TEXT: BattleCorps
  A DIFFERENT HOPE
  Kevin Killiany
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  Ahoskie Plains 
  Black Earth 
  Melissia Theater, Lyran Alliance 
  01 January 3069
  Rasheeda’s hands twitched on the inert controls.
  Beyond the viewport that wrapped around three sides of her 
  Night Hawk NTK-2S’s cockpit was the dark of a moonless Black 
  Earth night. Distant arc lights illuminating some repair effort 
  formed an ersatz constellation by which she navigated—could 
  have navigated, if she weren’t standing motionless. Reflected in 
  the ferrogalss itself, no matter which way she looked, was her own 
  visage, cinnamon-copper beneath her neurohelmet, illuminated 
  by the ghostly glow of her sensor screens.
  And yet, no matter which way she looked, the mountain forests 
  of Ballynure hung before her eyes—illuminated by their own ghost-
  ly glow. The Jade Falcon Uller sweeping its particle projection 
  cannons like scythes, sand-blasting their way through the dense 
  trunks of towering redwoods. The Clanner had tried to cripple her 
  with falling timber when her Guardian ECM suite prevented a di-
  rect weapons lock. A cunning move that had almost brought her 
  down. Her own lasers had borne true, the large burning through 
  the cockpit of the lighter machine even as the ER severed the for-
  ward-thrust “neck.”
  But that victory had been early—before the loss of Jenson, 
  DeCanda, Morris, Ngunyen... 
  She cut off the list of fallen comrades. Comrades who would 
  have lived if she had been better, been faster.
  Colonel Roman hadn’t seen it that way. He’d given her deep re-
  con work full credit for the Bar Hounds’ long survival against the 
  Jade Falcon’s Lambda Galaxy. But he hadn’t been there, didn’t 
  know the doubts and fears that had haunted her those weeks 
  alone behind the Falcon lines—fears that made her a half-second 
  too slow when...
  Again she pulled her thoughts up short.
  Colonel Roman would never pilot a BattleMech again. He’d 
  ejected from his stricken Cestus just as the Thor’s final barrage re-
  duced it to scrap metal. The flash burns from his cockpit exploding 
  around him as he cleared the hatch had seared away layers of skin. 
  
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  He was unconscious during the evac, unaware of her hand holding 
  his. On Morges he’d joked it didn’t hurt—he didn’t have enough 
  nerves left to feel anything. But the nerve damage also meant he 
  couldn’t interface with a neurohelmet. Without the instant feed-
  back loop a neurohelmet provided a MechWarrior couldn’t keep a 
  war machine on its feet and fighting when hell was breaking loose 
  around it.
  If I’d moved in time—
  Her hands clenched on the controls, but the alpha strike com-
  mand didn’t reach the secured weapons.
  I hate sentry duty.
  Colonel Roman had landed a training job with the local militia 
  and she—helped by his glowing commendation—had landed this 
  cushy job with the 11894th Light Horse of the Blue Star Irregulars. 
  Scout, and now leader of a scout lance. Victory on hard won vic-
  tory over the last four years—things she had done right—but it 
  was Ballynure she remembered. Those final days she measured 
  herself by.
  Her chronometer beeped its reminder.
  She keyed her mic on.
  “By the numbers, kinder.”
  “Charlie Three Delta,” Scion’s voice was crisply formal. “Clear.”
  “Charlie Three Gamma,” Belarus identified in her usual growl—
  as though checking in was an unwelcome interruption. “Clear.”
  “Charlie Three Beta,” Sula said. “Clear.”
  Her left-hand man was one of the nicest human beings Rasheeda 
  knew—a personality better suited to counseling or teaching than 
  fighting—but his voice coming in over the comm always set her 
  teeth on edge. She knew it had nothing to do with the man—it 
  was her own reaction to the captured Jade Falcon Cougar he pi-
  loted—but knowing the cause did nothing to lessen the effect. So 
  far her phobic reaction to his BattleMech had not interfered with 
  her ability to work with the MechWarrior.
  “Charlie Three Alpha,” she completed the ritual, triple checking 
  her blank screens to be sure. “Clear. 
  “Let’s step out, kinder. Patrol pattern ferret, half speed.”
  
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  A Different Hope • Page 
  Three double clicks acknowledged the command. Bringing her 
  General Motors fusion reactor up to fifty percent, she stepped her 
  Night Hawk out.
  Scout lances didn’t often pull picket work, but Black Earth was 
  square in the center of the Jade Falcon incursion. With every back 
  bent to building up Black Earth’s defenses against the inevitable 
  attack, her people were doing their part by freeing up heavier 
  units. 
  Her cockpit chronometer read 0129. The new year had begun 
  over an hour ago without her noticing.
  Happy New Year, she thought. New year, same old—
  She stopped herself.
  Stuffing her self pity where it belonged, Rasheeda focused on 
  her sensor screens. Watching the icons denoting her lancemates 
  move through their proscribed patterns, she felt a surge of satis-
  faction. She led a good team. 
  
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  A Different Hope • Page 
  Date Line: 
  Saturday, 02 January 3069 
  Augusta Base 
  Black Earth 
  INN
  Notable MechWarrior of the Week: 
  Leftenant Rasheeda “Sugarfoot” Hugie.
  When I entered the Officers’ Pub—MechWarrior territory at the 
  1894th’s base between Augusta DropPort and the Ahoskie Plains—
  Leftenant Hugie rose from her table by the darkened fireplace 
  to greet me. She did not fit my preconceived image of a Lyran 
  MechWarrior. A slender but imposing one hundred and eighty 
  centimeters, she was clearly of Afro-Terran descent, but there was 
  a decided Asio-Terran cast to her features—particularly the high 
  cheek bones and almond eyes. If I had met her in mufti without 
  knowing her name or heritage, I would have unthinkingly pegged 
  her as a citizen of the Draconis Combine.
  The pilot of a Night Hawk 2-S, Leftenant Hugie joined the 
  1894th Light Horse in late 3064 after the remnants of her former 
  unit—Roman’s Bar Hounds—fled Ballynure. (The Bar Hounds 
  had held out against the Jade Falcons’ Lambda Galaxy for near-
  ly half a year and been reduced to little more than two lances of 
  heavily damaged ’Mechs before conceding the planet. Unable 
  to rebuild, the unit disbanded.) Hugie’s actions on Tharkad in 
  3067 earned her command of Gamma Lance, Charlie Company, 
  3rd Battalion. “Three Bat Charlie” is the scout company for the 
  Light Horse. 
  As we worked our way through the usual introductions, I had the 
  impression I was speaking with a civilian professional—a doctor 
  or lawyer rather than a hardened warrior. Her back-story, provided 
  by Major Vozka’s office, had not mentioned noble birth, but I had 
  no trouble imagining that had been an oversight. Leftenant Hugie 
  was familiar with our series of human-interest sidebars. Though 
  we both knew she had been ordered to cooperate—no Blue Star 
  Irregular would discuss anything with a civilian newshound other-
  wise—she was thoroughly relaxed.
  Falling into the mood of a purely social evening, I broke one of 
  my own rules and offered to buy the leftenant a beer.
  
