"PLANCOM, this is Rat 1-6. Orders acknowledged. Over."

The radio orders were broadcast from the Captain's comm circuit to the rest of the lance and the other officers in the Task Force to keep them up to date on the new orders.

"Rat 1-6 here, we're redeploying the mechs from planned patrol to focus on sensor anomalies in the Pitt basin. Burns, von Wulfhart, Mattlov, use jets to obtain overwatch positions and maintain security. Rall, Bjornson, Eichberg and myself will push through along to grid 5-Bravo-9'er-Delta from here. Lieutenant Mazigh will oversee drone deployment and security to cover the flank approaches."

Captain Hart had the typical Davion 'school' accent; like the BBC of ancient Terra, Davion school-ships and broadcasts emphasized a common accent, and the Captain had it. He was some part of Draconis March gentry, but a career officer and NAIS cadre instructor, tasked with finishing off mechwarriors that were deemed ready to start their careers before they graduated and were placed in units. It was a shakedown for cadets that transitioned them from the rigid structure of the academy to active duty and, presumably, command in the future.

The man was in an Enforcer, a very standard type of Davion mech, though his was fitted, as all the mechs here were, with advanced technology. Steelton was near the periphery, had lots of environmental factors to deal with and so it was an ideal place to train new mechwarriors and test new equipment. They ran exercises against the Star Guards, an elite unit, and learned things the hard way alongside and against some of the best Mechwarriors in the Inner Sphere. The Captain was well-respected with these men and women, coming from McKinnon's Raiders, in the 7th Crucis Lancers. He'd fought the Dragoons and lived to tell the tale. He'd fought in the Fourth Succession War and the War of 3039 and had a good professional reputation among fellow mechwarriors; even Crab Carraza, the Star Guards' commander. The rest of them, however, just fresh from the academy, were firmly made aware of their position on the pecking order by the Star Guards personnel they ran into -- they were greenies.

Mattlov had a very similar accent was the product of good schooling and NAIS, though he was not an aristocrat, more of a man-at-arms from a family, on the maternal side, of Mechwarriors who weren't title-holders. The distinction didn't matter that much; a mechwarrior was a mechwarrior, at least in the Federated Suns, and they all fancied themselves knights defending their realm. His Shadow Hawk happened to be painted a dusty desert pattern to match the terrain, and it didn't shine, but that didn't dull the romanticism of being a mechwarrior for Mattlov. He bought the Hanse Davion cult, the image of the great savior of their civilization, a man and a cause to fight for. His Caph upbringing was supposed to make him cynical of the mass media manipulation, even in a constitutional state like the Federated Suns, but he followed his mother's path, a warrior's path.

PLANCOM's regional sensor net had gone down about a day ago, which meant that geographic data was not being updated realtime and commos depended on onboard systems alone. Mechs were fine, but a lot of vehicles weren't. As a result, the Star Guard sent out one of their engineer detachments along with the task force in the area to check on the backup sensors system and stand by to activate them to keep the navigation networks going. It was an ideal time to send out a lance, preferably a green one, to pick up some good training in the field doing maneuvers with their mechs while providing an escort (and a tie-in to the planet's commo net) for the engineering, infantry and other elements in the area. Steelton was a hub of anti-piracy operations near the Periphery in Lyran Space, but it was unlikely that a raider element would hit a planet with an elite garrison. All the same, standard operating procedure in the Star Guards, and Mattlov approved, was to take it all seriously.

After all, Caph didn't expect to get hit in 3039, but he was there for it when the Ryuken regiments landed. They were beaten bloody by the ready reserve for the Federated Suns push into the Combine, but it taught Mattlov a valuable lesson; don't assume. He vaguely monitored the lance's internal commo net, but maintained relative silence. They had a lance leader and commo discipline could be hard to maintain at times on boring 'milk run' operations, but Mattlov learned the hard way through NAIS discipline to keep it professional in the cockpit. He had a mouth, so the lessons were reinforced with a lot of company punishment before he finally got it.

As the lance started underway, he stowed the mental chatter and focused on visuals; his Shadow Hawk had good sensors and comfortable life support, but he wasn't relying just on the sensors. Sensors could lie, after all and the eyes were needed. Once upon a time, Star League Mechwarriors were rumored to fight inside a sealed cockpit with sensors only. Mattlov couldn't see it, even though his neurohelmet was an old Star League model, provided by his parents as an early graduation gift; his mother knew how to pick the most utilitarian equipment and his father had connections through the family import/export company to get their son that, even if they could not afford a Mech.

The interface was wholly different; the SLDF model neurohelmets had a different system architecture and OS than the newer-made stuff. This one was vintage, SLDF-issue rather than a remake with familiar Davion-style screen layouts on his HUD using the old Star League tech; lostech, they once called it.

It was also a different color than the usual gold that he was used to, with different shapes and indicators for features to get his attention. He used the settings in live-training in the mech and in the simulators, but noticed a subtle difference in how the mech handled with this neurohelmet's interface.

The mech had a smoother than usual gait, and he owed it to the interface of the neurohelmet. Always a deft, delicate 'twitch' hand with the controls of a mech, which included a control stick that was set between the legs (not always the case, depending on the mech type) he marveled at the slightly elevated performance the helmet afforded. He'd gone out in a spare neurohelmet, a regular one, just because Senior Technician Reginald, his mech's crew chief, wanted to know if it was the mech or the helmet. They ran the data, crunched out a comparative report and made the SLDF neurohelmet's performance another piece of all the reports they were generating on this test equipment.

The Shadow Hawk had a restricted field of vision in some ways, which was a criticism of the design; the autocannon was overhanging the left shoulder, and there was a Streak-SRM-2 on the right side of the head, which was, quite simply, a reality of the design. Other mechs had far more expansive views, but he always liked the feel of a Shadow Hawk. The hum of the engine and power systems, the slight whine of the actuators and myomers, different in every mech, was to his liking in this particular type of Mech. He felt like he had the extra touch in one of these, and it had nothing to do with the new neurohelmet, though that helped.

There wasn't much of a view. Steelton was a dusty wasteland with mineral riches. It had jutting rock formations with a very specific hexagonal sort of characteristic that spoke of ancient geological activity of some sort, but it was mostly sand. Some extra heat, but nothing the sinks on his mech couldn't cope with. It was shades of sand, clay and slate out there, but at least the skies were clear and the horizon extended a ways. It was a desert vista that sung to his mother's heritage, and totally unlike Caph or New Avalon.

Weapons were not hot, but they could be very quickly. That was another operational rule of the Star Guards. They'd loaded with live ammo, not training stuff, just in case.

As their orders were given, he shifted his Shadow Hawk into a faster run as a prelude to a jump; with the rumble and roar of the jets beneath him, he used the neurohelmet to balance the Mech as it came down, to position the legs just so on the high ground he and the two others were told to ascend. There was a crunch of landing, as the myomers in the legs absorbed the landing shock and the arms splayed out to help the mech maintain balance just as a human would, with assistance from the neurohelmet interface.

Meanwhile, further below, the non-jumpers were making their way forward, sensors out...

The thunderous footfalls of the Wolfhound's iron boots reverberated within the cockpit. Each stomp shook the interior, jostling it's pilot in his seat as he held fast to the controls. "Damned shock absorbers are acting up again." Han Bjornson grumbled to himself, his guttural accent betraying the frustrations he felt.

When the opportunity to work with experimental mechs, Lostech and cutting edge technology presented itself back at the Nagelring, Han had jumped on it. It sounded like a great way to familiarize himself with the weapons of the future while potentially building his standing within the military. On paper, it sounded like a good idea.

Then he climbed into the cockpit of a Wolfhound with faulty shock absorbers.

Bjornson dropped a hand from the accelerator. "Come on, girl. Don't give me this." He growled, slamming a fist down on the console. The sub-systems screen flickered, and the cockpit's shaking ceased as the shock absorbers stabilized. It was only a temporary fix. If history was anything to go by they'd fail the moment it was least convenient. "Better than nothing." Han sighed, moving his gloved fist back to grasp the accelerator.

Captain Hart's voice filtered through the neurohelmet that sat on Bjornson's shoulders. Static intermingled with the Davion's orders, making it difficult to understand. Thankfully his orders were simple, and didn't require precise wording. Bjornson was to proceed forward, heading in the direction of grid 5B5D along with the other ground pounders. Han pressed down on the radio transmitter button, letting his own voice filter through the mech's comm system. "Understood, sir. I'm taking point."

