TEXT: BattleCorps
  HUNTER OR 
  HUNTED
  Randall N. Bills
  Prologue
  
  BattleCorps
  Hunter or Hunted: Prologue • Page 
  Headquarters of the Lyons FTM 
  New Freedom, Lyons 
  Freedom Theater, Lyran Alliance 
  2 February 3063
  Kevin’s footfalls echoed hollowly down the corridor as he strode 
  with purpose towards the command center. If the rumors were 
  true, the next few days, would be interesting to say the least. So 
  much better than the endless boredom of a posting to a world that 
  had not seen real action in years. He managed to keep a grimace 
  from his face.
  “Hey Obstein, you may have gotten your wish.” Kevin turned 
  towards the voice he recognized with out lessening his stride. 
  Lieutenant James Harrison, commander of his Recon Lance, as 
  his subordinate fell into step with him. He always teased the two 
  meter, one hundred and eighty-five kilogram James that he sim-
  ply should not be in a Recon Lance; an Assault or Force Lance was 
  much more suited to his particular size and disposition.
  He nodded in greeting, fingers scratching through dark, bristling 
  hair. “I don’t believe I was the only one with that wish, J. I distinct-
  ly recall you bemoaning this…what did you call it? ‘Posting on the 
  edge of no where,’ several weeks ago.”
  A big grin slipped onto James’ face. “I’ll categorically deny that 
  to any one who asks.” 
  Kevin laughed. “Yeah, you probably would.” 
  Rounding a corner, they could see the doors to the command 
  center at the end of the hallway. After almost half the distance had 
  been traversed, James spoke, his soft, almost worried voice con-
  trasting strangely with the large man. “Uh, commander. Do you 
  think we’ll really have a fight here? I mean, is this an actual raid? 
  Who would raid us?”
  His words caused Kevin to slow his pace slightly, as he mulled 
  them over. Though he truly did look forward to the possibility of 
  real combat, instead of the ceaseless war games they practiced, 
  he also realized he was one of only a handful of soldiers in the 
  entire Lyons Freedom Theater Militia with real combat experience. 
  Depending on whom their alleged attackers might be, the green 
  FTM might not fare well. Trying to paint a good face on the situa-
  tion, he responded lightly. “Of course it’s a fight J. But don’t worry, 
  
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  you can hide behind me if you like.” That brought out a boom-
  ing laugh from James that bounced around the Spartan corridor, 
  as Kevin’s slight frame didn’t even reach the larger man’s chin. 
  However, for now at least, it had relieved the tension. Nevertheless, 
  Kevin appreciated that such tension was going to be felt by most 
  of the FTM. 
  And for the eleven MechWarriors of my company, I’m going to 
  have to deal with it and soon.
  Reaching the end of the corridor, both men pushed past the 
  more-than-usually nervous guards with quick grins and solutes 
  and through the doors into the command/control/communica-
  tions center for the entire Lyons FTM. Almost before the room 
  came into focus, the charged energy of the room seemed to spike 
  his tongue as though a quick shot of too peppered steak.
  A circular room of three subsequently lower tiers, each was filled 
  with computer consoles and communications technicians hard at 
  work. The smooth operation of the entire unit was controlled and 
  sustained by its commanding officer, Colonel Kinglsey Gardner, 
  through a veritable army of communications and warrant officers 
  located at this nexus. Moving down the first tier’s stairs, they then 
  threaded through several tight knots of technicians moving around 
  the circumference before descending the second tier’s stairs and 
  so on. Kevin shook his head at such an absurd design. Some gen-
  eral’s uncle got tossed this gig, no doubt about it. 
  As he neared the final steps descending to the bottom floor of 
  the room, he could see several other officers from the FTM, those 
  not assigned to various posts around the world already gathered 
  around the holotable. 
  “Yes, we’ve been tracking the DropShip ever since its parent 
  JumpShip arrived in system two days ago,” Colonel Kinglsey said. 
  “We’ve only just given the alert now, because until this morning there 
  was still the chance the DropShip was a civilian craft that had lost 
  communications, or just had an incompetent captain at the helm.” A 
  round of laughter, tinged with a slight nervousness, swept the circle. 
  Arriving at the edge of the holotable, Kevin spoke right up.
  “Colonel, what made you decide it wasn’t a civilian ship?”
  Colonel Kinglsey, of a height with James if slimmer, turned steel-
  gray eyes on Kevin and acknowledged his presence and question. 
  “Because they sent us a message letting us know they were com-
  ing and who they are.”
  
