Chapter 10
BattleMech Training Facility, 2nd BattleMech Training Battalion
West of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Dominion of Canada
27 January 2016 S.E.C.
16 November 3058 I.S.C.
An arctic chill was settled on the Manitoban prairie and had created a frost on the grass. Even though it was below freezing outside of her Crab BattleMech, Misty was sweating. Not only from the tension in trying to keep her fifty ton war machine balanced, but from the heat that was being generated by her 'Mech's lasers. To top it off Misty completely hated the sensation of the coolant circulating through her gray cooling vest. It beats beatings and shocks, though, she mused while keeping her Crab in stride over the darkened prairie to move closer to their firing range targets, leaving three-toed footprints in the grass behind her.
Painted in a dull brown to match the prairie terrain, a Thorn jogged up beside Misty's Crab. Inside the light 'Mech, Shannon Quincy was grinning ferally at the sight of the demolished target on her holotank. "Four out of five missiles," Quincy chuckled, "damn I'm good."
A Timber Wolf in the Alpha configuration moved up between them, with Wolf Clan markings adorned on it's torso and the sides of it's jutting head. "Well done," Star Colonel Radick stated from his OmniMech. "That was at twice the standard range our MechWarriors engage from."
"Lucky shot," Misty scoffed.
"Perhaps so, Private Verdes," Radick agreed. "But you have also shown some proficiency in long range targeting. You fire your standard lasers from twice the range that Clan warriors use their extended range models, and over a kilometer beyond their own usual range."
"And that's a problem?"
"I am sure you've noticed the difficulties in aiming accurately."
Misty nodded. At the long ranges she tried to use, the targeting systems frequently scrambled, and would miss even if she had a proper lock. It was something Misty was slowly getting used to, and she could honestly see why most MechWarriors from the Clans and Inner Sphere wouldn't bother with it. The only reason she bothered was because Sinclair insisted. It made sense, after all, that the Clans would be very surprised to see them engaging them from well outside normal range. "Yeah, I've noticed," she said aloud into the comms.
"That is it for you two. Return to the hanger, it has been a long day and we still have some debriefing analysis to go over before it is over."
Misty took her hand off one of her targeting joysticks and instinctively tried to wipe her forehead. When her hand made contact with her neurohelmet's face plate she cursed under her breath and turned the 'Mech around. She brought the Crab into a quick jog of about 70 kilometers per hour. Quincy's Thorn ran past her, Quincy's voice laughing in the comm. "Slow poke, hurry it up Misty!"
"Shannon, try to remember that this thing is over twice as heavy as your little thing," Misty retorted. She jokingly thought about firing her medium and small lasers into Quincy's back. Not only would it be painfully easy at that range, but the Thorn's light armor would not be able to stand up to it. Of course, the backdraw was that it could kill Quincy, who's sexual sense of humor appealed to Misty in some vulgar fashion that she could not actually comprehend.
"Excuses, excuses," the older woman cackled over the comm as she broke her 'Mech into a run. Misty considered pushing her 'Mech to it's limits in an open sprint but opted against it. She slowed the jog and flipped on the Crab's front light as she approached the base, an outline of small dots and slants of light against the dark eastern horizon. Her sensor display indicated an extra two contacts were on their way in. She recognized the profiles of a lanky Vulcan and the curved Conjurer as they moved in front of her, just behind Quincy's Thorn. She slowed down and keyed her comm system. "This is Trainee Four. Do I have room to enter?"
A moment passed before a female voice replied, "Neg, Trainee Four. Trainees Nine and Eleven are currently moving into berth position. Give them another ten seconds before moving in."