Han eased forward on the accelerator, so as to give the shock absorbers adequate time to adjust to the increase in footfalls. He sped the mech up, pushing it until the Wolfhound hit it's full stride. He adored the speed that the light mech was capable of. The sheer momentum of it gave Han a sense of power as he sat at it's controls, guiding that massive hull of steel across the dusty desert floor.

Out of all the mechs, Han's Wolfhound had the fastest foot speed. Clocking in at over ninety seven kilometers an hour, the WLF-1 was the easy choice for a lead unit. It was fitting that Bjornson had been assigned to it, then, considering the fact that he was far and away the most disciplined of the cadets. Han had never flinched away from danger, and he had never disobeyed an order- unlike some of the other less obedient delinquents he was working with.

His gaze flickered over to the series of displays tied to the Beagle Active Probe that had been fitted within his left arm. Han's attention lingered on the static-ridden image of the lance's Griffin. It's pilot was the first to come to mind when the word delinquent flashed across his mind. The second was at the helm of the Wolverine displayed just to the right of the Griffin.

Cadets Rall and Von Wulfhart were as reckless as they came. Han silently prayed they'd keep themselves in check until the exercises were over so that he could practice in peace without incident. For some reason, the Rasalhague halfbreed got the feeling that wouldn't be the case.

Han was supposed to be practicing his in-combat maneuvering today. His piloting skills were sharp, but Bjornson still had trouble aiming while still maintaining a good speed. Instead of practicing vital Mechwarrior skills, however, Han and his lance were tasked with playing security escort for an engineer detachment looking to fix a regional sensor net. It was a frustratingly mundane and unnecessary duty. Who was going to attack those engineers all the way out here? The only potential threat were pirates, but no raider with half a brain would go up against a world so heavily garrisoned. Han just felt like he could be doing so much more with his time in a mech like this one.

Sighing, Bjornson shook it off. He wasn't going to openly complain about an assignment; that was unbecoming of someone of his position. A soldier obeyed his orders without question, and a nobleman did not whine. He focused his attention on the task at hand, boring as it may be. He kept the Wolfhound moving at full speed, letting himself get ahead of the rest of the unit a ways. His sensors weren't picking up anything out of the ordinary- not that he was expecting them to all the way out here. The worst the Probe could potentially find was a dust storm sweeping in, but even that would just be an inconvenience for them. There was no real practice to be had here outside of moving in standard formation. All he could see were rock formations and red dust for miles.

His impatience got the better of him. Han reached over and switched on the transmitter again. "Captain, if I may, how far are we from the sensor network?" Bjornson asked, wondering more about how long they would actually be out here than how the task itself was coming along. He really should've considered keeping something to do in his cockpit for missions like this. Maybe a book, or something to fiddle with...

---

---

The noon sun of Steelton was high in the sky as Wulfhart's Lance received orders that suddenly and unexpectedly changed their planned patrol route. The unexpectedness of it combined with the less than ideal comms situation had made it a little difficult to make out Captain Hart's orders. However, from the sounds of it, long-range sensors had picked up something strange, and it was tasked to their lance to investigate with the Star Guard tech crew. The prospect of something new to break up the tedium of routine alone had gotten Lyris admittedly a little excited. A part of her hoped that it was the prelude to a pirate raid. As doubtful as that might be with how well defended the world was for just such occasions.

She didn't think of herself as being battle hungry, as some might assume, as merely being pragmatic. It would be frustrating for almost anyone to train for years in routine drills, tactics, piloting, and conflict- but never get a chance to test oneself in the real thing, even if it was against vastly outgunned marauders. Just the possibility for some real excitement gave Lyris a sudden bit of adrenaline rush. She shook her head- as much as the slightly bulky neurohelmet she wore would allow- and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Jumping to conclusions was unbecoming and had her academy tutors been here they might have scolded her for her apparent lack of discipline.

Lyris watched the mechwarriors in front of her engage their motive systems and advance. She quickly followed suit as hydraulic tendons flexed. Gears whirred to speed. Spumes of smoke and incense boiled from exhaust vents around her armored torsos carapaces. Still drill or false alarm she truly did enjoy every moment she was in her cockpit. The heavy footfalls of her steed that shook the ground granting her a sense of scale and power. The roar of her engines not unlike the growl of a beast waiting to be unleashed. The mere act of piloting a battlemech made one feel invincible. It was a feeling she might never shake all the days of her life.

The captain had ordered her to join a select few others on overwatch duty, and Lyris obeyed swiftly, feeding power to her servomotors and feeling acceleration as her steed strode forward.

"Roger that, making trails," she responded calmly, hoping her tone hide he earlier excitement.

Three long strides and Lyris willed her jet engines online through her neural feed, an explosion of fire sprung to life near the back legs of her steeds feet and shot her skyward. For a brief moment, she felt as though she was flying, albeit on wings of fiery flame rather than the more mundane ones of a bird of prey. She touched down on a large rocky ledged platform that overlooked the rest of the formation. Her servomotors whined as her Griffins legs bent to absorb the impact of the landing. From here, Lyris submerged herself into the sensor network, as it extended over the broad, barren terrain. The world of Steelton seemed a grim and lifeless place to her eyes. It's hard, cracked earth and dust appearing brown and dead in all directions with only the rare sprinkling of vegetation here and there. At least it was not a sandy desert she thought. Lyris had been raised on the small but brutal world of Asaheim, a place of seemingly endless winter, snow, and spectacular lightning storms.

It was a world that held a timeless beauty about it that Steelton utterly lacked in comparison. The world here was also much hotter than what she was used to, even inside her comparatively cramped cockpit she could almost feel the heat outside. The constant reminder of the weather had forced her always to be concerned with the state of her mech. She supposed that was the genius behind deploying them to this harsh biome. By its very nature, they were forced to become ever mindful of their heat management. That was not a concern for her now; the readings were all green at the moment though it would take awhile for her jump jets to cool off. They had not built up much heat given their relatively short use.

Lyris had been noted to be among the lances best pilots regarding quick reflexes, but her often reckless maneuvers meant she was among the worse when it came to heat management. That and tightening up her fire salvos during and after jumps were the foremost concerns regarding what remained of her training. She supposed such matters would have to wait for another day given their current assignment. She kept her stride as she turned her focus entirely to the horizon, eyes open for any threats despite the annoying heat. Her eyes flicked to the data symbol for Johns mech- who she had nicknamed 'Mouse'. The little kurz didn't look it, but he seemed to hold up the best when it came to the heat. He almost never exited his mech after a long training session with much more than a little sweat on his brow. How'd he manage it?

"Verdammte hitze..." she whispered under her breath.

---

---

“Roger, lead,” was Edric's curt reply to Capt. Hart's orders. Ever the utilitarian, Edric kept his voice over comms minimal and to-the-point. His head, however, was abuzz with suppressed excitement. The cadre was, for once, doing something other than routine equipment tests or getting slaughtered by the Star Guards in simulated battles. For that, he was thankful. Admittedly, there had been a wealth of knowledge gained from each destruction at the unit's hands, a wisdom beyond the basic coverage of academy lectures. But that didn't make the washouts any less dejecting.

The horizon bubbled under the heat outside as Edric scanned the terrain for a suitable location to take up watch. Some days, the cadre had taken to wearing their cooling vests just to go outside. He didn't fancy the thought of battling both the ambient heat and that of his weapons. For that, he felt absolutely no envy for Han's laser-heavy WLF-1, nor its nine standard heat sinks. A quick glance to the side showed Lyris and Peter on the move to their own perches and Edric followed suit, gunning for an outcrop that gave him both adequate cover and a good field of vision.

With a depression of his pedals, his Valkyrie lurched from a running gait and Edric felt the ground disappear from its feet. The 'Mech bounded upwards toward the spot he'd pinpointed, and after hitting the apex, Edric gritted his jaw as the inertia tickled his innards. He positioned himself for landing, his neurohelmet filling in the blanks, and he touched down with a soft rumble, servos whining under the weight of the 'Mech. From here, he could pick out the Star Guards' advance, and the rest of the cadre maneuvering into position.

Edric confirmed his position over the comm and settled into his chair. As he looked down from his canopy, there was a feeling of invincibility worming its way to the surface of his mind. Of course, he knew that was hardly the case, but there was a mysticism that came with sitting in the cockpit of a BattleMech that never truly died.