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  “I don’t drink,” she answered. Then ordered mineral water for 
  both of us.
  “Not drinking must have made serving with a unit like the Bar 
  Hounds difficult.”
  Her eyes darkened and I thought I’d put my foot in it, but when 
  she answered her tone was light.
  “The bar hound is a canid; think Rhodesian ridgeback with three 
  times the body mass and twice the intelligence,” she arched an 
  eyebrow. “Are all your questions going to be that probing?”
  Which seemed as good a cue as any for dropping into interview mode.
  INN: How did you come by the name “Sugarfoot”?
  Lt. Hugie:  A youth league soccer coach from the Rasalhague who 
  spoke imperfect Deutsche. He liked the way I kicked and 
  meant to say I had a sweet foot; called me a sugar foot in-
  stead. His misspeak branded me for life.
  INN: You joined the 1894th Third Battalion just before the Second 
  Battalion was stationed on Black Earth in 3064. What was 
  the Third doing during that time?
  Lt. Hugie: Beyond adjusting to me? Mostly supporting any Wolf 
  units Khan Kell thought might enjoy our company.
  INN: Immediately before joining the Blue Star Irregulars, you 
  spent four months behind Jade falcon lines on Ballynure 
  doing deep recon for the Bar Hounds. What would you say 
  was your greatest danger during that time?
  Lt. Hugie: The plumbing. Those waste tanks only hold about sev-
  enty percent of their rating. If you didn’t purge them in time, 
  they’d turn on you. Mucking out a cockpit without running 
  water is no joke.
  INN: We were told you earned command of your lance on Tharkad, 
  but not given any details. What happened on Tharkad?
  Lt. Hugie: We fought our own people over something both sides 
  believed in. The First Royal and the Twentieth Arcturan are 
  the finest outfits in the LAAF. That’s all I remember about it.
  INN: Of course. Being a MechWarrior requires tremendous physi-
  cal reserves. What martial arts or physical training regimen 
  to you follow to prepare yourself?
  
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  Lt. Hugie: I don’t know where these legends about MechWarriors 
  being buff superhuman fighters come from. Oh, wait, yes 
  I do. It comes from guys like you writing things like that. I 
  spend a third of my life sitting alone in a command couch 
  with sports drinks, survival rations, and whatever junk food 
  I’ve stashed in the equipment locker. The biggest thing I 
  have to fight are my hips. Stop. [She raised her hand as I 
  was about to speak.] You do not know me well enough to 
  answer that right.
  INN: People are always interested in what motivates the men and 
  women defending our nation. Would you care to share your 
  own philosophy?
  Lt. Hugie: My philosophy? There’s a saying—which I’ve heard at-
  tributed to  Kerensky—that no one ever won by dying for 
  their cause. You win by making the other guy die for his 
  cause. I figure my still being here is the result of me doing 
  my best to follow that rule. 
  INN: Well that covers the past and present. What are your hopes 
  for the future?
  Lt. Hugie: What I hope for? The Jade Falcons took my home world 
  nearly two decades ago, and four years back they destroyed 
  the Bar Hounds. My hope is to be standing dead square in 
  their way the next time they try that shit again.
  Leftenant Hugie said these last words with a smile. But her eyes 
  belied her relaxed demeanor. I had no doubt that with 
  “Sugarfoot” on their trail, no Jade Falcon was safe.
  
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  Columbia 
  Black Earth 
  Melissia Theater, Lyran Alliance 
  05 January 3069
  “Back your ape up, Three Alpha,” Chalice ordered.
  Rasheeda grinned and shuffled her Night Hawk 2S back a meter 
  into perfect alignment with the rest of Charlie Company. 
  Hauptman Chalice, One Alpha, piloted a Night Hawk 2Q. With its 
  large laser mounted amidships, the left arm of a 2Q was a medium 
  pulse laser, perhaps half the size of the right arm’s ER large laser. 
  The disproportional effect reminded Rasheeda of a fiddler crab. 
  Her own 2S didn’t have a medium pulse laser. The two-ton 
  weapon and a double heat sink had been sacrificed to make room 
  for her Beagle Active Probe and Guardian electronic counter mea-
  sures suite. She considered it a good trade—the Beagle and ECM 
  had done more to keep the Bar Hounds alive on Ballynure than a 
  dozen medium pulse laser could have. 
  That the designers had nestled the systems in the Night Hawk’s 
  armored torso and moved the large laser to the left arm was a fil-
  lip as far as she was concerned. She liked the symmetry—even if 
  purists denigrated the “bastardization of the pure design” at every 
  opportunity.
  With just over an hour until the review ceremony, she powered 
  down her ’Mech and loosened her straps. Propping a foot on the 
  edge of the control panel, she laced her fingers around her knee 
  and considered the view. 
  Columbia, the planetary capitol, filled the valley that fell away 
  from the municipal playing fields and rose half way up the wooded 
  ridge beyond. Sandy tan and yellow seemed to be the predominate 
  color of buildings spaced far enough apart to allow wide malls of 
  trees and fountains. Red tile roofs were popular. She supposed 
  the overall effect was semi-Mediterranean. 
  Closer in, crowds of brightly-dressed locals mingled among 
  equally bright tents and stages or found seats in the low tier of 
  bleachers flanking a flag-draped reviewing stand. Rasheeda didn’t 
  need to step up her magnification to know the tented booths dis-
  played local craft work, award-winning school projects, patriotic 
  flags, festive hats, and imported oddities. 
  
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  The late morning sun was behind her, its golden light and the rich 
  greens of the foliage under the cobalt sky gave the entire scene a 
  storybook feel.
  If you didn’t know the uniformity of the buildings indicated the 
  city had been rebuilt in the last few years—built on the ruins of 
  buildings destroyed during the Jade Falcon’s invasion or expul-
  sion—the effect was quite pleasant. 
  Actually, it was still pleasant, she decided. The care and balance 
  of the rebuilding spoke of hope in the future.
  Just as today’s Landing Day commemoration spoke of pride in 
  the past. 
  She supposed, continuing her analogy, that only two compa-
  nies—the 1894th’s Three Charlie and the 21st Rim World’s Two 
  Able—represented the BattleMechs of both Blue Star Irregular 
  regiments spoke of the needs of the present.
  Everybody talking at once.
  In the broad sward between the row of Blue Star tanks and the 
  bleachers, a massive marching band was forming up. She could 
  see four distinct uniforms with some variants. No doubt this was 
  a fusion of every school band in the city.
  On one of the stages a very young dance troupe labored valiantly 
  through their routine for applauding parents. On another school-
  aged youths were having difficulty with a set evidently intended 
  to represent a wooded wilderness.
  Beside Rasheeda, visible at the corner of her canopy, the 
  midnight blue of Sula’s polished Cougar shone. The highlights 
  reflecting from the ’Mech’s silver piping triggered her canopy’s 
  polarizers. She knew her machine was equally resplendent. 
  They’d been spared last night’s sentry duty to give the techs 
  time to buff every square millimeter with cotton swabs dipped 
  in polymer polish.
  Well, maybe not, she admitted, reaching forward to pat the edge 
  of the control panel. But old War Dog never looked so pretty. Did 
  you girl?
  Rasheeda was a little surprised to find herself admiring the lines 
  of Sula’s OmniMech. He kept it in B config—its arms two particle 
  projection cannons tapering forward—and it gave the machine a 
  clean and efficient profile. She couldn’t remember the last time 
  