Misty blew a huff of air out in some frustration. She wanted nothing more than to step into the shower and run warm water over her body to wash away the sweat from the long day. Misty brought the Crab to a tip-toe pace behind the Conjurer, taking care not to accidentally bump the other 'Mech. The Vulcan ahead of it stepped through the other side of the two-door temperature airlock. After the door slid closed behind it the Conjurer took a step in. "C'mon, hurry up, it shouldn't take that long to make sure the lock air temperature is high enough," she grumbled while the Conjurer stood inside the lock. After another three seconds the inside door opened and let the Conjurer enter. Misty flexed her right hand fingers and groaned loudly, growing sorely impatient. The outside door finally whirred open and admitted her Crab, and it took Misty incredible willpower to not try and rush into the airlock. The inside of the airlock was ten meters wide, six meters long, and seventeen meters high, built to accomodate even the largest BattleMechs. Equipment in place began pumping hot air into the lock to raise the internal temperature to above twenty degrees Centigrade. An indicator showed the temperature numeral, which was rising steadily. When it reached twenty the doors ahead of her cycled open. When the doors were clear Misty moved on to her berth, marked with a "4" numeral on the back wall. She turned the Crab around and backed it in until she felt a jolt, indicating she had made contact with the support structure for the Crab. After breathing in relief Misty pulled off the neurohelmet and the medical sensors. She wiped her left forearm across her forehead and felt the sweat on both mingle and create a slippery sensation. She reached to her left and opened the box drawer where the neurohelmet was stored. After pushing it in she released her harness strap and pressed a button on her command couch's side to flush the last remaining coolant from her cooling vest. That left the final step, which required her to pull a red bar to disengage her 'Mech's power plant. The slight throbbing in the cockpit ended as the fusion plant ceased it's operation and deprived the Crab of it's power. Misty threw open the side hatch for the cockpit and was greeting by a rising elevator, on which stood a lanky brown-haired man in a Clan "uniform". Her 'Mech's technician, Devlin, opened the side rail and helped Misty step onto it. "You are very impatient," he noted. His hand gripped a lever and pulled it down, causing the elevator to lower.
"I feel like crap, Devlin."
"Five hours is not that long a time to be in a BattleMech cockpit," Devlin agreed. "You are in need of a shower, quiaff?"
"Yeah." Misty pointed a finger at him. "What is it with you Clan types and your strange words? It's like I'm watching a bad sci-fi movie."
Devlin chuckled and countered, "What is it with you Earthers and your strange accents?"
"And why don't you use contractions?", Misty added quickly. "That strikes me as really far out. There's nothing wrong with a contraction."
"Perhaps not to you, but it is a vulgarity for us because it demeans the use of our version of English." Devlin put the lever back into a neutral position and opened the rail so that Misty could jump down to the ground.
"A vulgarity to use contractions?" Misty shook her head. "You Clannies are weird." She winked at him. "Take care, Dev."
"You should too, MechWarrior Misty."
Misty was already on her way to the bathroom and shower, but Devlin's use of her first name prompted her to turn back around. "Why my first name?"
"More habit." Devlin picked up a toolbox and lifted it onto the elevator. "We of the Clans do not have the surnames you do, save for our Bloodnamed warriors. So we always address each other by the given name."
"Oh, I see." Misty shrugged and walked on, eager to get to the bathroom and relieve herself.
The female showers were not private but it mattered little to Misty; her old high school's showers had been virtually the same. Misty chose the middle shower nozzle to wash under and ran a bar of soap over her skin, cleansing it of the day's dirt and grime. She ran the soap over her left breast and up toward her shoulder. A painful memory shot into her mind; it was the same spot Halbern had bruised the day he was killed. The spot he had touched her at after the last time he had made love to her. Misty slowly continued on while contemplating everything she and Halbern had enjoyed. From intimate moments together to public escapades, life with James Halbern had been one laugh after another. The pain in her soul from Halbern's death still agonized her.
"You okay, Misty? You seemed pretty impatient out there on your way in."
The bright soprano voice cut through Misty's internal pain and brought immediate recognition. The nozzle on her right had been taken up by the pilot of the Conjurer that Misty had followed in. Kylie Misato Magnusson was of her age, although smaller, and possessing of an exotic appearance because of mixed Swedish-Japanese descent. Her long blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a well-endowed bosom spoke of her Swedish descent; her short stature of five foot five and facial structure were distinctively Japanese. Kylie was not athletic in her build, in areas she had minor but visible fat buildup, with mostly flat skin save for the curves of her breasts and where her shoulder blades were slightly visible.
Misty looked over at Kylie and forced herself to grin. "Yeah, I wanted to get out of that damned 'Mech and into a nice shower."
"Me too," Kylie responded. She rubbed her bar of soap down over her left groin. "I hear you and Shannon shot up the range."
