasers. 
  Beams shot from the torso, the Blakists in front of him moved, 
  but only so they could line up another shot. He let them move, let 
  them tear armor away from his front and sides, and he focused 
  on the Hammer. The LRMs on the shoulder would be useless—he 
  was already too close. His four lasers crossed the Hammer’s three, 
  but then he fired the gauss. Then again. The Hammer reeled back, 
  and Buell kept charging.
  Then he was past. Into more infantry, more tanks. But they 
  weren’t ready for him. They must not have expected him to come 
  through so fast. He relied on the gauss and PPC, flinging rounds 
  ahead of him, keeping the back-line troops from getting set. Still, 
  some of them got off shots. Klaxons sounded, but he didn’t look. 
  He knew things were wrong, and pretty soon he’d find out what. 
  But as long as he was moving, the exact problem didn’t matter.
  He crashed by a disabled Galleon, kicking it and sending it into 
  a spin as he ran past. The street filled with smoke and explosions, 
  shouts and lasers. Buildings seemed to be disintegrating around 
  him, he could barely see in front of him. He relied on his scanners 
  to steer, to keep clear of obstacles except the ones he could step 
  on. There was no sky above him, no space in front or in back. Only 
  smoke and dust. The Blakists filled the clouded air with weapons 
  fire, and some of it couldn’t help but hit him. Buell was thirsty, hot 
  and tired, and all he could do in this mess was move forward. But 
  that, for the moment, was all he needed to do.
  The streets were crooked, lying at odd angles. Buell kept run-
  ning, making turns when he could, putting buildings between 
  himself and the forces that were now behind him. He waited for 
  the explosions to grow silent, for the dust to clear, but it didn’t 
  happen. They had units at least as fast as him, some faster, and 
  they had no reason not to chase him down. There was no help on 
  this side of the Blakists’ line.
  But he knew where the help was. Southeast of him now, instead 
  of southwest. He just had to complete the vee he had planned—
  which meant running through their lines one more time.
  “Buell?” It was Cain’s voice. “Buell, did you make it through?”
  Buell looked at the numerous warnings from his ’Mech’s sys-
  tems. Many of them were serious, but nothing had failed. Not yet.
  “I’m here.”
  
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  The Good Fight • Page 10
  “I don’t know what—I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t see how—” 
  Cain couldn’t finish the sentence.
  “Don’t worry about it. Just give me some support fire if I get 
  close enough.” Whoops, Buell thought. I probably should have 
  said “when.”
  “Okay. Okay, Buell.”
  He found a good street. He turned, and ran. The fire paused 
  as the Blakists adjusted to the one-man charge. Then it started up 
  again.
  Once he got on the other side of the Blakist lines, Buell had 
  stopped firing—there was nothing in range. He’d taken some hits, 
  but he’d still managed to cool his machine off a bit.
  That meant he could move forward with guns blazing.
  He didn’t open fire right away, since there was no one in sight 
  and he didn’t have weapons that could turn corners. As soon as 
  a Blakist appeared in front of him, though, he’d let loose with all 
  he had.
  It didn’t take long. A Falcon Hawk appeared, running ahead 
  of the other ’Mechs. The front of Buell’s Falconer exploded with 
  weapons fire. Lasers and shells flew, pummeling what must have 
  been an already weakened ’Mech. The Falcon Hawk reeled, look-
  ing like it was about to fall over. It didn’t, but it also didn’t move 
  again. It was out.
  There was more where that came from. Tanks came after it, 
  crowding the narrow streets. Even if he survived their firepower, 
  would they leave him enough space to walk through? 
  He’d make room for himself if he had to. He’d either find a way 
  through or he’d fall right on top of them. That would take out at 
  least one more tank.
  He charged. The heat, the noise, the motion were all too much. 
  He couldn’t keep up. His actions were random, his shots wild, ev-
  erything incoherent except for the constant push forward. As long 
  as his legs had life, he would keep moving.
  He made one last scan of the warning alarms before he decided 
  it would be better to ignore them all. Oddly enough, the healthi-
  est part of his ride seemed to be his right leg—Ingrid’s people had 
  done a hell of a job.
  
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  Now it was just blindness. The smoke returned, lit by lightning 
  flashes of lasers and explosions. There was no aiming, no strategy. 
  Just shot after shot in both directions, blow after blow hammering 
  into his Falconer, shaking it with each step. The machine stumbled 
  beneath him, his cockpit lurched forward, he felt like he was going 
  down. But the right leg recovered, held the balance, pushed for-
  ward. When the left came down again, Buell was ready for another 
  major stumble, but all he got was a minor limp. He was probably 
  missing a chunk of his foot. But he was still moving. And all the 
  time firing, firing, firing.
  He could close his eyes. Sight wasn’t doing him any good. Even 
  the scanner was a mess, showing a blur of buildings, battered ma-
  chines, and active foes. It was too cramped to mean anything. All 
  it told him was that enemies were all around—but he already knew 
  that.
  He wasn’t sure he could keep a grip on the controls. Sweat ran 
  down his arms onto his hands. He gripped hard, his hands shook, his 
  knuckles ached. He didn’t plan on letting go of those triggers. Ever.
  He just hoped he’d avoid shutdown long enough to take a few 
  more of them out.
  v v v
  There were two low rumbles. One was close and regular, the 
  other was sporadic and more distant. He kept his eyes closed and 
  focused on the sounds until he could figure out what they were.
  The close one was his heart beating. The far one was the con-
  tinued sounds of battle—but distant enough that, for the moment, 
  he was not threatened.
  He had an itch by his ear. He reached up to scratch it and 
  touched a bandage instead of flesh. That’s what was covering his 
  ears, making his pulse so audible.
  He opened his eyes and saw a dim gray ceiling. He could see 
  the faint reflected glow of a flashing red light. Probably from the 
  medical equipment he to which he was undoubtedly attached.
  “Bloody hell! You shouldn’t be awake!”
  Buell turned his head to find the speaker. There was a short med 
  near him—his face looked like he was in his early twenties, but he 
  had the baldness of someone in his forties. The med smiled.
  
  BattleCorps
  The Good Fight • Page 1
  “I thought you’d sleep for days! Not just an hour or two.”
  “Esplanade?” Buell said. His throat felt dry, scorched. That 
  cockpit must have gotten really hot.
  “You made it. I don’t know how. One of your machine’s arms 
  had fallen off. The other was disabled. Your ’Mech had even less 
  on top of it than I do—you practically had a skylight. But those legs 
  kept churning until you were in our range. Then Ursula Cain and 
  a few friends laid down covering fire that held them back while 
  you stumbled forward. From what I heard, everyone pretty much 
  expected your ’Mech to crumble to dust the minute they took you 
  out of it. You’re bloody lucky.”
  Buell coughed a few times. It was supposed to be a laugh. 
  Lucky? This whole mission had been star-crossed, a disaster from 
  the beginning. No member of the Com Guard on Terra had been 
  lucky.
  But they were here, dammit. They were here. Who knew how 
  much longer they would stay? Maybe they’d hold their line, maybe 
  they’d even push the Blakists back. Maybe they’d even survive 
  long enough to get reinforcements. Or maybe they’d be complete-
  ly overrun and all be dead by morning.
  All of that was in the future. But no one lived in the future. They 
  lived here and now, and they all had the same idea. They were on 
  Terra, and they would fight the good fight here as long as they had 
  breath. That would be their victory, and that was something no 
  Blakist could take.
  
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