Blinking, Edric banished his fantasies and tightened his grip on the control yoke, roving the landscape with his eyes.

Mazigh sat in front of the tactical screens showing the terrain of the region as last shown before the whole debacle with the sensors net started. The matter had made communication difficult, especially between the vehicles out in the field, and Mazigh felt very uncomfortable in the cool, air conditioned confines of the mobile HQ. Still, Captain Hart's transmission broke through the gentle thrum of sensor equipment and soft lights, distorted though it was: Mazigh was to make sure the flanks of the lance were secure, and to see that as much data was collected by the UAVs in advance of their approach as possible.

"Affirmative," was all he said when the orders came in. He immediately turned on his seat to face the tech officer sitting to his right. "Miles," he said quickly, "direct the deployment of our drones. I don't want a single square meter left unsurveyed before the big boys get there. Brauer," he added, looking to the communications officer next, "I want to know the moment anything anomalous is spotted in the AO."

"Aye, sir," said Sergeant Brauer, reaching up to clutch her headset. "Nothing to report thus far."

"I know," muttered Mazigh with a sigh, reaching for his coffee as he swiveled about in his seat. He stared at the map of the Pitt Basin, frowning as he sipped from his mug. The coffee was perhaps too sweet in his mouth: two teaspoons of sugar and coconut creamer would do that, but Mazigh didn't have any notions of black coffee being more masculine. The coconut flavor relaxed him, anyway, and helped him focus. It always had.

The map before him was marked with blue diamonds and circles indicating the recon lance and the vehicles out afield. Mazigh's men were still arrayed in their patrol formation: trailing behind the lance with the Condors in front, the Plainsmen in the back and the drone carrier in the middle. The remaining vehicles were far from the area of operations, arrayed around the Daimyo Mazigh sat in.

Mazigh set his warm mug of coffee down, stroked his beard, then made a few quick marks on the map with a little black pen. Green lines formed on the holographic screen immediately. "This is HQ," he began in his deep, serious voice. "Hex 1 and 2, navigate these coordinates." He made another quick series of dashes on the map before continuing. "Hex 3 and 4, follow these nav points around the southern perimeter of the Basin. All units: proceed with caution and maintain pace with the recon lance. Relay any and all new data to HQ. HQ out."

"You're acting like something's going to bite us," laughed Warrant Officer Miles, turning his head to face Mazigh. "I don't think there's anything waiting out there to surprise us."

"That's the thing about surprises," Mazigh rumbled, his thick eyebrows folding down as he regarded the tech officer. "They're unexpected. Treat this operation with the same seriousness you would if you were in the Succession War again."

Miles frowned, then turned back and started tapping at his display with his black pen, relaying his own orders to the drone carrier. Miles focused on his own screen. It was standard operating procedure, really: one Condor and one Plainsman were now on each flank of the recon lance, fanned out enough that there would be advance warning for the mechs if weapons fire were to occur on the flanks. The vehicles were fast enough to quickly redeploy to cover the Rifleman's rear, too, in case anything came from behind.

That last thought made Mazigh pause. "Miles," he said, "deploy one UAV drone behind Johan, facing the rear, two hundred and fifty meters back. Just in case."

Miles shook his head, but relayed the orders. As drones began appearing on the screen, Mazigh picked up his coffee and took another sip. At the very least, the operation would be a good exercise in moving in formation.

Steelton. Johan had never heard of the world before. It was a warm place, not too hot, the briefing called it an arid planet. Arid it was, plateaus in the distance, sparse vegetation, brown and dusty. He'd never been to a place like this, and Johan found himself daydreaming about what kind of animals and insects were native to this planet. His father cashed in a few favors and got him a Comstar developed Combat Neurohelm, a prized item for any mechwarrior, his father said proudly. 'If I were still active I would take this helmet for myself' his father said. He glanced upwards towards the sky, his Neurohelmet not too restrictive. The faceplate slid up obscured Johan's vertical peripheral vision a little, but it also provided some shade against the sun, and in combat he could always just slide the faceplate down. He found himself thinking about what kind of birds soared these skies, until the beeping of his lance radio channel pulled him out of his daydreaming about the wildlife.

"Rat 1-6 here, we're redeploying the mechs from planned patrol to focus on sensor anomalies in the Pitt basin. Burns, von Wulfhart, Mattlov, use jets to obtain overwatch positions and maintain security. Rall, Bjornson, Eichberg and myself will push through along to grid 5-Bravo-9'er-Delta from here. Lieutenant Mazigh will oversee drone deployment and security to cover the flank approaches."

Johan swallowed, this was irregular, but it must have been important. He shifted in his seat, getting more comfortable, he took his hand off the right side joystick and slid down his faceplate. Screens inside the helmet displayed a small radar, displayed his heat gauge, his mechs armor and internal structure, and a host of other information. Despite having screens inside the cockpit which displayed the same thing, Johan enjoyed having the option between glancing at his neurohelmet information and his cockpit screens. He was more used to looking at the display screens anyways.
"Aye." Johan simply replied. He heard Bjornson's reply and saw his Wolfhound speed ahead, at his speed Bjornson was easily twice Johan's top speed. Johan was admittedly a little envious at the speed of the other mechs in his group, but considering the Rifleman's firepower... maybe he wasn't about to give that up. Johan shifted his direction to match his lance's, he turned to look at the other group, the ones with jumpjets. He twisted his mechs torso to face them and tracked them, though his guns were facing downward. Practice. Johan needed to practice getting used to moving in one direction, aiming in another, and hitting that target. Stationary Johan was a crack shot, but the enemy rarely lets people just sit around. The Star Guards taught him that harshly, the simulated battles they did made Johan's shortcomings glaring. Against other cadets, Johan could afford to sit around and take his time aiming, but against veteran mechwarriors, experienced in actual war it was clear Johan needed to be mobile and shoot at the same time. The Star Guard mechwarriors showed incredible prowess at controlling their battlemechs, one even ran at full speed then halted in only a short two steps. That agility boggled Johan's mind and he made a mental note to ask that pilot how he did that.

His radio beeped again, it was Bjornson. "Captain, if I may, how far are we from the sensor network?"
Johan found himself the same thing, but he stayed quiet. Instead he glanced down at his radar and noticed that a UAV was moving in to shadow him, a few hundred meters behind to reveal any hidden flankers if there were any. Johan quickly flipped his visor up, awaiting a reply from their Captain. He grabbed a canteen of water that he had strapped to the side of one of the consoles, and took a quick drink of water. He strapped it back in and moved the visor back down. In actual combat he had no doubt his mech would get steaming in this ambient temperature, considering his heat heavy loadout, and he would need to stay hydrated if he broke a sweat. He peered ahead, zooming in with his mechs optics. The area ahead was particularly sandy, he saw dunes and plateaus with no signs of any water, but he knew that anything could be behind those rock formations.

Watching the Wolfhound speed ahead, Harper struggled against the fleeting urge to trigger the MASC of her Wolverine, anything less than a hundred kilometers per hour was pedestrian as far as Harper was concerned, and ever since she'd been told that the MASC installed in her BattleMech would let it push almost one hundred and ten kilometers in short bursts, she'd been fighting the reoccurring temptation to firewall her throttle. Still, she had little interest in scratching the paint of her shiny new BattleMech and she didn't mind the idea of someone else catching the first rounds of fire from some pirate raiders. Harper was a lover pilot, not a fighter or at least that's what she liked to tell herself when faced with the soul-sucking-ly boring nature of life in military unit.

Nudging her joystick lazily forward, she began to follow, keeping a safe spacing and willing herself, despite her boredom to keep her eyes open, scanning the compressed three hundred sixty degree view that her neurohelmet rendered for her. All sensors were nominal, well, at least as nominal as they could be in a giant dust bowl made out of rocks and vast quantities of sand, and her radar wasn't picking up much beyond a closing dust storm. The movements of her BattleMech were smooth, almost too smooth, and she wondered, not for the first time, exactly how the quartermaster had managed to convince a FWL pilot to part ways with the Black Cat. However, she wasn't complaining, unlike Bjornson, she had a comfortable enough ride.

Small, unimportant, and largely a backwater planet bordering the Periphery, Steelton felt like home to Harper, her real home, all it was missing was a traveling pleasure circus or two. She wasn't sure that her Inner Sphere colleagues were quite as taken with the lifeless planet as she was, but they also didn't know much about life beyond the Inner Sphere. Having long since embraced her inner Periphery Rat, Harper was used to living on the very edge of civilization and the posting at Steelton had caused her no great discomfort, if anything she had enjoyed being away from the more theoretical instructors of the NAIS. Captain Hart was a hard-ass, but he was alright, at least as far as Davion officers went.