"We did well." Misty took a bottle of shampoo and poured a little into her hair. "I wonder where Shannon went off to?"
"Probably showering in the company quarters," Kylie snickered. "They're coed, and you know how she likes to flash off."
"Oh, yes."
"I hear she was a stripper before she got brought into the military," Kylie continued.
"It shows." Misty scrubbed at her scalp with her fingers, twirling strands of her black hair around her fingers. She opened her eyes just as a newcomer entered the shower. "Hello Longhorn."
A solid-built teenage girl, the same age as Misty and Kylie, stepped under the nozzle on Misty's left. April Cheryl Harverson was a blue-eyed brown-haired Texan who had completed Marine Corps boot camp just before being transferred to the 2nd Training Battalion. Of the three teenage girls she was probably the strongest physically. Years of physical training in preparation for a military career had made her muscles fully developed and prominent on her body, from her shoulders and neck down to her calves and ankles. Her body's low fat level was something that Misty knew most girls would envy, even though she lacked one of the more popular female physical attributes, with two small and compact breasts that appeared to be little more than small buds on her chest. To top it off April was tall for a teenage girl, standing at five foot eleven. Her height and size made her very imposing physically compared to the others, which Misty did not find as intimidating as the others considering that April was hardly an effective hand-to-hand combatant compared to Misty's extensive martial-arts training. "Hello Gophergirl."
Misty snickered while continuing to clean her hair. "We were just talking about Private Quincy. So, what do you think of Shannon?"
April faked thinking about it before answering in a very blunt tone, "Slut."
Kylie whistled, "She's direct."
"If I acted like that," April continued in her Texan accent, "my Daddy would disown me."
"Well, I admit that I think sex is pretty fun," Kylie stated. "And it's so fun watching the boys fight over me."
"I know the feeling." Water fell on Misty's hair as she put her head under the nozzle, rinsing the soap out. "Of course, I'm hardly as unique as you, Kylie."
"And what about you, April?" Kylie looked over at April. "I mean, ever had a boyfriend?"
"Nope," April replied. "I didn't have time for a social life, I was busy studying and training."
"Training?" Misty smirked at the thought of having "no social life". "Training for what?"
"Service." April picked up the bar of soap in front of her and began running it over her neck. "My family's got a long history in the Corps, on both sides. My sister and I were raised to join it."
"That sucks," Kylie muttered.
"I'll say." Misty shook her head. "My grandpa tried to brainwash me into Army service to the point that my parents stopped using him as a babysitter."
April did not look toward them, instead staring at the wall. "My sister and I were taught to fire guns after we turned ten. My father let us practice with his AR-15 after we turned sixteen."
"Poster family for the NRA, I see," Misty murmured, rolling her eyes.
Ignoring her comrade's comments, April continued. "Most of the girls in boot weren't ready for the intensive training, but I was. It was fun."
"Fun?" Kylie snorted. "Training is crap, it's too hard and it's dumb."
April's head snapped over at Kylie, and her blue eyes narrowed a little. "That training is what will save our lives in battle," April reminded her briskly.
"Hey, I didn't ask for this," Kylie barked in return. "I didn't exactly sign up of my own free will, y'know. I got a little notice in the mail that pretty much told me to report for military service or get arrested and forced into it."
"So you're another pampered bitch who thinks her freedom comes cheap." April's nostrils flared. "Thousands of our countrymen, your's and mine, have died in this war, and a lot more are going to die to try and stop Giuseppe. My sister Rebecca is probably in a shallow grave somewhere in Maryland right now. So stop thinking of yourself!"
"Perhaps Miss Patriot likes the thought of getting shot, but I sure as hell don't!"
Misty held up her arms in both directions. "Girls, let's not fight in the showers, okay. Let's at least wait until we're in the quarters area so we can charge the guys viewing fees."