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  she’d appreciated the machine—or even looked at it without re-
  membering it was Jade Falcon.
  The bright tents of the vendors beyond the review stand and 
  bleachers caught her eye. Reaching into the equipment cubby 
  below the hatch release, Rasheeda pulled out one of Tech First 
  Bolton’s brownies and a bottle of electrolyte-infused fruit-flavored 
  water.
  Perhaps her sudden fondness for the Cougar was fueled by the 
  blue-black Daishi looming above her. The Twenty-first painted 
  their machines a blue that seemed to suck the light and warmth 
  out of the world around them. But for the steel star on silver shield 
  medallion, the assault-class BattleMechs of Twenty-one Two Abel 
  looked like blots on the landscape.
  The giant assault machines were arrayed behind the light ’Mechs 
  of the scout company just as the representative tanks and infantry 
  were formed up in front. The Daishi towered in the space between 
  her BattleMech and Sula’s, while a Sagittaire guarded the gap sep-
  arating her from Scion’s Falcon Hawk. 
  The “hawk” name was the only thing Rasheeda’s Night Hawk 
  shared with Scion’s machine. Her BattleMech was of the more hu-
  manoid design—with the exposed cockpit mounted high above 
  the torso to provide a clear target. She had to admit the other’s 
  ’Mech did mount a lot more firepower than hers—but the only 
  trick she begrudged the Falcon was the rear-pointing gun. It used 
  a smaller engine, meaning it needed a higher percentage of the 
  reactor’s output to function—requiring greater system stress and 
  higher operating temps. And—inexcusable in a scout—it moved 
  slower than half a dozen medium ’Mechs she could name.
  The Sagittaire dwarfing Scion’s ride was one of the smaller 
  ’Mechs in the Twenty-first’s lineup, which favored Devastators 
  and Pillagers in addition to the Daishi. Their smallest machine was 
  an eighty-five ton Masakari bristling with lasers and missiles that 
  towered over Two Gamma’s twenty-five ton Nexus.
  None of these ’Mechs—and she suspected none of the 
  MechWarriors save Hauptmann Chavez—had been at Tharkad.
  “Look alive, Charlie,” Chalice said quietly on the company chan-
  nel.
  Rasheeda secured the half-empty bottle and brushed the brown-
  ie crumbs from her cooling vest.
  
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  Like they’re going to see that.
  Cinching her harness tight, she brought her fusion reactor up 
  to half burn. Plenty of power for marching and posing for photo 
  ops.
  All around her she sensed BattleMechs shifting slightly as they 
  came alive—assuming “ready” positions. Every ’Mech jockey had 
  a favorite stance they thought showed off their machine’s best 
  feature. As long as the pose didn’t interfere with the overall unity 
  of the formation, the practice was permitted—or at least over-
  looked—by the brass. 
  Her Beagle confirmed everyone was at forty to sixty percent 
  cycle and no one had live weapons. 
  A short caravan of open limos swept around the village of tents. 
  Rasheeda tried to remember who the local VIPs were and failed.
  In due course, men and women in what was apparently formal 
  attire had arrayed themselves on the reviewing stand. The massed 
  marching band broke into a lively tune, only vaguely martial and 
  with a driving beat. Rasheeda’s wrists twitched, phantom sticks 
  finding drum heads as her harness stood in for the straps of her 
  percussion rack.
  To her surprise, the two-hundred-plus musicians actually 
  marched. Not just back and forth, but in a intricate pattern with 
  drum majors hurling batons and dancers tumbling through com-
  plex choreography and throwing each other in the air. Her high 
  school band had never cooperated with another school at this 
  level.
  Weeks of rehearsal.
  After the bands’ pyrotechnic display, the Black Earth Planetary 
  Militia passing in review between the Blue Star Irregulars and the 
  bleachers was almost anticlimactic. Until one noticed the ages of 
  the troops, and the number with missing limbs or in wheel chairs. 
  These were the defenders of Black Earth. Sure, the Jade Falcons 
  had rolled over them. Out-numbered twenty to one by forces 
  armed with technology they could only dream about, the BEPM 
  never stood a chance. But knowing they didn’t stand a chance, the 
  militia had stood and delivered with everything they had.
  “Ten-shut!” she ordered over her lance channel.
  
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  The shift was subtle, there really was little different between the 
  “ready” positions and attention. First her lance, then the twenty-
  first assault ’Mechs flanking them, then the rest of the Blue Star 
  contingent pulled formally erect.
  It wasn’t much of a change, but it was enough. The men and 
  women of the Black Earth Militia held their heads a fraction higher 
  as the applause of the crowd washed over them.
  
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  Date Line: 
  Wednesday, 06 January 3069  
  Columbia, Black Earth 
  INN
  It’s just past midnight, local time and Landing Day is officially 
  over. The final bit of smoked brilla has been served, the last salute 
  fired, the final toast given. By tradition, the formal gala ended at 
  the stroke of twelve—though you couldn’t tell from the dancers or 
  the band. And of course parties continue all through the city.
  Highlights for this reporter were the children’s panorama’s. Call 
  me schmaltzy, but the hope and pride shining from the faces of 
  the young make all things seem possible. And it was no surprise 
  that same hope, that same pride, shown in the faces of the Black 
  Earth Planetary Militia as they were recognized for their selfless 
  defense of Black Earth at the noon Memorial Ceremony.
  Arrayed to show their respect for the Militia were elements 
  from both regiments of the Blue Star Irregulars, the mercenary 
  command tasked by the Archon with keeping this world secure. 
  Infantry, tanks, and of course BattleMechs stood at attention as 
  the warriors of Black Earth passed in review.
  Readers of last week’s Notable MechWarrior column will be 
  pleased to know that among those representing the Blue Stars was 
  a Night Hawk variant that bore the image of a snarling hound run-
  ning beside the galloping pinto of the 1894th Light Horse. Leftenant 
  Rasheeda Hugie stood with the rest of “Three Bat Charlie” as the 
  highly decorated recon company showed their respect.
  But the pride of the soldiers, the hope of the children, is made 
  bittersweet by the knowledge the Jade Falcons are again on 
  the move. The security the citizens of Black Earth now enjoy 
  is fragile, their freedom exists under a shadow of war. Taking 
  advantage the upheaval rocking the states of the Inner Sphere, 
  the Crusader Clans probe the borders, looking for weaknesses 
  to exploit.
  And no one here forgets the Jade Falcons held Black Earth for 
  fourteen years. There is no doubt that despite being kicked off—or 
  perhaps because they were kicked off—they consider this world 
  theirs. Or that given what they see as a chance, they will try to 
  take it back.
  
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  The Blue Star Irregulars, and by extension the might of the LAAF 
  and the Wolves of Arc Royal, are poised and ready to stop the 
  Jade Falcons. But to what degree is that readiness compromised 
  by the war with the Free Worlds League and the Blakist assaults 
  on worlds of the inner provinces? This is a question that keeps the 
  defenders sober through the revelry and keeps thinking citizens 
  awake into the night.
  But the people of Black Earth do not let fear govern them. Nor do 
  they let it darken the joy of their proudest day. What preparations 
  can be made have been made. 
  Come what may, the defenders are ready.
  