Harper was still deciding how she felt about her new unit. The pilots from the Federated Suns were no strangers, Matlov was a predictable devotee to all things Hanse Davion, but outside of that he wasn't bad, and Johan, despite his status as a black sheep at the academy, was a capable enough shot. She wasn't a Fedrat, at least not a proper one, but she felt she owed the Federated Suns for giving her a shot at the big leagues, not that she'd die for them, she wasn't a fanatic...and like all Periphery citizens, she knew that for all their niceties, the House Davion, like all the Great Houses, didn't care all that much about the Periphery, much less one lost Periphery rat.

Harper was far less certain about the Lyrans in the task force. The idea sounded good on paper, foster greater cooperation within the Armed Forces of the Federated Commonwealth, heal old rifts that had grown from centuries of intermittent warfare between the two nations, and develop new tactics fit for a new decade of warfare...standard stuff really, but much harder to accomplish in practice. The Lyrans in the unit all seemed to be a sad bunch of nobles to Harper and she wasn't sure if they might not have been better kept as enemies. All she knew was that it was seemingly increasingly tempting to shack up with some passing pirates, at least pirates had rum...

She stifled a laugh hearing Bjornson's question and fired a laser comm beam in his direction, "Forget your book, Bananenbieger?"

Battlemechs had three types of basic sensors. Thermographs detected heat signatures, electromagnetic sensors were able to provide detailed information at close range and were the primary means of identifying enemy unit types from that information.

The final one was seismic. It didn't give a lot of information, but it at least let you know that there was a presence in the area, presumably hostile in a patrol situation. So when the call went up on comms from one of the lighter mechs, pushed forward, that there were contacts on seismic, the rule of thumb was, if approaching as a unit on patrol, to let the faster units hold for the heavier stuff to come up.

With the unit split between two three mech manuever elements, that meant that the jumpers got into a good overwatch.

As the contact developed, there would be orders given. Comms discipline internal to the lance was less strigent, a mash up of names and callsigns they used on a regular basis, more conversational. But in reporting enemy designations and so forth, language was standard.

"Rat 1-5," that being Mazigh, "we have contacts to our west in the vicinity of the sensor net station. Will update as we determine nature of contacts. Put the artillery support on standby, over."

Mattlov, in his Shadow Hawk, carefully navigated to maintain a degree of cover while observing from one of the wadis, with his autocannon poking out around the left side of the rock, "Rat 1-6, Mattlov, have visual on what looks like a dropship, spheroid type. Estimated range, 3 clicks. Confirming sensor contacts: multiple contacts, tonnage in the 20-55 range, could be a mix of vehicles and mechs, over."

It took a minute for Hart to get back, routing communication back to Steelton PLANCOM regarding any dropships that were missing or supposed to be operating in the AO, then he got back on the tactical comms.

"1-6 here, presumed hostile dropship in AO." we're going to advance in closer. 1-5, I want you to stand by with everything you can throw at the coordinates I am transmitting now and to position vehicles at these other coordinates," Hart's fingers could be heard tapping a console, "to block escape of this element. Engage only on my command or if engaged first. Be careful."

"Mattlov, von Wulfhart and Burns, marking a position for you to ascend to fire support position. The rest of you are advancing with me. Slow and steady, keep your eye on the terrain and check flanks. If we can see them on seismic, that means they're expecting us."

Beads of sweat trickled down Han's forehead, flowing like tiny rivers down the curvature of his cheeks and jaw. Bjornson's Wolfhound was operating at minimal heat levels; he hadn't even so much as touched his weapon systems. Yet still heat bore down upon the Nobleman. It assaulted his bare flesh and drenched his golden locks in sweat. Training in Mechs back on Tharkad, Han only ever worked up this kind of a sweat during an intense firefight. He was usually sitting in the center of a laser boat- it only made sense that the cockpit would turn into a veritable sauna.

But Steelton was different. Han didn't need to be in combat to work up a sweat. All it took was the residual heat of the sun beating down upon his Mech for Bjornson's cockpit to reach such temperatures that he was sure he was going to be fried alive. This was what he hated most about the joint training exercises with the FedSuns from the NAIS: the heat. They dragged Han out into the middle of some backwater dust world and expected him to adapt to the environment. It was the polar opposite of home. Snow and ice were replaced by sand and burning stone. The twisted rock formations looming overhead were a poor substitute for the towers of Tharkad City that kissed the very heavens in all of their splendor.

And in the place of the regal and proud noblemen he called his peers, he had Mechwarriors like Rall.

Han could hear the poorly contained mocking in her voice as she sent a laser comm to his Wolfhound. There was a bitter twisting of his lips downward at the insult offered to his name. Bjornson debated simply ignoring her. She had been insufferable the last few weeks and continued to be so even now. Brushing off the remarks of an ignorant should've been a simple thing. Han had endured far, far worse treatment at the hands of the Nagelring's more bigoted students. However, the nobleman had little else to do at the moment except stare ahead at seemingly endless stretches of dust and rock. Against his better judgment, the Lyran let his digit slip down to the comms panel.

"Oh, yes. Hilarious as always." Han dryly retorted. "What ever would I need a book for when I have a Canopian hora constantly screeching in my ear? It's like I have my own personal jester."

Letting his thumb slip off the comms switch, Hand returned his hand to the piping hot accelerator. For a moment, he wondered if he was too harsh with the rat. Han assumed Rall was just trying to get on his nerves with her prattle, but he couldn't be totally sure. The Periphery was a strange place, and it's customs were wholly alien to someone like Bjornson.

'It's possible the rat was...how do they put it in English...Ribbing?'

Trying to juggle two languages was difficult enough, but the Nagelring had been pushing the tongue of the FedSuns on him since he was accepted into the student body. Han was still getting a handle on it, admittedly; but he ha committed himself to learning it. If Bjornson wanted to succeed as a Mechwarrior and a nobleman, he would need to be able to communicate with the FedSun pilots effectively. To that end, Han had committed to speaking in English alone. He had broken that personal rule only to mock the rat's use of a German insult against him. 'Presumptuous little thing.'

Before the boredom of the assignment could truly set in, Han's attention was arrested by a warning klaxon playing in his ear. He turned toward the source of the sound in his cockpit, the bulky neurohelmet making it difficult to do so but he managed. "The probe...?" He muttered to himself, flicking a few switches. It had to be a mistake. The sensors must've been acting up. There wasn't any way these readings were accurate. Han forced a reset on the sensor suite, yet that didn't stop the warning bells.

"Holy shit." Bjornson cursed, fumbling for the main radio. "Captain, I'm picking up seismic activity!" These readings...It could only mean one thing. Han thought it impossible before, but there was no denying what the instruments were telling him. "We have multiple contacts two clicks ahead of us. Range from twenty to fifty five tons. They have mechs."

Was this part of the training, somehow? An ambush by the Star Guard would certainly make for an exciting change of pace from a dreary escort, yet...they had loaded live-fire weapons before heading out. A mock battle couldn't be fought with real weapons. Han hesitated, his hands hovering on his controls. 'Is this real?' He pulled back on the accelerator, commanding his titanic steed to slow it's trot. Standard procedure dictated that the lead unit slow and allow the rest of the lance to catch up. Moving forward alone in a real combat situation was damn near suicidal.

Mattlov confirmed the contacts that the Wolfhound had picked up as being genuine, as well as confirming visual on a dropship of some kind. 'A dropship, out here?'

Finally the voice of the Captain returned over the tactical comms, confirming the dropship and the contacts to be hostile. He wanted Bjornson, Eichberg and Rall to move ahead with him while the other units sought out a fire support position. That meant Han was going to be meeting the enemy head on.

This was real, then. Someone was attacking them and Han would actually be in a fight. Grim determination set in on his expression. If he were totally honest with himself, Bjorson didn't know how he felt. He was terrified of the concept of being shot at for real for the first time and exhilarated at the prospect of engaging proper opponents all at once. It was a rush of adrenaline that caused his fight-or-flight instincts to kick into overdrive. "Are they pirates, sir?" Han could only assume so. The sector was supposedly crawling with them. But what madness had overcome them that a group of poorly equipped brigands would think they'd stand a chance against Steelton's garrison? The Star Guard alone could wipe the floor with any rogue unit. And it wasn't like Steelton was some treasure trove of riches to be taken...So what were they doing here?

