#sheltertech

[mechwarrior-rose]

Shelter: Wolf's Jaws

UNION DROPSHIP SUMMER LIGHTNING OBERON VI ORBIT CLAN WOLF INVASION CORRIDOR 30 SEPTEMBER 3049

Femme day.

It took a while to come fully to consciousness. Shelter was far too groggy to make sense of any of her thoughts. Everything was loud and angry. She thrummed with a deep, sorrowful ache. She didn't want to wake up. If she woke up, she'd remember what made her so sad.

Eventually her audio sensors came online. It was quiet in the room. Only the soft beep from a medical monitor broke the silence. All the noise was in her head. The sounds of explosions and rending metal.

The War Griffins were dead.

Ariel. Breck. Susanna. Finch. Wallace. Liana. Both Katherines. Shelter went down the list, all twenty-four pilots of the War Griffins, primary and secondary, two for each machine. But she couldn't stop there, could she? Daisy. Chuck. Maribelle. Norton. Evelyn. On through the members of her team, then through the rest of the technicians. Then the support personnel. All almost certainly killed when the enemy had overrun the Dao Sing Plain base. Dead gods, she didn't even know some of the people in administration. She was the only one who could remember them, and she didn't... If she couldn't, then...

Her eyes burned hot. Tears flowed, soaked into bandages on the left side of her face. She lifted her arm to wipe them away and felt the weight of an IV shunt and the tug of more bandages at her shoulder. There was the ghost of agony somewhere beneath the fog as she moved. She must have been put on some serious painkillers.

Her hair. She'd shaved off all her hair.

But the War Griffins were dead. It had been an appropriate sacrifice.

The 1st Oberon Guards, too. Razor Lance had been the last operating unit of 15th Company. If Rieck and Razor Two had made it out, then they and Shelter were likely the only survivors of a massacre.

I hope Hendrik Grimm III and his pirate lordling toadies got stomped flat by a Catamarauder. If there's any justice in the universe, that'll be the end of the Grimm line. But even this thought wasn't enough to cheer her.

The hiss of a door sliding open caught her attention. Shit. She was going to have to open her eyes.

The harsh artificial lights pierced her brain at the first crack of her eyelids. Her involuntary mewl of pain choked off in her throat. A shadow moved from the door to the side of the bed, followed by others. The figures waited while Shelter adjusted to the light. When she opened her eyes, she saw three people in grey jumpsuits. One, a woman with auburn hair tied back in a tight bun, had gold pins with two red stars at each side of her collar. The other two, a tall, blonde woman with a turned-up nose and a short man who wore a short, curly mohawk and a close-trimmed beard, stood a little back. The blonde's pins bore one star each, while the brunet had only the gold squares.

"Shelter, last of his family, quiaff?" the first woman asked.

Shelter's throat clicked as she swallowed. She tried again and finally mustered enough pliability from her larynx to speak. "Last of her family for now. I'm afraid it changes by the day."

"I am Star Captain Mila. With me are Star Commander Chastity and Warrior Hawk. We are three of the warriors you faced in Friday's battle. I have claimed you as a bondsperson of Clan Wolf. From now until your bondcord is severed, you belong to me. Do you understand?"

As Mila spoke, Chastity jotted notes on a handheld compad. Hawk's face was blank. Mila, however, was stern, her brown eyes as impenetrable as ironwood.

"Dress yourselves up with whatever goofy names you like. Still sounds like slavers and pirates to me." Shelter wished she could spit. She could only muster a dry cough.

Mila watched her for a moment before replying. "You speak as though you yourself were not a pirate serving a bandit king. Or perhaps you have not heard the old saying about glass houses and stones?"

"Not a pirate," Shelter growled. "Hate pirates. I hate Grimm."

The man poured water from a small pitcher into a paper cup and set it on the overbed table that sat at the foot of the bed. He placed the control remote for the bed on the table and wheeled it closer to Shelter. She stared, but his face remained impassive. She took the controls, adjusted the bed to a seated tilt, and drank the water greedily. There were only perhaps fifty milliliters in the cup. Shelter reached for the pitcher, but the man put his hand over hers. "Slowly this time," he said, his voice expressionless but warm. He withdrew his hand, and Shelter poured. As she did, she finally noticed the cord tied around her right wrist, loosely enough not to chafe. She drank her second cup more gently, flicking her gaze between the three warriors.

When she finished, Mila spoke again. "Why serve him, then? I am told that you are not a warrior by trade, but rather a technician. What drove you to take up arms to defend pirates?" Mila kept her tone even. The tension underlying her words, however, was plain.

Shelter closed her eyes and let her head drop back against the thin pillow. "I was defending my family. The War Griffins. We're a part of the 1st Guard, but we always wanted to be free again. Used to be mercs. I wanted..." She trailed off. Her head was beginning to throb. The pain meds were wearing off.

"Mercenary service is more honorable to you than piracy, quiaff?" This must have been Chastity. Her voice bore some of the snideness that Mila suppressed.

Shelter groaned. "I don't know what 'quiaff' means. But yeah. Mercs are free to live how they want, and they don't prey on innocent lives." She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her right hand. "Shouldn't I be talking to a doctor now?"