Kylie and April exchanged glares for another moment before breaking them off. Misty shook her head and finished rinsing herself off while Kylie began washing her own hair. "You two try and get along," she muttered, reaching for the shower nozzle control. "I'm going to dry off and go to the quarters." She turned off the water flow and briskly stepped over to the towel shelf. She took a single white towel and draped it around her nude body, covering herself from her cleavage down to her thighs. After drying herself off Misty walked over to her assigned locker and drew out, in succession, her blue halter top, a pair of panties, and a pair of thigh length jogging shorts. She had gotten the panties pulled up and was adjusting the halter top and her breasts to make a comfortable fit when she saw movement to the side. From around the corner a woman of about her size and build came into the locker area, still clad in her 'Mech duty uniform of a halter top and shorts. "Hey Isabella," Misty called out as she pulled on the shorts.
Isabella Juanita Gonzales was one of the five females in Misty's company. A Los Angeles native with a more stereotypical Mexican-American accent than Misty had sometimes been expected to have, Gonzales was more along the lines of Kylie in how she was built. She did have the rank of Corporal and, unlike any of the other females in the company save Misty, had actually been in a combat situation, and numerous times at that. Gonzales was the daughter of a fifth-generation Mexican immigrant father and a second-generation Mexican immigrant mother. Her eyes were a light shade of brown while her short hair was almost as pitch black as Misty's. Gonzales' personality was probably the most mature of the five women of the unit, despite April's upbringing and Misty's sobering experiences. "Heading up?", Gonzales asked while pulling her jogging shorts off with one hand and opening her locker with the other.
"Yeah, already showered. You're late in."
"Yeah. My instructor wanted me to do some more practice runs in my Wyvern." Gonzales shook her head. "You know, I get tired of those Clanners calling me a freebirth. It sounds..."
"Corny. Weird. Even stupid." Misty pulled her shorts up to her waist and looked up with a grin. "That sounds like the Clans all right."
"They gave me a real bitch." Gonzales' hands gripped the bottom of her halter top and pulled it upward, revealing her bubbly breasts. On the upper right corner of her right breast, Misty could make out a circular bullet wound from where Gonzales had been shot. It prompted her to reach down with her left hand and touch the bullet scar on her bare midsection. "'You stupid stravag, move that 'Mech faster!"'," Gonzales said in as whiny and low a voice as she could manage, an unflattering impersonation of her trainer. "I replied, 'Va al infierno usted pompous hembra'. She didn't know what the hell I said, but that ain't my problem."
"I don't know what the hell you just said," Misty said. "I don't speak a word of Spanish, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, basically I told her to go to hell and that she was a pompous bitch." Gonzales placed her discarded underwear into her locker and began walking toward the showers. "Anyway, I'll see you back in the quarters, Misty."
"See you back there too. And," Misty turned her head back even as she gripped the handle for the door out of the locker room, "try to make sure April and Kylie don't kill each other."
"Oh, don't worry about it," Gonzales called back. "I'll keep you teens in line."
"I'll remember you said that," Misty replied before stepping out of the showering area entirely, letting the door close behind her.
Misty stepped into the open living area for her company and found a surprisingly quiet scene. It was something completely unexpected, considering that the company included the loudmouthed Laird Donalds and Kevin Jameson and argumentative types. Laird was sitting back in the sofa, his legs partially spread and his arms on the back of the couch, which was directed toward the main entrance to the quarters area. He had removed his shirt and was sitting in a pair of shorts, and Misty wondered for a moment if the oversexed Laird was trying to hint anything to the company's five women. Bergmann was similarly dressed and laid out on a side couch, arms under his head, and his eyes staring at the ceiling. In front of one of the doors, another one of the unit's pilots, James Allen, was speaking with arguably the second-oldest member of the company, Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Jonathan Roland, who came off as bulkier and stronger than the thinner and athletically-built Allen. Both were in tank tops and shorts. So was Jenkins, who was at the desk writing a letter; Misty persumed it to be to his wife Toni. Misty walked up behind him and set a hand on Jenkins' bare left shoulder. "Hey Christian, how's it going?"
"I'm doing fine, Misty. Long day?"
Misty nodded in reply. "Yeah, long day." She noticed Jenkins looking at the picture of his wife again and sighed. Out of everyone in the company Jenkins was the only man Misty felt she could talk to. He was talkative if you prompted him into it yet he did not show the same enthusiasm or mischief that the other talkers did, nor the cold shoulder that Bergmann, Roland, and the Native American Marine Benjamin Coyote tended to give people.