Hart's voice came back flat on the comms, cold as steel, "This is not a training exercise. Weapons hot, this is a live situation, Rat Lance. Repeat, weapons hot. If fired upon, engage. Otherwise hold for command to fire. Over."

"Rat 1-5," came Hart's voice with the crackle of static, "we have contacts to our west in the vicinity of the sensor net station. Will update as we determine nature of contacts. Put the artillery support on standby, over."

"Roger, wilco." Mazigh shot a look at the officers next to him, then flicked a switch so he could communicate to his people directly. "All units, this is HQ," he said firmly. "This is not a drill. Contacts have been spotted in the vicinity of the sensor net station. Hex 5 and 6, rendezvous with the recon lance ASAP. Artillery units, direct weapons toward the site and await further instruction." Mazigh snapped his fingers for his aide, and he shoved the cup of coffee at him; he didn't want it anywhere near the electronics with potential hostiles on the loose. "I repeat, this is not a drill," Mazigh said before flicking the communications off.

"Who the Hell would be stupid enough to try this?" asked Miles, turning away from his screen momentarily. The lighting in the Daimyo dimmed and took on a slight orange tinge, enough to warn anyone that hadn't gotten the picture that there was a potential confrontation at hand. "They're either stupid or have balls of steel."

"Or they desperately needed a place to land; there's no way of knowing without investigating," Mazigh retorted sharply. He gave Miles a pointed look. "Assume nothing. Get our goddamned eyes in the sky closer to the station and get our boys some information!"

"Aye, sir!" said the Warrant Officer, a bit of sweat forming on his brow.

Moments later, another message broke through, crackly though it was. First there was mention of a spheroid dropship, and then...

"1-6 here, presumed hostile dropship in AO. We're going to advance in closer. 1-5, I want you to stand by with everything you can throw at the coordinates I am transmitting now and to position vehicles at these other coordinates," Hart's fingers could be heard tapping a console, "to block escape of this element. Engage only on my command or if engaged first. Be careful."

"Roger, wilco," answered Mazigh again, before adding, "Rat 1-5 here, drones are moving toward the treeline and the river. Will keep you apprised. Rat 1-5 out."

Immediately, Mazigh made a few quick dashes on his tactical screen. "Hex 2 and 4," he said coolly to the pilots of the Plainsmen, "these are your new coordinates. Get behind cover here and prepare to cut off the escape of hostiles. The rest of you, stand by to assist the recon lance. We don't know what we're up against yet; maneuver defensively if attacked. I don't need to remind you that death doesn't come with severance pay."

"Roger, HQ," came a rustic woman's voice with a laugh. It was Sergeant O'Neill, better known as Nervous Nelly, pilot of one of the Condors. "We'll stay alive, sir."

"You damned well better. HQ out."

"Sir?" came a voice to Mazigh's left. The older man looked over at Brauer, noticing the worry on the young woman's face. She'd paused from her work to look to the Lieutenant for direction; she was talented but inexperienced, prone to lose focus in a combat situation like this. She needed a task to occupy her.

"Resume oversight of communications between the Hex units," Mazigh said quickly. "Relay any information you deem relevant to whoever you feel needs to know, including the recon lance. And Miles?" Mazigh glanced back over at the other veteran. "The moment you get any data from those goddamned drones, you tell everyone afield. Copy?"

"Affirmative," Miles said, taking a deep breath. "Spheroid dropship..."

"Yeah," Mazigh muttered. "Let's hope its weapons aren't operational."

With a groan, old Mazigh stood up from his seat and stepped out from the side compartment the officers were in, looking at the rest of the assembled crew. "I want our engines roaring in case we have to move out," he called out. "If any hostile elements break away from the station, we need to be ready to protect the artillery. Man your stations!"

-----

A Maxim and a Saracen darted out from the horizon and came in behind the forward elements of the recon lance. They joined a pair of Condors, and as they hovered into position sand whipped up into the air. There was quite a bit of weight between the four vehicles: 185 tons in total, and not a small amount of firepower. Perhaps most importantly, it was firepower that seismic sensors wouldn't detect.

"Hex 5 to recon," came a heavy voice with a distinct West African accent. "Vehicular support is in position to move in as soon as ordered. Hex 2 and 4 will arrive at their nav points soon, ETA one minute." The pilot chuckled, then added, "My crew and 6's will support with LRMs before we engage. Will leave the stomping to you and the Condors, eh?"

Accordingly, the transport and the Saracen positioned themselves a little further back, and the Condors hovered a little further ahead, ready to charge forward at a word.

---

---

The monotony of patrol was suddenly shattered with the simple sentence, "we have contacts to our west in the vicinity of the sensor net station." At first, Lyris was dumbstruck, almost not believing what she heard over comms. Her hesitation lasted only a moment before years of training kicked in in place of conscious thought. She responded with a quick, "orders understood." Before activating her jump jets, superheating the air behind her Griffin to propel it from her current perch of a flatback plateau to a rocky outcropping of uneven terrain. Nausea born of uncertainty strangled her guts as it welled up in her stomach as if her intestines were tying itself into knots. Her nerves are making a simple jump bring a bout of sickness she had not felt since her first year at the academy adjusting to this very same maneuver.

A shaky landing met her as she attempted to steady her breathing before she carefully ascended the steep ground. The mighty footfalls of her steed crushing stones large and small underfoot without pause as she pushed toward her designated nav point. In moments she might be facing her first bit of real combat she thought. Her heart thumped and threatened to shake her focus, but with an effort of will, the young warrioress held steady. Ingrained training kicked in, and she began final pre-battle checks, floods of information flowing through her neural implant as she dived into her BattleMechs systems.

Symbols scrolled across her neurohelments visor, and her vision expanded to take in everything that the Mech's external sensor arrays could pick up. To an untrained mind, it would have been violently overwhelming experience, a merging of man and machine, and a maddening mechanical violation. Which to an individual unused to their mech it could easily cause severe headaches or worse- brain damage. For Lyris, it was a sort of ascension. Adrenaline surged, then focused to a brilliant point. Nausea fled, along with the feeling of the harnesses and straps that encased her to her seat. Soon she crested the hill and saw the dropship for herself.

The vessel was ramshackle and seemed to be in poor repair even from here, but it was still too far away to discern armaments or exact model type. However, from the state of the ship alone, she would hazard a guess that it was indeed likely to be periphery trash of some sort. What could they be thinking? Nevermind that they came to a world as well guarded like Steelton, to begin with, but why had they decided to land here so near a comm station relay of all places?

Over her Mech's head fluttered flights of recon drones. Released from the rearguards carriers together the drones would form a low-altitude sensor-web that would significantly enhance the sensory acuity of the Mechs below. Meanwhile, Lyris kept her eyes on the massive sphere of steel and iron. Waiting for further instruction until a thought suddenly occurred to her. Lyris quickly flipped a switch activating her comms, "Captain will we be sending an advance warning and demand their immediate surrender?"

---

---

"Sir," Brauer said, "one of our boys just saw laser fire."

"Confirmed," Miles said a moment afterward. "The drone carrier has just reported the loss of one of its drones near the treeline just after it began to transmit sensor readings. The data is being recovered now."

Mazigh took a deep breath, then looked to Brauer. "Inform Hart that we just lost a drone to enemy fire and are looking over the data now."

The First Lieutenant peered over Miles' shoulder, waiting for the sensors data to come in. It took a couple moments longer than Mazigh would've wanted, but when it did it provided enough information to go on. The first bit of information was recorded visually: a small, squat, stubby-legged mech turning and taking out the drone in one clean shot of its small laser... and behind it was a Harasser, a vehicle whose form Mazigh had always found distinctive thanks to the tail fin in the back. It was a nasty hovercraft to say the least. His eyes returned back to the mech and its unusually large gun...

"Definitely pirates," he muttered as he saw one of the decals on its armor: a snake wrapped around a sword. He didn't recognize the other one - it was some sort of ill-conceived pin-up girl decal - but he assumed it was either a personal one or the lance's symbol.

"Electromagnetic sensors indicated the presence of another vehicle identical to the one in the recording," Miles said.

