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    BattleTech: Eclipse: BattleTech
    BattleTech: Eclipse: BattleTech
    BattleTech: Eclipse: BattleTech
    Ebook111 pages1 hour

    BattleTech: Eclipse: BattleTech

    By Jason Schmetzer

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    About this ebook

    DANGER AT EVERY TURN...

    It is 3072, and holy Jihad rages in the Inner Sphere. Soon after they launched their war in 3067, the mystical Word of Blake sprung out from their base on Terra and claimed dozens of worlds, creating a Word of Blake Protectorate. While many of those worlds joined voluntarily, some others hosted resistance movements. On one such world, Ruchbah, the resistance hired mercenary help.

    Captain Jeremiah Youngblood and his Crescent Hawks have an enviable legacy to live up to. Not only are they trying to find their own place in the Inner Sphere, outside of the deep shadows cast by the elite Kell Hounds, but some still remember another Jeremiah Youngblood and another group of Crescent Hawks. Can the new live up to the reputation of the old? Can they survive, almost alone on a hostile world where the Word of Blake holds almost every advantage?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCatalyst Game Labs
    Release dateAug 22, 2012
    ISBN9781386537168
    BattleTech: Eclipse: BattleTech

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      Book preview

      BattleTech - Jason Schmetzer

      ECLIPSE

      Chapter One

      Forty Kilometers East of Sand Gnat Cove

      Ruchbah

      Word of Blake Protectorate

      21 July 3072

      The first shapes to break the water were the angled air intakes of the massive jump jets on the Phoenix Hawk’s back. Brackish coastal water cascaded down the green-and-black camouflage paint job on the ’Mech, coursing in runnels through the molded armor, obscuring the blue-and-black insignia on the Hawk’s shoulder for several seconds. Only the gold of the crescent moon behind the Hawk’s head in the insignia was visible in the morning light.

      No contacts, the pilot said.

      More shapes broke the surface, staggered along the beachfront. Higher and higher the shapes climbed, slogging through the soft sand, water cascading off them in sheets. The water rushed in to fill the meter-deep footprints they left, an even dozen sets.

      And we’re going to talk again about the CO being the first ’Mech to the beach, the pilot of the hulking Awesome said, its turret-like waist rotating back and forth as it scanned the distant wood line. A small cottage town blotted the landscape about two kilometers down, but nothing was moving this early in the morning.

      Like we were all going to wait for your slow ass to lead us out, the Phoenix Hawk’s pilot said. The forty-five ton ’Mech gestured with the PPC clutched in its right fist. Let’s get off the beach. We’re still ten kays from our rendezvous, and I think the early-risers in town have seen enough, don’t you?

      Permission to scout ahead, sir? The speaker, pilot of a slender Wraith, pointed with his ’Mech’s left arm. The rest of its lance, slender lightweight machines all, maneuvered around it, anticipating the order.

      Go, the Phoenix Hawk said. Movement in column. Order of march is Pursuit, Striker, Command. The Phoenix Hawk’s head rotated, looking back at the sea from which they’d come. Let’s go find the locals, he said.

      As long as they’re friendly, the Awesome’s pilot said.

      Yeah, Captain Jeremiah Youngblood said. Crescent Hawks, move out.

      Keep walking, Toll Packard whispered, watching the Protectorate Militia ’Mechs moving across his heads-up display. Beneath him, the command couch of his six-delta Hatchetman vibrated with restrained power, but he ignored it. He was counting on the heavy tarp—liberally threaded with ablative and radar-absorbing fabrics—to hide his signature from the Blakist troops. There were six of them, four ’Mechs and two armored personnel carriers. That meant four MechWarriors and a whole boatload of leg infantry. Or battlesuits.

      Toll was just one ’Mech. He blinked, slowly, ignoring the images that sprang to mind as the light faded away. He saw Keri’s ’Mech moving, saw the white specters rise up behind her. He saw the missiles come in. He saw the shattered cockpit. He opened his eyes. His breaths came quickly, short and hurried. The Blakists were still moving.

      There’s nothing to see here, he whispered. No unknown ’Mech, no new mercenaries, nothing. Just keep moving. All the way back to Bharat Ur.