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  Augusta Base 
  Black Earth 
  Melissia Theater, Lyran Alliance 
  08 January 3069
  The Officers’ Pub was quiet for a Friday. The tables closest to 
  Rasheeda’s corner position were empty. The few farther tables 
  that were occupied held either single diners or couples uninter-
  ested in anyone else.
  This suited Rasheeda just fine. With an oversized fatigue jacket 
  worn over her MechWarrior gear for warmth, she was focused on 
  the sizzling plate the waiter had just set before her.
  The OP’s steaks were good and the coffee strong and what she 
  needed before the night’s patrol was a good meal and dangerous 
  levels of caffeine. Company would only be an unwanted distrac-
  tion.
  Speaking of which.
  She kept her eyes on her plate, pretending she didn’t see the 
  earnest young man with the helmet of blonde curls winding his 
  way between tables toward her. The INN newsman was nearly a 
  decade younger than she was, but had clearly been interested in 
  forming something of a relationship since their first meeting early 
  in the week. He had managed to mention her in about a third of 
  the pieces he’d posted since.
  She told herself the fact she’d read every story he’d filed in the 
  past week indicated nothing significant.
  “May I join you?”
  Rasheeda looked up in evident surprise. She noted his plastic 
  mug—translucent to simulate frost—was full of beer. He wasn’t 
  facing a night of duty. More importantly, he hadn’t picked up on 
  why she didn’t drink. Young.
  “Why, it’s Daffyd Porter, boy reporter,” she liked word plays that 
  worked in English and Deutsche. Puns were her favorite, but allit-
  eration would do in a pinch. “What can I do for you, Davy?”
  “I was wondering if I could join you?” David repeated. “Not for an 
  interview. Just social.”
  
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  Rasheeda indicated the chair opposite with a steak-laden fork.
  “What’s on your mind?” she asked as he sat.
  “Nothing, really,” he answered with a shrug and sipped his 
  drink.
  The scent of the beer clenched her jaw, but brew was easy to 
  ignore. If he’d been drinking scotch...
  “You could not have seen the bar hound on my ’Mech from across 
  the parade ground,” she said, forcing her mouth open to take in 
  the steak. “So when did you see it?”
  “High tech mercenaries are the only ones with field glasses?” 
  Daffyd countered. “Didn’t know you read my work.”
  “Long, boring hours in the cockpit, remember?”
  They wandered through small talk, neither really saying any-
  thing, while some of the diners left and more drinkers arrived. 
  Rasheeda’s steak and potatoes were gone and Daffyd’s mug was 
  empty thirty-five minutes before she was due to report to the han-
  gar.
  “I was wondering about something you said,” he said when she 
  raised her coffee mug to the waiter to signal for a refill. “When you 
  said all you hoped for was a chance to stop the Jade Falcons.”
  “What about it?” 
  “Well, is that really all you hope for?”
  “I think it’s plenty,” she said, nodding her thanks to the waiter as 
  he left the coffee pot on the table and took her plate.
  “No it isn’t,” Daffyd shook his head. “First of all , it depends on 
  the Jade Falcons attacking—not you doing anything. Second of all, 
  it’s just a chance for one more fight; nothing about the future.”
  “Passive and depressing, huh?” Rasheeda asked. “Well, what do 
  you expect from someone who chooses to spend her life sitting 
  alone on a couch eight meters in the air?”
  “I’m being serious and you’re blowing me off.”
  “Pretty much.”
  He sat without moving, watching her taste her coffee and add 
  sugar until she got it right. She realized he wasn’t going away.
  
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  “Look, you’re a nice kid,” she said. Spinster aunt approach. Good 
  choice. “But you’re from where?”
  “Coventry.”
  “Oh,” she said, reassessing. “Then you do know something 
  about war.”
  “More than I’d like,” Daffyd answered, looking older than he 
  had before. “Enough to know using the hope of vengeance to get 
  through each day is a dead end.”
  Rasheeda drowned the back snap that leapt to her tongue in a 
  sip of coffee.
  “The Jade Falcons of today are worse than they were even 
  ten years ago,” she said instead, keeping her voice reasonable. 
  “They’ve taken their genetic cleansing program one step further 
  and started purging people with defective genes from the popula-
  tions they conquer.”
  “I’ve heard those rumors,” Daffyd shook his head. “It doesn’t re-
  ally sound like them. Too much work; too much paying attention 
  to peons. Not their style.”
  “Brass believes it.”
  Daffyd sighed and visibly decided to let the issue go.
  “Eleven years ago my town was collateral damage,” Daffyd said. 
  “Not even a target. The Falcons just rolled over it on their way to 
  the Academy.
  “I was a kid—didn’t even own a gun—and I wanted them all 
  dead.”
  Part of Rasheeda’s mind did the math, confirming her earlier es-
  timate that Daffyd was ten years her junior. Another part listened 
  to his words and the way he said them and decided they were 
  both of an age.
  ‘“Two years ago, same thing—only this time we don’t know 
  who hit us,” Daffyd was saying. “Most folks think Free 
  Worlds, but now I’m not sure—and in the long run it doesn’t 
  matter.
  “And with my bad heart, the LAAF wouldn’t take me. I’d lost my 
  home and my family and I couldn’t fight back.”
  
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  A Different Hope • Page 1
  Rasheeda checked the wall chronometer. There wasn’t anything 
  she could say and she had to be at the controls in twenty-some 
  minutes.
  Daffyd followed her glance, and evidently her thoughts. He 
  leaned forward and his voice took on a more urgent note.
  “When I started writing, my goal was to make sure everyone 
  knew what had happened, what kind of monsters these were,” he 
  said. “But what helped—what made a difference—was reminding 
  people of what could be, what was possible.”
  Daffyd’s mouth twisted in a half smile.
  “Schmaltz, I know,” he said. “Banal and predictable, I can’t deny. 
  But true.”
  “Two, maybe three differences, Davy—Daffyd,” Rasheeda said. 
  “I have a gun, a big one, and the monsters that destroyed my home 
  and killed my friends aren’t faceless invaders who disappeared 
  into the void.
  “The Jade Falcons are a beatable enemy; one that keeps coming 
  back,” she was aware her fist was clenched and relaxed her fin-
  gers. “Stopping them is hope enough for me right now.”
  Rising, she drained her coffee too quickly and wiped the dribble 
  that escaped on her sleeve.
  “But you are cute,” she said, stopping whatever he’d been about 
  to say. “When I’m ready for a different hope, I’ll let you know.”
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 1
  Ahoskie Plains 
  Black Earth 
  Lyran Alliance 
  11 January 3069
  “Scramble, scramble, scramble,” the voice cut through Rasheeda’s 
  headphones, overriding her volume settings. 
  She sat bolt upright, only to be snatched back by her couch har-
  ness. She cursed her spilled drink as she stuffed the bottle and the 
  bag of candied popcorn back in the emergency medical compart-
  ment.
  “Wu Sen Tang. Code Alpha, alpha, gamma, falcon, one-two-oh,” 
  the voice on her headphones snapped each word off like glass. 
  “Say again: Alpha. Alpha. Gamma. Falcon. One-twenty.”
  Jade Falcons—Galaxy size force—at near pirate point. Operations 
  Command was estimating two hours to contact.
  Must be inside lunar orbit.
  Rasheeda didn’t know much about jump navigation, but she 
  knew enough to realize that was exceptional flying.
  “Use your plumbing, kinder,” she broadcast, knowing her voice 
  would sound clearly in her MechWarriors’ left ears even as the 
  general call pierced their right. “We’ve got company. Eighty kph 
  to rally point hector.”
  Eighty would push Sula’s Cougar and Scion’s Falcon Hawk close 
  to their limits, while hobbling Belarus’ Talon, but it would get her 
  lance where into position before the off duty ’Mechs were moving.
  One Galaxy of Jade Falcons against two regiments of Blue 
  Stars.... 
  And no batchall. If the birds had negotiated forces, the brass 
  would be telling off defensive units, not calling a general scram-
  ble. It was everything they had against everything the Clanners 
  threw at them. 
  Thanks to nearly two years of rebuild, the Blue Stars were 
  stronger than they had a right to be. But that meant a lot of new 
  blood—the Twenty-first was almost all new blood—and a lot of 
  troops who hadn’t taken fire together.
  