Mazigh turned back to his own station and took a quick breath. "HQ to all units," he began in his stern and deep voice, transmitting the message to both the recon lance and the hovercraft. "Be advised. Hostiles identified near the treeline, probably from the Oberon Confederation - pirates. They've got one Urbanmech with a small laser and an AC 20, and there are at least two Harasser hovercraft seismic didn't pick up. They pack SRM 6's and can move faster than anything we have. Keep your distance from the treeline if you can, and blast those Harassers before they get too close.

"And there are still more unidentified hostiles," Mazigh added. "I repeat: there are still more hostiles."

Johan heard the contact report. He inhaled sharply, what were the chances that there would be hostile contact, here, now? Just when he and this group of recruits were out on patrol. A group of 20t to 55t mechs and vehicles, more or less matching their own group. The only exception was that spheroid dropship. Fear gripped Johan when he thought about it, fighting a dropship was difficult even for experienced soldiers. He went though the types of dropships he learned in his combat identification course, and nearly every dropship that came to mind was armed to the teeth, with more than enough firepower to decimate a whole lance of mechs. Johan felt sweat on his palms and he wiped it off on his shorts, Captain Hart spoke again on the comlink, explaining their rules of engagement. The Captain was right, he was presuming they were all hostile, while not a bad thing, there was a chance that they were scavengers or maybe another group of mercenaries playing a prank. Johan swallowed and followed his group as ordered, slow and steady, he raised his guns to ready position poised to fire.

The young pilot glanced around, taking up the rear of his lance. He was their heavy hitter, their fire support. If these contacts were in fact hostile, anyone brave enough to peek out would have a face full of laser or PPC. He remembered some stories from his father. Larger than life characters, fellow mercenaries, his father talked about striding towards battle with his brothers in arms. He felt a little bit of pride, those people in his father's stories were veteran MechWarriors, pilots of hundreds of combat hours, with dozens of kills to their name. Johan felt like he was living his father's stories, the mechs moving in formation, the escorting vehicles, the chatter. Though he wasn't as good a pilot as they were, and neither were many of his Lancemates, maybe one day they would be up there and maybe one day someone would tell their stories to their kids. Johan, emboldened by this, gripped his control stick a little tighter and kept his eyes on the horizon awaiting further orders, a smile tugging at his lips.

"HQ to all units, be advised. Hostiles identified near the treeline, probably from the Oberon Confederation - pirates." Lt. Mazigh reported. Johan's smile fell, definitely hostile then. He listened to the rest of the Lieutenant's report. An Urbanmech with an AC20 and small laser... he thought about which variant it was, and with a little assistance from his Rifleman's computers, it was most likely a UM-R60L. Johan patted the side of his front console a few times as he analyzed the information displayed on his neurohelmet. The UM-R60L carried the immensely powerful AC20, but it had the drawback of being only 30t making ammunition was extremely limited. The weight of the cannon also required some armor to be stripped off the light mech. Johan recalled from his classes that the Urbanmech was a slow, often thought of as a joke battlemech, but in urban environments where its strengths lie, it was more than capable. In this open ground though, the Urbanmech was at a disadvantage. The Harassers, as Lt. Mazigh reported, were extremely quick hovercraft packing powerful SRM6's. The computer assisted again, listing their tonnage, estimated armor, and speed. He was right. They were fast, extremely fast, but their armor was light. Johan blinked a few times and moved his torso left to right, scanning the horizon with his weapons, half expecting a Harasser or two to come speeding by. The hovercraft concerned him, they had the speed to quickly flank his battlemech and put more than a few SRM's into his back, even though he had the UAV covering him he wasn't sure if he could respond in time... but the AC20 on that Urbanmech was a threat as well, strong enough to crack open his mech with a single volley. Johan dismissed these thoughts and checked his heat gauge once more, becoming more and more anxious as they approached their enemy.
Johan thumbed his communications, speaking quickly, "Our plan, Captain?"

Her pleasant conversation with Bjornson had been interrupted by the call of contacts and Harper saved any clever replies for after any potential combat, she wasn't sure some of the other pilots could handle maintaining a decent level of banter without losing control of their BattleMechs. More importantly, for all her relaxed mannerisms and terrifying ability to annoy the Lyrans, Harper was serious when required, but it took some effort, sometimes a lot of effort, sometimes all of her effort.

Pirates with BattleMechs were unwelcome enough, although Harper was never sure if an UrbanMech was scary or just adorable in a very incompetent sort of way, pirates with a DropShip were however more problematic. It wasn't exactly news to anyone in the Periphery that if the Oberon Confederation had decided to conduct some raids again, but it struck Harper as a bit strange for them to target a planet with a sizable number of BattleMechs, she couldn't imagine some up gunned pirates wanted to face the Star Guards, not that pirates were always the most intelligent or logical bunch, desperation and a need for supplies had a way of driving them to strange acts of mad bravery...

Still out of range and without the proverbial green light to engage, Harper simply kept up her advance, making sure to keep up with Bjornson, while maintaing her spacing, wary as she was of any unfriendly LRMs.

Taking a deep breath, Harper couldn't help but feel a sense of giddy anticipation, this was what she had been training for, this is what she'd been suffering through the better part of four years with a bunch of arrogant nobles that thought they could actually fight for, and above all, she'd never liked pirates very much.

"Overwatch element, advance until you acquire targets and engage. Concentrate fire on targets together and call them out. Keep it to LRM's and AC's, rest the lasers until you need them." That was a nod to the heat from Hart. "Keep them busy with your fire. Do not close distance at this time."

"Rat 1-5, I want support weapons targeted to the coordinates I am sending you. I want your spotter in reserve to designate new targets at discretion once we engage," fingers clicking against a nine-key board to designate grid reference.

"The rest of you advance slowly to keep the heat down as much as possible. Eichberg, you are tasked with engaging the Urbanmech at range when you visually acquire it, I want that thing destroyed. We will provide close support and keep any friends this pirate has off flanks. We are at standoff range until that Urbie is destroyed."

Mattlov eased his way forward on the orders, along with Wulfhart and Burns, mindful of the scope, and one ear on the comms.

"Rat 2-2 here, identifying a T-D-R variant, looks like a retrofitted 5S, nonstandard armament." He gave a feather-light touch of his trigger, firing the autocannon with a terrifically loud snap of the weapon and the clang of the ammunition system. Not for nothing Mattlov had a loving affinity with autocannons that included listening for the sound of another round chambering. No lasers, and the SRM's were not in range, so he settled his mech into a good outcropping for cover, giving the barest sort of exposure he could give and still fire.

The Thunderbolt was turning, with a mostly torso-mounted array of weapons. He was already calculating his shift back into cover, after the second shot...if he timed it right, he might even get a good torso hit instead of a piece of the arm, like the first shot. His thought processes noted the registering of the hit and the next squeeze of the trigger without necessarily bringing it into the forward conscious. A mechwarrior, his mother told, fought in the machine, with his consciousness, even the parts not overtaken by the neurohelmet's connection, finding itself in a symbiotic relationship with the machine.

Blue, crackling light, a hateful little comet, pounded against the nearby rock that he'd just gotten to cover behind, chipping off a portion of it and briefly flaring too brightly for the flare compensators to properly match for a half a second.

"PPC fire," he noted coldly to his lancemates, "Far range, accurate," he further noted.

Teamwork. His father told him tall tales about his exploits as a mercenary, him and his fellow mercs tackling impossible odds and coming out on top, in a huge variety of situations in a plethora of environments. There was one constant in all of the stories that his father stressed. Teamwork. Through communication, effort and cooperative action you create teamwork, and with teamwork you can overcome things that would normally be impossible. Johan heard his orders, he was tasked with destroying the Urbanmech. The small pilot swallowed, he dictated his teams whole advance, if he wasn't able to destroy that Urbanmech quickly, all of his lancemates would be bogged down. Johan slowed his advanced and kept a large chunk of raised rock in between him and the pirates. Maybe... maybe he didn't need to explicitly destroy the Urbanmech. The most dangerous thing about the light mech was it's AC/20, which Johan recalled was mounted in it's right arm mount. He remembered that there was a massive textbook back at the NAIS, it had the armor values of nearly every single mech deployed in the modern day. Extensive live fire weapons testing gave that textbook highly accurate information as to how much firepower a mech could take before it's armor was stripped off, and how much it could take before being completely destroyed. The Urbanmech R-60L. Luckily the NAIS had their hands on at least one, since the data was listed on Johan's neurohelmet. He quickly scanned the information before stepping his Rifleman out and peering over the horizon, searching for the shape of an Urbanmech. The armor on the right arm mount of a UM-R60L was astoundingly light, and it would take only a little bit more than one PPC blast to take off the arm entirely.