"You are being monitored by our systems and staff. Your injuries are minor. Is there something that needs to be addressed by a physician?" Mila asked.

Shelter winced as the throbbing grew stronger. "Painkillers are wearing off. I could use another dose. Head's killing me."

"If this is the worst of the pain you suffer in the near future, count yourself very fortunate," Mila said. "These questions are a courtesy. There will be more thorough interrogations to come. If you are not a warrior, how did you learn to operate a BattleMech?"

Memories washed over Shelter. Times she was brought into the administrative offices to see where her parents worked. Times she was allowed on her own recognizance, getting into places she shouldn't have, making friends with technicians, pilots, infantry, scouts, anyone who would talk to her. Signing up at sixteen, and how her parents had railed against her decision. They'd hoped to get her out of the Confederation and back to real civilization, back to the Lyran Commonwealth, where she could have a better life. Well, what if she wanted to make sure everyone got out? What if she wanted to save all of the War Griffins, not just one kid from a white-collar family pulling military paychecks?

Her first real boyfriend, a pilot who encouraged her to try out as a MechWarrior. Her first real girlfriend, a 15th Company scout who taught her how to handle sensor equipment and pentaglycerin. The qualifying trials to put her on the waiting list for an alternate pilot slot. She'd done her share of cross-training them, too. Showed them how to splice myomer, use a tech's diagnostic computer, reorient the factory wire harnesses on the Neil 6000 comms units from Defiance Industries because they always came in misassembled and would shake loose after a month and sometimes snap the soldering.

"I made friends," she said.

"Perhaps the caste mobility the other bondsfolk spoke of," Chastity murmured to Mila. "Within their touman, they have fewer barriers between warriors and the lower castes that serve them."

Shelter looked at her, winced again at the light. "Don't mistake us for the Dracs or the Capellans. We don't have castes." Not officially. But Grimm's attempts to legitimize the Oberon Confederation were more about appearances than equity. There were still haves and have-nots, and some of the haves sat on thrones while some of the have-nots performed forced labor in penal camps to which they'd been sentenced by corrupt magistrates.

Mila pursed her lips as she turned Shelter's words over. "You claim there are no castes, and that you, a technician, were trained in warrior's ways and equipment by warrior friends? This is common?"

"I don't know if I'd call it common. But I can't be the only one. I mean, you couldn't get that kind of cross-training if you were a civilian, but I was a corporal in the service. Signed up at the first chance I got."

"To convince your unit to desert the pirates and become mercenaries," Mila said. This time she couldn't keep the hint of a sneer off her face.

Shelter scowled. "To work to free my family, the company that raised me, from service to a tyrant whose grandpa turned coat from the Lyrans, went pirate, and forced the War Griffins to join his army."

Mila opened her mouth, but Shelter pressed on. "And now you've killed what's left of my family, and you're saying I'm your slave. So as far as I'm concerned, you're no better than Hendrik Grimm. In fact, you're lower than pirate scum like him."

The light exploded into fragments, and the room tilted. Something impacted Shelter's ribs. It took a few moments for her to realize that there hadn't been an explosion--she'd simply been struck by the back of Mila's hand. The force of it had flung her against the overbed table, which was now on its side in a pool of spilled water. The Star Captain was saying something, but Shelter's ears were ringing too loudly for her to make it out.

The three warriors filed toward the door. Star Captain Mila stopped, knelt by the fallen table, and picked up the remote. She snapped at Shelter's face to get her attention. "This is how you call a medtech." She stabbed the red button at the top of the remote, then tossed it harshly against Shelter's chest. The new bruise on her ribs screamed in protest.

Shelter slumped against the bed rail and wept as the Wolves left the room.

[mechwarrior-rose]

Shelter: Pirate's Nightfall

DAI LONG PLAIN TESTING GROUND OBERON VI OBERON CONFEDERATION 28 SEPTEMBER 3049

Shelter turned his head this way and that. His new sidecut felt alien to him. He'd always kept his hair long. Made sense. He had more femme days than masc, and on those days he loved his long hair. Even when it was tied into a bun for work. But if he was wearing a neurohelment into combat, he needed the sides buzzed close.

When he was young and didn't know himself better, he'd kept his hair long out of social expectation. His parents had been fairly conservative middle-class folks in civilian jobs within the service, hoping their perfect daughter would escape military service and go on to be an accountant or, even better, a trophy wife for an Inner Sphere noble or something. But the War Griffins had--

The War Griffins were dead. He was the last one left who could fight. No one else among the technicians had sufficient training to do more than walk a 'Mech into a repair bay. Today would be his last day alive. Maybe there'd be enough of him left to bury with the rest of his family.

He punched the wall. Picked up the clippers, turned them back on, and went after the rest. Didn't stop until every strand was cut down to a single millimeter. Black curls coiled in the sink. His scalp was an angry red from the pressure. Shaven in mourning.

"Let's go kill some fucking pirates," he snarled to the man in the mirror.