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  A Different Hope • Page 0
   Odds were not good. 
  OpCom’s voice continued in her right ear as she brought her 
  weapons on line and ran an on-the-fly repeat of her pre-watch 
  systems check. Half the Star Hunters were sent to low cover—the 
  Twenty-first’s Neutron Blues already had orbit defense, support-
  ing Kerensky’s Blues. Mulvihill’s Cavalry was ordered to preset 
  entrenchments west of Columbia—facing the Ahoskie Plains.
  This didn’t involve any great precognitive abilities on OpCom’s 
  part. The rolling hardpan of the Ahoskie was a natural landing 
  zone, and in the center of the narrow triangle formed by Columbia, 
  Augusta DropPort, and the mines that paid the bills for Black 
  Earth. 
  Columbia would be a tertiary target for the invaders, after the 
  DropPort and mining/refining operations to the southwest. Though 
  the Falcons wouldn’t know the industrial centers weren’t going 
  to be part of the battle until they’d wasted time hitting the aban-
  doned complexes. 
  Planetary Defense plan was pull everyone back to Columbia and 
  Augusta DropPort. The Blue Stars and the BEPM were going to 
  hold the population center and ‘Port until relief arrived. 
  How long that would be was up to Khan Kell.
  In due course, OpCom’s to do list got down to the light recon 
  lances and the 1894th’s Third Battalion Charlie Company Gamma 
  Lance got ordered to rally point Hector.
  Rasheeda matter-of-factly reported they were already in posi-
  tion.
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 1
  Date Line: 
  Friday, 15 January 3069  
  Columbia, Black Earth 
  INN
  Ten days ago these children were celebrating the history of their 
  world with their faces bright with the hope of the future. Now their 
  faces are drawn and tense and their hope of the future has been 
  replaced with fear for the present.
  Word came through yesterday that there would be no relief of 
  Black Earth. Too many battles on too many worlds. 
  With the Militia all but destroyed and the Blue Star Irregulars 
  down to something just above fifty percent, there is no question 
  Black Earth will fall to the Jade Falcons. The plan now is to with-
  draw in good order, evacuating as many civilians as possible in 
  the process.
  Obviously, no convoy of DropShips could transport the pop-
  ulation of an entire world. But there are those who should be 
  gotten away before the Jade Falcons seize the planet. The 
  handicapped, who would be purged; the militia veterans who 
  would be punished; the very young, who have a chance to live 
  free. 
  In a measure of how bitterly the Jade Falcons hate having lost 
  Black Earth before, they have rejected pleas from both civilian and 
  military leaders to permit evacuees safe passage. The Falcons 
  mean to own this world and to exterminate any who oppose 
  them—or who try to escape.
  Ironically, the high casualties suffered by the Irregulars created a 
  chance to make this evacuation possible despite the Jade Falcons’ 
  threat. The Overlord-class DropShips Loyal Son and Heritage, un-
  til recently carriers for the Third Assault Avatars, have been tasked 
  with getting refugees out of the system.
  Also, against all odds, the Blue Stars’ own WarShip, the corvette 
  Kerensky’s Blues, is still in the fight and will escort the civilian 
  ships to safety. 
  A handful of BattleMechs of the 1894th will defend the evacuation 
  against Jade Falcon forays, which have breached the DropPort and 
  been repulsed on a number of occasions. The remaining ’Mechs, 
  armor and infantry will hold the perimeter against the bulk of the 
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  Falcon forces. Once the Loyal Son is free, they will make a fighting 
  retreat to their own DropShips.
  Because this reporter suffers from a hereditary heart condition, 
  his request to remain on Black Earth has been denied. Nor will he 
  be permitted to stay with the last defenders, but will be evacuated 
  aboard the Loyal Son with other potential victims of Jade Falcon 
  genetic cleansing.
  There will be an interruption in the flow of INN reports from Black 
  Earth. For how long, we can not say. But not forever. Because 
  someday, perhaps someday soon, the forces of the LAAF, or the 
  Wolves of Arc Royal, or some combination of allies, will be back. 
  You can be sure the Blue Star Irregulars will be in that number.
  As will be this reporter.
  From Black Earth, this is Daffyd Porter reporting for INN.
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  Augusta DropPort 
  Black Earth 
  Melissia Theater, Lyran Alliance 
  16 January 3069
  Everything happens just after midnight.
  The last of the civilian transports were making their way to the 
  Loyal Son—she had just started to think she could move out to 
  support the perimeter—when a pair of Jade Falcon OmniMechs 
  breached the ‘Port’s defensive line and made a run at the Overlord-
  class DropShip. 
  There was little two ’Mechs could do to harm a DropShip, of 
  course, but if they could keep it from launching an Overlord would 
  be a prize worth almost any risk.
  Her Beagle probe told Rasheeda a Thor and a Black Hawk were 
  inside the warehouse line and moving rapidly up from the west. A 
  heavy and a medium—both jumpers. Assuming they were fresh, 
  either one alone might be more than a match for the three dam-
  aged ’Mechs providing close defense.
  Belarus and her Talon were supporting Baker Company, 
  Scion was dead, and no one else was close. The naked Night 
  Hawk, the stumbling Coyote, and the one-armed Lynx on loan 
  from the Twenty-first were just going to have to do the best 
  they could.
  The Clanners were making no effort to conceal their approach. 
  No doubt they were counting on their overpowering presence to 
  panic the Blue Star ’Mechs into flight.
  If it weren’t for the civilians, they’d be right.
  But the Loyal Son’s nose guns were focused outward, bolster-
  ing the perimeter as best they could. In theory the waist guns 
  offered ground defense, but this close to the warehouses they 
  could neither get a lock in their field of fire nor deflect far enough 
  to be useful in the clear area. The after batteries couldn’t be fired 
  without vaporizing the Blue Stars and the civilians in the pro-
  cess. 
  All of which made Rasheeda’s three-’Mech command the last 
  ditch in the civilians’ defense. And they weren’t yielding alive.
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  “Jen-kins,” she’d almost said Jenson—a lancemate lost on 
  Ballynure. “Fade right. You’re on your own with the Black Hawk 
  until Sula and I clear the Thor.”
  Ha!
  “Be advised Beagle shows he’s taken damage left side,” she add-
  ed. “It’s going to be ten ER medium lasers on a six/four split to 
  your ER PPC and large laser. Keep hitting him at range; don’t let 
  him close.” 
  She did not add that if things got close enough for Jenkins to use 
  his own medium lasers it would be all over.
  “Aye, aye,” Jenkins acknowledged. Identifying his target, he vec-
  tored right, angling for a position that would let him fire at the 