"Rat 2-2 here, identifying a T-D-R variant, looks like a retrofitted 5S, nonstandard armament." Johan heard through his radio. A retrofitted mech was trouble, but for right now not his trouble. Johan focused on finding that Urbanmech... until he saw a blur of movement from the corner of his eye, and shot out from it a blue bolt from a PPC. "PPC fire. Far range, accurate," Johan heard again, he kept his eye near where he saw the fire.
There! The broad shoulders, inverted triangle torso shape, and iconic mouth shaped cockpit shape, it was most likely a panther. But as soon as it came up, it fell back down to whatever ground depression it was running along. Jumpjets. Johan knew there was a river, perhaps it was running down it? Johan clicked his communications open but whatever words that came out were stammered and incoherent, he shut it off, embarrassed and recalled his father once more. Every single time his father wanted him to look at something, a bird, a food stand, a nice looking car, he would always say 'look' first. The alert. Then where it was, what it was, then whatever additional information. His father always stressed that communication was a major part of teamwork. Johan tried again.

"Contact! Far! East-South-East, bearing One-Zero-Seven! Um... Likely Panther with PPC! Running southwards, using jump jets to fire at us!" Johan made sure to shout over whatever gunfire there was. He had his Rifleman step out a little more, hoping that the enemy Thunderbolt was busy engaging with Mattlov's Shadowhawk. Johan scanned for the Urbanmech, and he found it beyond the Thunderbolt, using it as cover from Mattlov, but the Thunderbolt couldn't protect the Urbanmech from two. Johan halted his rifleman, swung the torso around and took a quick second to sight in his target. The Urbanmech was running at top speed towards the treeline, Johan selected his Rifleman's left arm PPC and squeezed the trigger, a bolt of lightning shooting out towards the Urbanmech's rear right torso. The shot was intended to disable the ammo feed, and possibly disable the whole arm along with it, but at the last moment it twisted it's torso to the right. The shot smacked against the gun housing of the Urbanmech's right arm, where it had it's armor. The armor soaked up most of the impact and damage, though the internal systems of the arm was damaged. The arm began to spark and smoke, but it still wasn't destroyed, and the AC/20 was likely still in play. Johan was about to follow up with a single large laser to take it's arm off, but the enemy Thunderbolt responded. Johan saw it twist it's torso to aim at his Rifleman, and Johan reactively twisted his own torso to defend against the incoming attack. Johan looked over and saw two bright green lasers lance out, medium lasers, and they zapped at Johan's right gun arm. His BattleMech told him that it felt the lasers raking towards the gun barrels, scorching and melting armor plating as it went along. The Thunderbolt was aiming to damage his gun barrels! Johan lowered his gun arms to avoid this, and the last split second of the incoming medium lasers shot past Johan's cockpit, going past him now that his arms were out of harms way.

Johan grit his teeth and took another step forward, putting his Rifleman into a crouch. He only had a few precious moments now before the Urbanmech reached the treeline. Johan twisted his Rifleman's torso towards the enemy and brought his gun arms up to bear, the Urbanmech had just reached the treeline but if he was fast enough... the left gun arm again, large laser this time. A brilliant blue beam burned forward, striking the Urbanmech in the back. Johan brought the beam towards it's right, where the heavily damaged gun arm was, but it responded by twisting left, presenting its undamaged left side. Despite this Johan kept the beam on target, if he wasn't going to have it's gun arm, he was going to damage it as much as he could with this laser. The Urbanmech swung left, using the trees as cover and concealment. The laser sliced through one tree with ease, the palm tree falling over with a crash. The laser halted before it could cut through the second tree, it leaned, while on fire, splintered with an audible crack and impacted another tree as it fell over. Then the Urbanmech disappeared behind a cluster of denser trees.
Johan muttered a curse, frustrated, and stood his mech up again. He walked backwards back into cover, putting Mattlov's Shadowhawk and the rock between him and the Thunderbolt. He wanted to cool off his mech, despite it being only around the halfway mark. As soon as he got into cover, he thumbed his communications again, "Johan reporting. Urbanmech's right arm is heavily damaged, left side is slightly damaged. It disappeared in the trees. Currently cooling at half heat capacity and on standby."
Johan thought about that short engagement. There were Harassers reported with the Urbanmech... where had they gone? And that Panther moving south towards the patch of trees, where the Urbanmech disappeared into... they were regrouping their light mechs, possibly. But these were just speculations, Johan didn't want to bother the Captain with useless information. Once Johan cooled off entirely, he thought about repaying that Thunderbolt back with a large laser or two.

---

---

Lyris felt a moment of panic as every lesson she had ever learned fled her mind. For a second her mech hesitated, shuddering on the spot. Angrily, the young mechwarrior thrust the feeling aside and engaged her motive actuators. Lyris's Griffen then moved briskly through the uneven terrain with smooth strides that crushed stone and rock alike underfoot. The ground shook beneath her tread and targeting data filled her thoughts as her gamma-ray cannon powered up. Lyris moved up, maneuvering her striding mech suit in behind Peter’s and matching his pace. She quickly split to the left using the spine of rocks in the mountain ridge as cover as Peter's Shadow Hawk was suddenly engaged at extreme range by what looked to be a TDR battlemech- an Thunderbolt of all things.

Breaking line of sight with the Thunderbolt Lyris slowed her stride as she faced the direction of the enemy mech. She quickly plugged into the sensor-network created by the UAV drones still active. Their sensor boosting operation allowed her to lock onto the Thunderbolt. She unconsciously leaned back as her mech mirrored the movement while her steeds feet locked into place entrancing itself. Data flooded her vision as the Thunderbolt appeared on her sensor map as an angry flashing icon. She thumbed her trigger willing her shoulder mounted LRM online, an instant later Lyris heard the characteristic 'thump 'thump' of missiles flying free of their pods from even within the confines of her cockpit.

The missiles soared skyward into the air at an angle, looking to the world like a smoking trail of burning comets. Gravity soon took over as they angled back toward the ground sharply, while the last burst of speed from their now spent fuel reserves launched them down straight toward the Thunderbolt. The considerable volume was impressive, though given the accuracy of the LRM's Lyris did not expect them all to hit- while those that did would likely only cause superficial damage against such a massive and well-armored machine. Still, she recalled from her training that enough impact could very well unbalance such a top-heavy mech. Combined with a well-placed shot from Peter's AC they might very well knock it off balance at the very least.

She heard the loud music on the wind, momentarily drowned out by the screaming rockets screeching through the air. She shook her head slightly at the bizarreness of it all. Perhaps these pirates were insane after all?

"blöd," she breathed under her breath.

The question of whether or not any of this was truly real was answered by the sound of an autocannon shot echoing throughout the blistering sands. Contact had been made- the enemy had opened fire on them first. One of the rear echelon's recon drones had been turned to slag. Bjornson felt a swelling in his chest. Some concoction of excitement and fear broiled inside of him at that thunderous sound of cannon fire. He held fast to his controls and listened to the orders dished out by Captain Hart. He was a part of the team advancing alongside the Captain, toward the enemy. They were meant to move slowly. Apparently, the drones had spotted out a particularly dangerous mech that would tear them apart in close quarters. It was up to the team's designated marksman to disable or destroy that mech to allow the rest of the team to move into range.

Han didn't like waiting, but he didn't particularly enjoy being blown up either, so he decided to do as he was ordered. He pulled back on his speed, changing the direction of his Wolfhound to avoid moving too closely. Han kept himself at an angle, slowly inching forward as his sensor array picked up more and more targets within the treeline. The pirates had many among their numbers, it seemed, and they were packing quite a bit of firepower. Most of it appeared to be close range in nature, however, so Bjornson wasn't too worried about receiving return fire as he moved into range for his ER Large Laser.

His assumption was proved incorrect when PPC fire nearly took Mattlov's head off.

"Shit." The nobleman cursed under his breath, searching for the origin point of the shot. Mattlov and the other Overwatch units had the cover of the mountain to aid them. But Bjornson and the rest of the advancing team were out in the open, and a well placed particle cannon shot could immobilize any one of them. "Anybody have eyes on that PPC shooter?!" Bjornson barked over the comms, his head on a swivel as he tried to identify where it came from- but he couldn't see any mechs with that loadout. He noticed Eichberg had turned on his radio, but all that came out was blabbered nonsense.