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  Hunter or Hunted: Prologue • Page 
  “What!” Kevin responded, while equally incredulous expletives 
  exploded among the gathered MechWarriors. Why would an at-
  tacking force be stupid enough to announce themselves when 
  they…suddenly Kevin had a sickening feeling in the pit of his 
  stomach. There was only one type of attacking force that would 
  do such a thing, though how they could possibly be attacking so 
  far from their occupation zones, he had no idea. As the rest of the 
  officers continued their commentary about the ludicrousness of 
  such an action, Kevin met Colonel Kinglsey’s eyes and nodded 
  once to let him know he’d figured it now. The Colonels’ return nod 
  and slight smile answered his unspoken question. He also couldn’t 
  help the slight flush of approval that he was the only officer pres-
  ent to quickly deduce the nature of their assailants.
  Colonel Kinglsey slapped his hand on the edge of the holotable to 
  quite conversation and continued to speak. “If you all don’t mind, 
  I’ll simply play the message for you.” Reaching under the edge 
  of the table, he found the play stud and activated the recorded 
  sequence. Instantly an image formed, floating half a meter above 
  the table. As the picture solidified, several harsh curses around 
  the table let him know that most of the men present were equally 
  unnerved. Though it was only the upper third of the man, it was 
  not his striking features, or the MechWarrior garb he wore that 
  incited such comments. Instead, it was the logo emblazoned on 
  the upper right side of the coolant vest the man wore: the head of 
  a roaring feline set across a lopsided star. 
  The holograph animated and the MechWarrior began to speak. 
  “I am Star Colonel Sal of the Fourth Nova Cat Regulars, Omicron 
  Provisional Galaxy of Clan Nova Cat. In the name of Khan West 
  and for the glory of the Cat and the Dragon, we have come to this 
  world. Though our traditional batchall has passed into the pages of 
  history since our coming to the Inner Sphere, still will I announce 
  my presence to honor my opponents. Seyla.” 
  With those words the holograph ended, blinking out like a thrown 
  light switch.
  
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  Hunter or Hunted: Prologue • Page 
  DropShip Far Seeing 
  Inbound, Lyons 
  3 February, 3063
  “Watch it surat!” Caden yelled, throwing himself backwards to 
  avoid the wildly contracting myomer bundle. Catching himself on 
  the gantry at the last moment before plunging eight meters to the 
  DropShip deck, chaos erupted around him as technician castemen 
  scampered about in an attempt to power down the ’Mech, or at the 
  very least separate power from the arm musculature. Breathing 
  heavily, angry at seeing his ’Mech treated this way, Caden tried 
  not to strike the men aside and wrestle his Spirit Cat under con-
  trol. He knew if he could just touch her, let her know he was there, 
  she would calm down. A part of him knew this for the ridiculous 
  fantasy it was, but he’d come to know the ’Mech so well in the last 
  three years, he couldn’t help the thought. Which was, of course, 
  why like so many Nova Cat Clansmen, he’d given his ’Mech a per-
  sonal name; a private identity that he shared with no one.
  He watched with some satisfaction as the un-anchored end of 
  the bundle twitched and slammed a technician aside, dropping 
  him unconscious to the ground with a bloody nose, hanging half 
  off the repair gantry. Though slightly amused that Spirit Cat would 
  punish those who did not respect her enough, he couldn’t let the 
  man fall. Regardless of his station, the man was a trained ’Mech 
  technician and allowing him to fall and die would be an abhorrent 
  waste. He quickly sidled forward and dragged the man back to 
  safety. 
  “That does it,” a voice echoed from the cockpit of the ’Mech 
  as the arm suddenly went limp as a dead fish. Breathing hard 
  through his nose, Caden stomped forwards, the metal grating of 
  the DropShip’s ’Mech bay berthing structure vibrating, carelessly 
  shouldering aside the technicians in his way. 
  “What have you done to my Mad Dog,” he said, never raising 
  his voice, but filling it with enough venom to strip the flesh off the 
  technician’s face. 
  A slightly pudgy, rat-faced technician stood and leaned out far 
  enough to look at who was speaking; he held a small metal tube 
  in his hand, with wires trailing behind it. The man’s pasty-white 
  face reminded Caden of lab rats he’d seen in several scientist cas-
  temen facilities; the man had probably never seen natural light in 
  his life. The look of fear that crossed his face did not even register; 
  