  greatest possible distance.
  “Don’t suppose the Thor is out of missiles,” Sula asked dryly.
  “No—” Rasheeda broke off as her blood ran cold.
  It’s the bastard!
  A half second later she realized her mistake. Though Jade Falcon 
  closing on their position mounted the same laser-and-Ultra-AC 
  configuration as the Thor that had burned the flesh from Colonel 
  Roman, her Beagle Active Probe had never seen this particular 
  BattleMech before.
  “It’s a C-fig,” she said, hoping her glitch hadn’t been too obvious. 
  “Your PPCs are going to have the reach.”
  She checked the loading ramp of the Loyal Son on her three-six-
  ty. Four of the heavy half-track buses to go. Armored buses, but 
  armored to police specs—prisoner transport stuff. Nowhere near 
  enough heavy metal to take fire.
  “Pull away from the ‘Ship,” she said. “Angle into the base of that 
  gantry; it’s dense enough to fog the Thor’s scans.”
  “What are we doing?”
  “I got the moves, you got the gun,” Rasheeda said. “I’ll keep him 
  busy, you nail him.”
  “I’m not going to bring down a heavy with one shot—or even one 
  alpha strike,” Sula pointed out. “And you don’t have the armor to 
  take more than a couple of hits.”
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  “You’re right,” Rasheeda said. “You shuffle around in a circle and 
  I’ll ask him nicely to go away.”
  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going,” Sula said as his Coyote made its 
  painful way into the shadow of the mobile gantry. “I was just as-
  sessing the situation.”
  Rasheeda didn’t mention that the wounded ’Mech had taken 
  so long to reach cover that the oncoming Thor could not possi-
  bly have missed the intended ambush being set up. Instead, she 
  angled her machine to split the difference between the larger ma-
  chines. If she could draw the fire of one or both of the Falcons so 
  her comrades could get in a few telling shots, they stood a chance 
  of delaying the Clanners long enough for the last civilian to get 
  aboard.
  Living long after that was too much to hope for.
  Jenkins drew first blood, his ER PPC raking the Black Hawk as it 
  cleared cover. 
  The Clanner announced he was a tyro by firing back, the beams 
  of his lasers dissipating into harmless washes of heat before they 
  reached the Lynx.
  There might be some hope after all.
  Then her Beagle came alive with thermal flare and she realized 
  seventy tons of enemy BattleMech was airborne. A gutsy move—
  it made the Thor a hanging target, but only if the Overlord’s waist 
  gunners were ready for it. And jumping out of the metal tangle of 
  warehouses in the dark...
   Rasheeda cut right—ninety degrees off its line of flight—and 
  pushed her Night Hawk to full speed. She couldn’t help noticing 
  that being shy four tons of armor seemed to add a new level of 
  nimbleness to her maneuvers.
  The aiming beam of an extended range large laser lanced down 
  out of the dark above the rising jet flares, tracking her as she ran, 
  but not locking on. The Thor didn’t mount a Beagle. 
  Lasers upraised, Rasheeda button-hooked as the jets faded at 
  apogee. She let her Beagle Active Probe guide her double-bar-
  reled return shot. The beams vectored together just below the 
  offset cockpit, gouging into the underside of the left shoulder ac-
  tuator.
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  The twin ER PPC bolts of Sula’s alpha strike crackled upward a 
  tenth second later, targeting the heavy metal her lasers painted. 
  The descending Falcon was haloed in a dancing St. Elmo’s fire of 
  secondary energy as the blue bolts buried themselves in the right 
  arm and shoulder assemblies. 
  The heavy BattleMech tilted even as its jump jets fired to break 
  its fall. Rasheeda saw its right arm separate to follow its own tra-
  jectory. The Falcon pilot spread his machine’s legs, angling one 
  set of jump jets to counterbalance the loss of mass.
  Rasheeda fired again, but there were too many variables for the 
  targeting computer to calculate in time and the twin beams went 
  wide. Cycling fast enough to get two shots at a jumping ’Mech 
  was remarkable enough. She guessed having no armor was an 
  asset in heat dissipation.
  The Thor landed hard, staggering to keep itself upright. Two PPC 
  bolts from the shadow of the mobile gantry complicated the pi-
  lot’s job.
  The Falcon launched a spread of short range missiles at her be-
  fore turning to face the more potent Coyote. There was enough 
  range for her Guardian to respond; it’s electronic pulses scram-
  bled the incoming guidance systems, sending all six spiraling into 
  harmless corkscrews.
  A glance at her three-sixty confirmed the last of the armored 
  civilian buses was at the foot of the ramp.
  Above her head the Overlord’s bow batteries fired at the near 
  horizon. The sea sound of radio chatter in her headphones told her 
  the two BattleMechs her team faced were not an isolated incur-
  sion—the perimeter was collapsing. The Blue Stars were pulling 
  back to their DropShips, doing their best to keep the withdrawal 
  from becoming a rout.
  Rasheeda pushed the larger battle out of her mind. The Thor had 
  turned left profile toward her to target Sula—his PPCs a bigger 
  threat than her lasers. The wounded Coyote wouldn’t stand long 
  against the heavy ’Mech’s Ultra AC-20. Dialing both lasers under 
  her main trigger, she targeted the big machine’s left shoulder.
  Red light smeared across a third of her three-sixty display.
  The Black Hawk had fired across her rear quarter, the bolt pass-
  ing between her and Jenkins’s Lynx.
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  The bus?!
  Distracted from her shot, Rasheeda scanned behind her. The 
  lasers could not have been at full power. Instead of the flaming 
  hulk she expected, the civilian bus was intact. Then the thermals 
  along the lower half registered and she saw the melted wheels 
  and treads.
  Of course. The Jade Falcon MechWarriors wanted to prevent the 
  DropShip’s launch. A ruined bus full of children keeping a loading 
  ramp open was as effective as docking clamps for holding the 
  ship to the ferrocrete.
  Rasheeda knew there were cargo drags capable of pulling the 
  bus aboard, but those required stevedores run the cables out un-
  der fire. They needed cover.
  Belatedly she fired her alpha strike into the Thor’s left shoul-
  der—too late to stop its first salvo, but boiling armor. Hopefully it 
  was enough to buy Sula time to get in a couple more shots.
  Then she turned her Night Hawk and ran for the loading ramp.
  For the first time in her life she regretted her Night Hawk didn’t 
  have hands. She stood for a second, evaluating the problem. There 
  was no way to push, no way to pull the bus up the ramp. 
  Her diagnostic screen flared red as cannon fire carved armor 
  from her back. For a moment she was surprised the Thor pilot 
  had considered her worth a salvo of her own, but perhaps he only 
  wanted to add to the wreckage fouling the loading ramp. Either 
  way, she was drawing fire to the stranded civilians. With her thinly 