'Come on, little one- what did you see?' Eichberg wasn't like most pilots Bjornson had encountered. He was quiet and reserved, rarely showing confidence outside of direct battle. But he was also damn near a savant when it came to firing those guns of his. If anyone in the lance had seen where the shot originated, it'd be their own sniper.

Han held his breath, watching as Eichberg's comms once more flared to life. This time, though his voice sounded shaky, coordinates followed. Bjornson couldn't help the grin that spread across his lips as he flipped on his own comms. "Excellent work, Eichberg!" Though the boy wasn't Lyran, Han could not deny his usefulness. "A little faster on the draw next time would be appreciated, however." Praise could not come without criticism; for they were still students, and they could not be allowed to rest on their laurels.

They had identified where the fire was coming from- the river. A Panther was using jumpjets to fire at them from the safety of the curve in the terrain. Han knew he could take it out, but not with the Thunderbolt and Urbanmech standing within range. He changed his course to move in the direction of the Panther without getting close enough to be engaged by the other two mechs. "Rall," Han briefly considered referring to the rat by something less than savory, but chose not to; in the heat of the moment, he could not afford damaging team cohesion. Even if he did loathe the woman. "On me. We're going to deal with that pest in the river." If he was getting this close, Bjornson needed backup. If he failed to take down the Panther or if one of those Harassers appeared, he'd need the Wolverine to assist. It was up to their rifleman to take down the Urbie. Han could've provided support in dealing with the Thunderbolt, given his own range, however...

'If I fire now, I won't have the heat capacity to engage the Panther with everything I have.' Han wanted to take the other mech down in short order, if he could; it's weaponry was too deadly for him to allow it to remain in play for long. He had to hope that Eichberg could handle the pressure from those two on his own. 'Don't let me down, little one.' Bjornson prayed.

He watched the exchange on his map. Information poured in through his Neurohelmet on the battle that raged to his rear. Han kept himself moving straight at a little over half speed, his hand ready to twist to the right to make for the river the moment he was clear to engage. Sweat dribbled down his nose. Teeth clenched tight, Han waited with baited breath.

Then the report came in from Eichberg. He'd damaged the Urbie badly enough to drive it back into the trees. "Wunderbar! Well done." The Urbanmech was no longer in play, at least for the time being. That meant he was clear to advance. Though, the Thunderbolt would be an issue...such a massive mech would shrug off his lasers without much difficulty, and it's own arsenal could tear his own light mech apart. Still, even if it did present a danger, Bjornson couldn't hesitate. He turned his Wolfhound, beginning his approach toward the river as he rapidly increased his vehicle's footspeed.

"I'm moving in to take out that Panther, cover me!" It turned out that Han's request had been superfluous, seeing as how Wulfhart was already pouring fire onto the Thunderbolt. Missiles rained down like divine wrath from heaven, bombarding the heavy mech's position with burning pain. "You have my thanks, Wulf." With the Thunderbolt off balance and the pilot's attention on the Overwatch team, Bjornson was free to enter the riverbed without fear of instant reprisal.

Han felt the ground vanish from underneath him as he guided his Wolfhound to leap down into the slight gulch. It returned a second later as the entire cockpit vibrated violently, Bjornson's stomach turning at the impact. "Really, girl? Now?" He growled. Those shock absorbers were going to get him killed if they didn't pull themselves together. The Wolfhound turned to face down the river, spouting out the little bastard that had opened fire on Mattlov earlier. The Panther had spotted Han on his approach and had prepared by turning to face him.

A critical error that would result in the pilot's demise.

Before Bjornson had fully brought his Wolfhound to bear, a particle projector shot rang out. Echoing like thunder it exploded through the gulch, slamming against the front torso armor. It reverberated through the cockpit as Han clutched his controls until his knuckles were white, his eyes pressed shut as heat rushed into the compartment.

The particle cannon had hit like a runaway freight train, forcing the Wolfhound off it's center of balance. Han intentionally let the light mech fall down onto a knee to avoid falling over entirely. The earth shook with every movement from the massive mechanical nightmare. The shot had caused his armor to cave inward. Coolant was leaking from a damaged heat sink down the machine's side like vibrantly blue blood. A gargantuan palm pressed against the damaged armor, blocking up the wound to avoid further leakage for a short time.

Han responded by lifting up his Large Laser, turning the massive weapon on his brash foe. He lined the crosshairs over the Panther's right arm. Bjornson kept his breathing steady, his heart practically bursting through his chest as he took careful aim. "To hell with you." Han snarled, squeezing the trigger. A brilliant flash of light at the end of his gun shined as the thick laser cut through the air, the Panther's weapon awash in holy pyre.

Waves of unbearable heat assaulted Bjornson from every angle. His remaining nine single heat sinks worked to keep the mech's interior and exterior as cool as physically possible in the desert heat. Thankfully the river's waters would more than make up for the damaged sink, allowing Han to continue fighting without worrying about passing out in his cockpit just from firing his weapons.

The Panther wasn't finished. Though it's weapon was suffering from major overheating issues and a damaged barrel, it still pressed forward nonetheless. Han watched, his brow furrowing at the sight. 'Damn it, it has SRMs.' The pirate was looking to close in and let loose a volley of missiles. Bjornson brought up the ranges on the missiles on his HUD, reading them off quickly as he shifting his mech to stand back up. He had a one hundred meter advantage in range with his three medium lasers, though the Panther would do more damage if it managed to land all of it's rockets.

'Keep out of range, then.' Han prepped his medium lasers, the Wolfhound finally rising back to it's full, impressive height. The river was too tight for the Panther to perform any significant maneuvers; it was a sitting duck. Bjornson loosed a full volley from all three of his close range weapons, letting the trio of colorful beams slash along the front side of the Panther. It's chest armor glowed a vibrant orange as steel melted underneath the concentrated fire. Han started to back away, his feet stomping through the water as he waited for his weapons to cool down enough to allow a second shot from his Large laser.

"Come on then, you bastard! I know you've got more than that in you!"

Movement. A target standing still too long was easily acquired. Maneuverability for most of their mechs was the advantage; a Thunderbolt was a big, dangerous mech of normal maneuverability in its class. Urbanmechs and Panthers were heavy on the guns and armor, but slower.

The FedComs had faster mechs, but they had to actually move to use that advantage. The Thunderbolt might not have him, but it would eventually find the angle.

And so Mattlov pushed the Shadow Hawk off the position of temporary safety as the Thunderbolt was already in motion, moving to the left of the big mech even as it started to turn the corner on the position and obtain the angle with the PPC.

He risked the rake of medium laser fire to do that. A laser fired for a small amount of time, though good marksmen strove to keep the lasers on target. Pulse lasers were easier-- they fired more power in a quicker fashion, often landing more accurately in one location. Betting on the idea that a periphery pilot would be using the old fashioned kind, he swung his arms and torso around to try and spread some of that damage across the right arm and right torso, to avoid a penetration of internal components.

The Thunderbolt also had a blind spot there, from its LRM, that prevented the pilot from easily seeing what was going on to his right. That was an advantage as well.

Mattlov could tell that he took some damage, but he saw the big mech was starting to vent heat, even as he opened up the distance. This made him vulnerable to LRM and PPC fire, but he had the advantage of agility.

He even fired the jets...and on the landing, raked with his own large laser fire at the Thunderbolt's arm. He kept an eye on his own heat, but the Shadow Hawk had upgraded heat sinks and the design was designed to run cool; if the laser started to spike the heat, and the Star League-era ERLL's did that, he could go back to the autocannon. But he was saving it, because the ammo it loaded was an experimental type, armor piercing and heavier than the normal...which meant that his bins carried less of it to keep the weight from straining the mech.

So far, a piece of the TDR's left torso ripped off from a pair of autocannon hits, and the arm scarred from laser fire at the cost of three medium laser hits to his own right torso and arm. But he was forcing the slower mech to turn. The bastard had interior lines to compensate for Mattlov's speed.

The hills they were in and out of had different outcroppings and folds in the land, and his roll-out maneuver put him north of his enemy. It was possible to fire the jets and land behind an outcropping for cover. But he'd have to do it all over again. Instead, he aimed to position himself between the TDR and the water. He'd have to take more fire for it, but at least he'd force his enemy into the rocks. And his enemy wasn't dissipating Steelton's heat all that well...