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  of course the technician feared his betters. The man swallowed 
  reflexively several times and then attempted to answer. “I’m sorry 
  warrior. It would appear that the right arm myomer power coplink 
  was transverse when installed. I can only surmise that it fused 
  when I powered the ’Mech up, sending current directly to the arm 
  before I’d released the limb. Since we’d not finished anchoring the 
  new myomer bundle in that arm, you can see the results.”
  No wonder she’d reacted the way she did. He spoke through 
  clenched teeth. “I suggest technician that you be more careful 
  when repairing my Mad Dog, or you will find yourself escorted 
  to the nearest airlock, waste or no waste. We drop in less then 
  twelve hours and my Mad Dog had better be in perfect condition, 
  quiaff!”
  The technician looked as though he’d just seen his entire life flash 
  before his eyes and he averted his gaze before answering. “Aff.” 
  “And watch your language,” Caden finished, already turning 
  away. The insignificant man already forgotten, he moved towards 
  the edge of the gantry and with the ease of long years of prac-
  tice, dropped quickly to the DropShip main bay deck. Though he’d 
  been genetically engineered to become a MechWarrior, though 
  he’d seen the sight a thousand times, the vision of metal titans 
  always gave him pause, evoking something deep with in. Bristling 
  with enough weaponry to level a city block, armored to take the 
  damage of such firepower and generally fashioned along human-
  oid lines, imbuing them with a sense of giant metal gods, Caden 
  still marveled he was blessed with the chance to pilot such awe-
  some machinery. 
  Letting his gaze travel around the ’Mech ready area, he saw a 
  veritable army of technician ants, swarming over the forty-five 
  ’Mech’s that made up the Fourth Nova Cat Regulars. From the thirty-
  ton Incubus, to his own sixty-ton Mad Dog, to the awesome ninety 
  ton Supernova, almost every size and type of ’Mech was present. 
  He couldn’t help the pride that filled him at such a sight. Pride that 
  he was a part of this unit. Pride that he was a MechWarrior. Pride 
  that his Cluster was participating in this raid on an Alliance world. 
  Some of the warriors in the Cluster muttered that this raid did 
  nothing for the Nova Cats and only furthered the ambitions of 
  the Draconis Combine. However, Caden ignored such senseless 
  babble. How could such a magnificent fight not further the glory 
  and standing of their Clan? If the Combine benefited, then so be it. 
  Like it or not, the futures of Clan Nova Cat and the Combine were 
  intrinsically linked for now. If one rose, it would pull the other up 
  
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  as well. Why dwell on the past, when it could not be changed and 
  the future was at hand. A future he intended to grasp with both 
  hands.
  “Caden,” a voice interrupted his musing. Turning, he saw his star 
  mate, Jesika, moving towards him. Her lithe frame and fine, dark 
  features mirrored his own; not surprising since they’d both come 
  from the same sibko.
  He nodded his head. “Jesika.”
  “Less then twelve hours until drop.” She looked around, her eyes 
  flicking quickly from place to place like a bird unable to decide 
  where best to rest. If he didn’t know her better, he might have 
  thought she was actually nervous.
  “How long has it been since we have had such a fight before us 
  Jesika?” 
  “Too long Caden, too long quiaff.”
  “Aff. Too long.”
  A sudden blaring noise filled the DropShip, arresting movement 
  as though a frozen holovid. Two heartbeats latter, the captain’s 
  voice washed through the ship. 
  “Attention all hands, attention all hands. Incoming aerospace 
  fighters. Battle stations.”
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/Hunter or Hunted Pt 01 - Randall N. Bills.pdf