  shielded back to the Falcons, her ’Mech couldn’t protect them for 
  long.
  So don’t show your back. Use it.
  Stepping close to the bus, she spun about to face the oncoming 
  Thor. 
  The heavy OmniMech was close enough to enable its targeting 
  computer to cut through the Guardian’s distortion. Another volley 
  would reduce her Night Hawk to scrap.
  Targeting the upper torso of the giant, Rasheeda fired both la-
  sers. 
  The Thor flinched aside, the pilot reacting to the flash and flare 
  as the beams of two large lasers converged just below his cockpit. 
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  The Falcon’s answering shot went wide, cannon shells caroming 
  harmlessly along the heavily armored flank of the DropShip.
  Before it could retarget, a single lance of flaring blue energy leapt 
  from the shadow of the gantry. The PPC bolt tore into the gaping 
  wound left by its severed arm. The Thor staggered as armor and 
  coolant flowed, then turned to face its attacker.
  Thanks, Sula.
  Rasheeda flexed the knees of her Night Hawk, half stooping be-
  fore thrusting her ’Mech back against the bus. The metal on metal 
  clang pierced her headset and the wireframe announced she’d 
  shattered the last shards of rear armor against the civilian vehicle. 
  No doubt she’d crushed the bus’s engine compartment as well, 
  but that didn’t matter at this point.
  The feet of a Night Hawk were hinged, designed to keep the ma-
  chine rock steady on uneven terrain. Now as she straightened the 
  knee actuators, the horseshoe-shaped heels bent back, their ar-
  mored spikes biting into the reinforced composite of the cargo 
  ramp.
  Metal scraped, her damage alarm hooted, stress warnings 
  flashed up and down the wireframe image of her hip, knee, and 
  ankle actuators. For a moment the tableau held—her ’Mech lean-
  ing back on a heavy bus glued to the loading ramp by its melted 
  treads. Then the bus moved. 
  Eye on the status boards, she worked the sticks, flexing one knee, 
  then the other. Shifting her feet one at a time, she shoved the bus 
  up the ramp. Not far and not fast, but enough to give hope her 
  bonehead move might work.
  Until her Beagle hooted its warning that the Thor was once again 
  closing. 
  Rasheeda didn’t need to check her scans to know there would be 
  no more rescuing bolts of blue from the base of the gantry.
  This close, every edge went to the heavy. Even with the beagle, 
  her ER laser was having trouble acquiring target lock. She slaved 
  the ER to her large and cut loose with both barrels. A point-blank 
  hit to the unshielded missile launcher. The detonating warheads 
  blasted the six tube rack to ruin.
  The cockpit was too much to ask for?
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  The Thor’s Ultra autocannon caught her Night Hawk square in 
  the chest. The last precious shreds of her armor shattered.
  A shrill, grinding rattle at the edge of hearing seemed to grow 
  up around her. It took her a long second—time enough to fire both 
  lasers at near contact range and take another hit in return—to 
  identify the sound. Gyro bearing. 
  The three-ton flywheel assembly that kept the bipedal Night 
  Hawk upright had taken damage. Not enough to destroy it outright, 
  but the keening squeal vibrating through every plate and strut an-
  nounced her BattleMech was dying. How long before hyper-sonic 
  shrapnel tore it apart from the inside?
  Ignoring the Thor, Rasheeda hacked into her control com-
  puter. Jockeys were told shutting down the gyro on a standing 
  BattleMech was impossible, but it could be done. It just resulted 
  in a fallen ’Mech with full system shut down. 
  Given a choice between lying inert before her enemies and fill-
  ing a hold full of civilians with three tons of flying metal fragments, 
  Rasheeda’s fingers flew through the shutdown sequence. 
  Flashes of blood red and azure blue washed through the canopy 
  as she worked, throwing the toggles into sharp relief and robbing 
  the phosphor screens of color. Battle chatter from the retreating 
  Blue Stars filled her ears with meaningless sound as lines of input 
  code skipped and slithered across the readout.
  At last the gyro icon went black. The squeal of the tortured bear-
  ing backed away from its tooth-shattering keen. Now it was in the 
  hands of physics. The only question left was whether the assem-
  bly could hold together long enough for inertia and friction to slow 
  the massive flywheel. 
  Keeping the ’Mech upright was problematical. And would have 
  been impossible, if its mass weren’t shoved hard against the bus. 
  Switching from keyboard to sticks and pedals, Rasheeda flexed 
  and thrust the legs again, pushing the bus another handful of me-
  ters up the ramp.
  The BattleMech would have decreasing mobility until the gyro 
  dropped below the safety threshold and triggered a shutdown. 
  She could use her last spasm of power to throw her Night Hawk 
  off the ramp.
  Again her cockpit washed with blue lightning mixed with red.
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 0
  Looking up, Rasheeda saw the Thor at the base of the ramp—far-
  ther away than she expected it to be. 
  And facing Jenkins’s battered Lynx. 
  The medium machine was gouged and cratered. Rasheeda didn’t 
  need to check her Beagle to know it had lost its large torso laser 
  and center-mounted medium. Keeping his PPC leveled at the Clan 
  OmniMech, Jenkins shuffled the Lynx right, drawing the Thor’s 
  autocannon farther away from the stricken Night Hawk and the 
  bus as the pilot rotated to track him.
  Her scanners outlined the Blue Star BattleMech with a white-hot 
  nimbus. Jenkins didn’t have a heat sink left. His next shot would 
  force his Lynx into thermal shutdown.
  The ravaged right side of the Thor was toward her. Rasheeda 
  didn’t waste time on a target lock. Leveling her weapons by eye, 
  she unleashed both lasers. 
  The ER’s beam went wide, skipping across the barrel of the au-
  tocannon to furrow the ferrocrete. But the large laser struck true, 
  stabbing deep into the OmniMech’s frame through the torn ar-
  mor.
  Rasheeda fell backwards. Impact slammed her back into the 
  couch, kicking her breath from her lungs as the whiplash rattled 
  her rattling her teeth.
  The bus was gone. 
  The stevedores had run a line under the cover of—of her—and 
  the powerful cargo winch had yanked the civilians to safety.
  Time to get off the ramp so they can shut the door.
  Again she regretted the Night Hawk’s lack of hands or articu-
  lated arms. A roll and shove would have solved the problem in an 
  instant. As it was—still fighting to get air back into her lungs—she 
  had to kick and thrash the Night Hawk’s legs, twisting its broad 
  torso in an effort to lever a laser against the ramp for a thrust to-
  ward the edge.
  Something clanged against the outer hull, just above her canopy.
  Her Beagle probe showed nonsense, all of her screens filled with 
  white noise. She had no idea what was happening around her. But 
  if Jenkins could keep that Thor off the ramp long enough for her 
  to roll clear, the Loyal Son would be free.
  