She had other women, of course, but Misty had found that it was preferable to have a male perspective to compare to her own. Halbern had showed her that much.
Misty went to open her mouth when the door on the opposite side of the living area opened. Coming out was Shannon Quincy, her blond hair still a little wet from using the shower in that portion of the living area. More importantly, she was dressed only in her underwear. All eyes turned toward her save Bergmann, prompting Quincy to grin widely. "Oh, hello."
Laird's mouth dropped opened. "Daaamn... you know how to turn a guy on, eh?"
"Oh, I do," Quincy replied in a hushed voice that Misty supposed was intended as seductive. Quincy stepped across the room slowly toward Laird, who couldn't tear his eyes away from her.
Behind Misty, the door to her quarters opened and a barechested Jameson stepped out. He found himself looking at Quincy's naked breasts from the side and his jaw dropped. "Holy shit..."
"Some things never change," Jenkins muttered, keeping his attention on his letter.
Allen and Roland both watched in surprise, and a bit of disgust for Roland, as Quincy stepped up to Laird. "So, do you like them, Laird?"
"Oooh, hot mama..." Laird winked at her. "Of course I like 'em, Shannon. Well, I like how they look." He began flexing his eyebrows up and down. "However, I need to know how they feel before I can say how much I like them."
"People, please," Allen snorted. "Take it to a room."
"Abso-fuckin'-lutely not!", Roland shouted. "I'm not letting Laird fuck her in my God damned room!"
Quincy ignored their conversation and Jameson's mesmorized stare. She went straight to the coach where Laird was seated and slid into his lap. Quincy spread her legs over his so that her knees were on the couch and straightened her upper legs enough so that her breasts were eye-level for Laird. "Go ahead, get a feel."
Without waiting for confirmation Laird brought up his hands and used them to each grip one of Quincy's breasts. "Ooh, firm, God damn I'm getting a hard-on already!"
"Oh Jesus Christ, get a room," Jameson muttered.
Without pause Quincy replied, "You want to have one?"
Jameson shook his head to give a negative answer. "I'm going to bed," he said to Misty before entering their room.
As Jameson slammed the door behind him, the door opened again. This time it admitted General Sinclair himself, who was closely followed by April and Kylie. All three looked on at the sight on the cough with surprised expressions before Sinclair shouted, "Now you two knock that off! Private, get something on! This is a barracks, not a whorehouse!"
A very disappointed Laird opened his arms and let Quincy go. Quincy winked at him and retreated into her room, leaving Laird with a very embarrassing bulge in his shorts and a quickened heartbeat.
Allen looked up from the wall where he was standing. "You know, sir, I think the Canadian regs don't say anything about fraternization."
"We are a fighting unit, Private Allen," Sinclair replied as he moved to allow April and Kylie into the living area, "and that means there is to be no sex."
"Besides, Laird, if you wanna fuck her, you could at least wait until nobody's here," Misty added from her position behind the back of the third couch. She looked over and down at Bergmann's face. "Hey, Marc, you there?"
"Yes."
"Not very talkative tonight, are we?"
"He's never talkative, you should know that by now," Laird said. "Hey, uh, Marc, do ya mind if I switch rooms with you?"
"Yes."
"Damn!"
"Nice try, Laird," Allen chuckled. He began applauding sarcastically, and was quickly joined by Roland, April, and Kylie.
"Mister Donalds..." Sinclair moved around the bar seperating the living area from the exit and the kitchen. "There will be no cases of you and any woman in this company making out. Is that clear?"
"Crystal clear, sir."
"Good. Now, I would suggest that we all get some sleep." Sinclair rubbed his hands together. "Mister Bergmann, if you would be so kind as to get off my sleeping couch."
"Yes General." Without any hesitation Bergmann sat up and got to his feet. He walked straight for his room.
"Bergmann's such an automaton," Kylie muttered, walking past Misty toward her room with Gonzales. "I need my beauty sleep."
"Good. Now get to bed. All of you." Sinclair walked over to the couch and began pulling off his uniform jacket. "We're going to have another big day tomorrow. I want all shooting scores to improve." While the others began to disperse, Jenkins continued writing faithfully on his letter. Sinclair sat down on the couch Bergmann had been occuping, opposite of the side that would be closest to the desk. "Mister Jenkins?"