      The lead Blakist, a forty-ton Clint, held up its left fist and halted. The other ’Mechs stopped, weapons at the ready. The Hatchetman’s sensors beeped softly as new targeting sensors queried the landscape around him. Damn it, Toll whispered. He blinked again. Behind his eyes, he saw Keri scream.

      They had better be worth this, Toll whispered.

      The Clint turned its head toward Toll’s hiding place. He reached out and toggled a control on his communications console. A light on his touchpad flared to life, announcing its readiness. One touch of his finger and the Hatchetman’s computer would squeal a burst transmission with his position and the odds. The rest of the local resistance would hear, along with the newly-landed mercs, if they were local and remembered to bring the right codes.

       Are you coming? Toll asked the Clint.

      The forty-ton ’Mech turned and moved toward him. Toll grimaced, stabbed the SEND button, and grasped his controls. A flourish with the massive hatchet carried in the ’Mech’s right arm cleared the camouflage tarp away, and he straightened the Hatchetman out of its hidden crouch. He spread the ’Mech’s arms wide, taunting the Protectorate Militia force.

      Here I am, he shouted, using his ’Mech’s external speakers to blast the sound across the landscape. Then he smashed the Hatchetman’s throttle to the forward stops and dialed his rotary autocannon to its highest setting. The Clint broke into a sprint to match him, its right-arm PPC coming up, static electricity snapping around the black maw of the weapon.

      Here I am, Toll whispered.

      The Phoenix Hawk raised its right-arm PPC as the trees in front of it shivered, but the slender Talon that stepped clear of the hanging limbs was painted in Crescent Hawk colors. Jeremiah Youngblood raised the weapon out of line and dialed for a low-power radio.

      Sir, the Talon’s pilot reported, Lieutenant Levine’s compliments and we’ve monitored a zip-squeal transmission. Locals under attack, maybe two kilometers ahead, by the signal strength.

      Jeremiah thought for a moment. It made sense for the resistance to have a unit out watching for them. They’d arrived on schedule, despite dropping further offshore than they’d intended. It had been a minor miracle that no one had suffered more than armor damage in the drop, but he was too experienced to think things would go that well for the whole contract.

      Dan Allard had sounded damned optimistic on Graceland, right before he bought it.

      What’s her assessment? he asked. The rest of his Command Lance gathered around them, listening in on the low-energy conversation.

      It’s a picket out screening for us, she said. The ell-tee, she pushed on ahead.

      Dangerous, Lieutenant Klatt rumbled from his hulking Awesome.

      She’s a scout, Lena Roderick put in. Hush.

      It could be a trap, Jer, Klatt said.

      And it could just be bad luck, Jer said. He waved them forward. Return to your lance, he told the Talon. We’re following right behind. He pushed the Phoenix Hawk into the path the lighter Talon was clearing. The rest of his lance followed.

      There was the click of a private channel opening, and then Klatt’s voice filled Jer’s helmet. On-planet for less than ten hours and we’re already forcing an engagement?

      These people pay the bills, Jer said. We’re under contract. How’s it going to look if we just let one of them die?

      And if it’s a trap?

      Jer shrugged as much as his restraints would allow. We don’t need to be paid to kill Blakists, do we?

      Toll grimaced as his seat punched him in the back. The Hatchetman was sprinting forward, moving at its top speed of eighty-six kilometers per hour. He kept the crosshairs for his Mydron cannon on the center of the Clint’s chest, watched the range count down, gauged the closing rate, and judged it okay. He looked at the tactical screen.

      The Clint’s mates were spreading out behind him. A long-limbed Trebuchet was moving toward the cover of a hillock encrusted with saplings.  The other two ’Mechs, identical beneath their white paint, moved behind the Clint. They were thirty-ton Valkyries, familiar to Toll from his years in the AFFS. He looked them over, nodded once, and filed them for later. His speed should keep him safe from their missiles. He looked for the APCs.

      Damn, he whispered. A dozen red icons appeared, infantrymen in powered armor, already leaping across the terrain at him. The Hatchetman’s computer compared data and then flashed a schematic on the screen at him: generic battle armor, not one of the custom-built suits that had proliferated over the last decade.

      Hairs stood on his exposed forearms as the Clint’s PPC

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