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  A Different Hope • Page 1
  At last her kicking leg missed the ramp, swinging down through 
  unresisting air. This far up the ramp it was going to be a twenty 
  meter drop—not that that mattered. Even if she survived the fall, 
  the backwash of the DropShip’s fusion engines would reduce her 
  BattleMech to an oily smear on the ferrocrete.
  Flashing warning lights, and a new hoot cutting through the 
  white noise snarl of her headset. Gyro wind-down—what the com-
  puter saw as a systems failure—was about to freeze her myomer 
  net. Her BattleMech was seconds from becoming a thirty-five ton 
  statue.
  A final kick and twist and her Night Hawk upended. There was 
  a giddy no-gravity moment at the top of its swing over the edge, 
  then she was plummeting face first toward the shadowed ferro-
  crete.
  The jerk snapped her head forward. Blood spattered from her 
  nose and bitten tongue, spraying across the scanner screen. The 
  couch harness dug into her shoulders and gut, knocking the wind 
  from her again.
  It took her half a second to process she was swinging above the 
  ground.
  The clang; the scrambled sensors. The Loyal Son’s cargo han-
  dlers had nailed her with a magnetic grapple.
  “Cut me loose, you idiots!” she shouted into a microphone 
  rendered useless by the same electromagnet that had killed her 
  Beagle.
  She thrashed and kicked, trying to break the grapple’s grip. 
  Useless against a drag designed to handle a hundred tons of dead 
  weight.
  The flashing idiot lights burned solid for a long three count. Then, 
  with a final angry buzz of warning, the safety interlocks shut the 
  myomer net down. 
  Shouting futile orders that she be left—that the Loyal Son lift the 
  refugees to safety—Rasheeda was pulled back onto the ramp and 
  into the DropShip. 
  Her last sight of Black Earth was the legless Thor on its back, try-
  ing to angle its autocannon to fire a final salvo through the closing 
  doors of the cargo bay.
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  Dateline: 
  Tuesday 19 January 3069 
  Zenith jump point 
  Blue Hole, Lyran Alliance 
  INN
  Everyone has seen the trids of the big space battles; massive 
  ships passing by one another, close enough to make out gun ports 
  and portholes. but in reality, space is big, ships are pinpoints of 
  light, and the flash of explosions makes fireflies look like blimps. 
  Most space combat is seen and recorded by radar and tactical 
  computers. but for every maxim there is an exception. for this re-
  porter, the death of the Kerensky’s Blues was one such exception.
  On the edge of oblivion, I was among hundreds to witness the 
  fury of the Jade Falcons as they descended on Black Earth. The 
  Blue Star Irregulars fought well, but could not halt the onslaught. 
  They sounded a retreat, surrendering the world to the Falcons, hop-
  ing to give them this victory so the battle-worn mercenaries could 
  fight another day. We rode to the jump point aboard the Loyal Son, 
  an Overlord-class Dropship, under the escort of the Kerensky’s 
  Blues, the Stars’ own captured Clan Fredasa-class corvette.
  A small fleet of JumpShips and DropShips—Irregulars and civil-
  ian— was assembled at the nadir jump point, waiting for the final 
  dockings to make their outbound leap.
  Then the Falcons struck.
  A Congress and a Vincent Mark , the names of which I did not 
  know (though we were probably close enough to see them at one 
  point), made a rare and dangerous in-system jump to cut us off. 
  The Blues cut us loose, and valiantly interposed herself between 
  the Falcons and the retreating DropShips.
  Missiles and lasers flashed between both sides as the Blues 
  burned forward, bearing on the Vincent. In a burst of autocannon 
  fire, the Vincent faltered even as debris trailed from our champions’ 
  Fredasa like the guts from some high-tech piñata. The Congress 
  ignored these combatants and came through swarms of fighters 
  like a giant among gnats to shatter DropShips and JumpShips 
  alike with her massive guns. Even under fire, we managed to dock 
  with our JumpShip, just in time to see the Congress turn our way. 
  She looked as big as my fist in the portholes…
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  But then the Blues came charging forward, maimed, guns blaz-
  ing, risking her life to force the more massive Congress to veer off 
  and deal with a greater danger. As we made the transition to K-F 
  space, it struck us all that only we aboard the Loyal Son remained 
  of the Irregulars’ departing task force, aboard the only JumpShip 
  the Falcons had yet to strike. We never saw the Blues or any other 
  JumpShip emerge with us over Blue Hole.
  But as long as we live, none of use will ever forget the brave 
  souls who traded their lives for our own.
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  DropShip Loyal Son 
  Zenith jump point, Blue Hole 
  Melissia Theater, Lyran Alliance 
  20 January 3069
  “You’re a hero, you know.”
  Rasheeda pulled her gaze down from the featureless ceiling to 
  find Daffyd Porter at the foot of her bed—which was wrapped 
  around her like a cocoon. Zero gravity was great for mending 
  bones. Too bad they’d cut back on her pain meds—clear thinking 
  was not something she appreciated.
   Behind Daffyd the ship’s medicos were busily doing whatever 
  it was they did that required them to flit back and forth across the 
  narrow view her privacy portions allowed.
  “I’m serious,” the reporter went on after she’d let the silence 
  stretch. “There is going to be a whole generation of Black Earth 
  girls named ‘Rasheeda.’ You are the stuff of legends.”
  She considered telling him humor was the wrong tactic, but de-
  cided she didn’t care enough.
  “Remember the part where I told you I don’t drink?” she asked 
  instead. 
  “Yeah, well, the doctors filled me in on your half-dead liver,” 
  Daffyd answered. “I take it the not drinking is the residual effect of 
  trying to drink yourself to death.”
  “The doctors filled you in?” Rasheeda echoed, ignoring the ques-
  tion. “What did you do, tell them you’re my next of kin?”
  Daffyd lifted a medical noteputer tethered to the ring that an-
  chored the foot of her floating bed.
  “I didn’t say they knew they’d filled me in,” he said. “But hanging 
  here watching you sleep has only limited fascination. Light read-
  ing helped pass the time.”
  Rasheeda sucked her teeth and resumed her study of the ceil-
  ing.
  “You know,” Daffyd said after a moment. “I’m pretty stupid.”
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  She didn’t argue.
  “I didn’t realize you thought you’d failed on Ballynure until I read 
  about your liver.”
  He pulled himself up until he was in her field of vision again.
  She considered looking away again, forcing him to move. She 
  could probably keep it up longer than he could. But, again, she 
  didn’t care. She looked at him, her eyes flat, as he floated between 
  the lights that would be overhead whenever the Loyal Son ever 
  landed again.
  “You were a hero at Ballynure—doing more good and saving 
  more lives than anyone else could have,” Daffyd said. “And you 
  were a hero on Black Earth.”
  Rasheeda closed her eyes, hoping he would go away.
  “You are riding in an Overlord DropShip thats packed to the gun-
  wales with people who owe you their lives,” Daffyd said in the 
  darkness. “Or would be if DropShips had gunwales.
  “And back on Black Earth there are people who will be able to 
  carry on under the Jade Falcons—able to resist—because they 
  know their children are safe. Because of you.”
  She said nothing, did nothing. 
  Rasheeda hung in the darkness behind her closed lids and lis-
  tened to the air flow in through her nostrils. Slow, shallow, the 
  cracked ribs and punctured lung had not yet healed enough to 
  allow deep breathing. Her air rushed in, cool, not as long as it 
  should have been; then it rushed out again, expelled by lungs that 
  didn’t yet dare fill or push as they could. It was peaceful, hanging 
  weightless in the dark, listening to the wind.
  She opened her eyes.
  Daffyd was still there.
  “How’s my ’Mech?” she asked. 
  She’d asked the doctors, but none of them had known. Or per-
  haps hadn’t been willing to tell her.
  “Gyro’s gone,” Daffyd said. He’d clearly been prepared for the 
  question, ticking the items off in rapid succession. “Without ar-
  mor to insulate—and you ended up with something like half a ton 
  
  BattleCorps
  A Different Hope • Page 
  of armor total—the Beagle and Guardian were fried by the elec-
  tromagnet. And about a third of your myomer was vaporized. But 
  everything else is solid. 
  “Do you know you didn’t lose a single heat sink?” he asked. “I’m 
  told that’s just about unheard of.”
  “Get me to Atocongo,” Rasheeda said. “We—the Blue Stars—had 
  a contract with Skibinski’s Salvage. They can get War Dog back to-
  gether.”
  “You don’t need to worry about that.”
  “If they won’t take my credit,” she pressed on. “I can work some-
  thing out. Trade.”
  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Daffyd repeated. “You’re a 
  hero. Anything you want, you’ve got it.”
  “What I want are Jade Falcons in my sights,” Rasheeda snapped. 
  “I’m no good here, no good without my ’Mech. 
  “Some debts require blood. And it’s their turn to pay.”
  “Rasheeda—”
  “Daffyd.” 
  Her tone stopped him.
  Then Rasheeda surprised herself by smiling.
  “But you are pretty, Davy boy,” she said. “When I have time for a 
  different hope, I’ll let you know.”
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/A Different Hope - Kevin Killiany.pdf