"I'm going, sir," Jenkins promised. "I just have one more word..."
Sinclair thought about making Jenkins go on, but considering that he had been given free reign to use the base commander's office to write his own correspondence to his wife and family, he felt he did not have the moral right to force Jenkins to stop. "Then please finish as quickly as possible."
"Yes General."
Sinclair slid back onto the couch and rested his head on the arm. The position did not bother him and so he did not ask for any pillows from the other. And since it was not very cold he did not get a blanket either.
That did not stop Misty from emerging from her quarters, stripped down to a bra and panties, and with a pillow under one arm and a blanket under another. She handed them to him, prompting Sinclair to say, "That isn't necessary."
"It is." A crafty smile crossed the teenager's face. "You're so much older than the rest of us that I think you need these more than I do. Besides, I'll just go down and get some spares."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Who's walking around the base at this time of night anyway?" Misty stepped away from the couch. "You go to sleep sir. And don't thank me, I owe you too much for that."
Sinclair almost asked Misty what she owed him, but decided not to. He slid the pillow under his head and closed his eyes.
The only sound that broke the silence of Misty's room was the gentle breathing of Jameson, who was asleep across from her in the other bed. Misty was curled in her sheet and alone in the otherwise quiet darkness. The defenses she kept around her tortured soul lowered and tears rolled from her eyes onto the pillow she had just retrieved from the base storehouse. She felt her left shoulder muscle spasm for a moment. It brought back the memories of that terrible chair, the vile and evil Wilkens and his sadistic brand of "discipline".
And with that painful memory came other memories. Memories of other forms of abuse in the stockade, the pain of the brutal fighting circuit she had joined for some insane reason that she could not remember anymore. Misty wondered if, deep down, she was hoping Wilkens would finally arrange for her to be "removed". Death still terrified her but what good was life with the pain she held in her soul?
Weeping on her pillow, Misty wanted Halbern. With him the future had been secure, even in the midst of turmoil and war. But now nothing was secure for her.
Then again, Misty now realized that nothing had been secure to begin with. Her "secure future" had vanished on the day that the Halberns had been brutally murdered. That morning she had not even said goodbye to her parents, thinking she would see them when they got home. But she had been so horribly wrong....
"Why, James?", she whispered to herself. "You were supposed to be here for me. You weren't supposed to die, not like that. Not like that!" The despair of watching Halbern's life slip away gripped Misty's heart and slowed it's beat to a crawl. She missed Halbern's strong grip, yearning for him to hold her close and warm her with his body.
And if she couldn't have her lover, Misty at least wanted to be with her parents again. The two people who had raised her and shown her such love and affection, and now were in immeasuerable danger, and had been for months. She had absolutely no communication with them and was terrified by the thought that they had been killed by the UN. The uncertainty and anxiety over her parents' fate increased Misty's unsettled feelings.
Unable to sleep, Misty sat up in her bed. Wary of Jameson's presence in the other bed she used her right arm to hold the sheet over her chest. Feeling an incredible agony in her soul, Misty began weeping softly and eventually curled her knees up, put her arms around her legs, and set her forehead on her knees, burying her face in her lower thighs. The sheet fell to her waist, just above her navel and underwear, but it went ignored; Misty was too busy crying. "I don't want to be here," she sobbed. "I want to be home, with Mom and Dad and James. I don't want this, it's too much, just too much." She sniffled before speaking again. "Why God? Why did this have to happen to me? What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve all of this?" In the darkness Misty's strength fled and a truer side came from beneath the cold and strong exterior; that of a frightened teenage girl who was desperately hoping that the last two months had been a horrible dream and nothing more.
But they weren't a dream. The nightmare was reality. Her lover was dead, her parents were out of reach, and Misty was stuck in the military, forced to wear a uniform and obey superiors that had turned a blind eye to her misery. The uniform that might still succeed in cutting her down in her prime.
Beginning to feel tired as tears rolled down her cheeks, Misty laid back down and pulled the sheet up to her neck before burying her face in the pillow. She was still weeping "I want to go home" when she fell asleep.