++++++++++

Ariel's ass print was still on the command couch of her Griffin. Of all the things to strike Shelter as funny, and of all the absolutely wrong times to laugh, and of all the uncomfortable positions to be caught in a fit of hysteria: crammed into the limited space between displays and couch, doubled over, bulky helmet pressed into the headrest, cooling vest too rigid to allow him to collapse into tears like he really wanted.

He stepped over the center console and dropped into the seat, erasing the last mark Ariel had left on this godforsaken planet.

He knew the checklist. Ran through it as efficiently as any 'Mech jockey. The Griffin responded eagerly. Weapons online. Sensors online. All systems nominal.

He toggled the radio to the lance frequency. "Razor One, this is Razor Four coming online."

"That's everyone," Lieutnant Rieck's voice replied. Shelter was surprised, but he said nothing. Lieutnant Keller must have been a casualty. Which probably meant there weren't many lieutnants left.

Hell, maybe Hendrick Grimm himself would come to the field in the final defense of his world.

"Razor Lance, we will advance in formation to Nav Point Epsilon. We will hold station there."

"Yes, sir," the lance chorused back, Shelter included, as if he'd been responding to combat orders his whole life.

Two beeps signaled that the Lieutnant wanted a private chat. Shelter flicked to the direct channel. "Sir."

Rieck's voice was full of sympathy. "This is a brave damn thing you're doing, Corporal. I respect the hell out of you."

Hateful sympathy. Shelter had no time or heart left for it.

"Rather earn that respect on the field, sir. Shall we?"

++++++++++

The pirates were already at Nav Epsilon by the time Razor Lance arrived.

Their comms were jammed, just like at Black Canyon. There was no way to get the word to the main force or link up with another lance. So Rieck made the best call he could in the moment: run for Kennedy Beach to draw the enemy away from the city and into open space.

Running from Black Canyon had been terrifying enough. Running while plugged brain-first into a war machine that was screaming because it was being missile-locked by a FrankenMech was nightmarish. The tactical computer was trying to decide if it was a Thunderbolt, a Marauder, or gods knew what else. The circle-vision strip at the top of Shelter's HUD flickered in and out as his 'Mech's stock EW systems and counter-systems tangled with the enemy's more advanced tech. Lances of coherent light, the screams of missiles, the actinic flare of particle cannons. No wonder Ariel had had a heart attack.

An enemy Hunchback--wait, a Hunchback with two autocannons?--sent fire and metal shrieking into Razor Two. The Shadow Hawk folded in on itself as if its reactor core had just produced a singularity. The 'Mech's auto-eject had been enabled; bolts blew and rockets fired, carrying him skyward. Uninterested in the helpless pilot now drifting down-strand on a full chute, the Hunchback turned toward Razor Three.

Shelter didn't even think. He tied all three of his lasers to the same circuit and carved his anger into the Hunchback's side armor. The 'Mech was within the minimum range of his LRMs, but he fired those anyway. Heat washed into the cockpit. Shelter ignored it. Two missiles made it into the rents his lasers had opened, touching off the ammunition within. The Hunchback simply disintegrated from the knees up. The explosion rattled the cockpit glass of Shelter's Griffin.

But it was for naught. Another enemy FrankenMech, this one a Catapult with Marauder arms stitched on, buried Razor Three in missiles and laser fire. Wolverines were tough, but nothing could withstand an onslaught like that. Shelter thought he caught a scrap of Sergeant Baker's scream of terror before her radio was obliterated.

On the circle-vision strip, Shelter saw Rieck's Marauder go down, its leg removed at the knee by a fusillade of laser fire. It couldn't have all come from one 'Mech. Yet there was an enemy machine with what looked like a dozen lasers ringing its arms, streaking in for the kill.

It was over. But Rieck and Razor Two--Shelter had never even gotten his name--might be able to escape if Shelter acted fast. He flicked the radio to broadband, remembered the jamming, then engaged the external speakers.

"Enemy forces!" he shouted. "I am Shelter of the War Griffins, last of my family. If any of you have the fucking balls to do it, come try me. I'll take you all on myself."

As he spoke, he edged his Griffin away from the strand, away from Rieck and Razor Two. He also pressed a red button on his side console that began dumping his LRM ammunition out of a hatch in his rear armor. The enemy were all too close now for the missiles to be of use anymore, and Shelter had no intention of dying the same way the Hunchback pilot had.

The dull crackle in Shelter's ears suddenly stopped. The enemy had dropped their communications jam.

A woman's voice came over broadband. "Shelter, I am Star Captain Mila of the 11th Wolf Guards. While it is well past the time for such a challenge to be issued, we will meet it nonetheless. Let the Circle be drawn."

Shelter quickly flipped to the private channel with Rieck again. "Now run, you son of a bitch. Eject, meet up with Razor Two, and get out of here."

He'd be with his family soon. War Griffin reunion.

[mechwarrior-rose]

Shelter: Pirate's Eclipse

KENNEDY BEACH OBERON VI OBERON CONFEDERATION 28 SEPTEMBER 3049

Shelter's assessment earlier had been correct. An even dozen lasers, six on each arm. Mediums, by the look of it. No other weapons. Magnetic resonance was convinced the 'Mech was 50 tons. What kind of engine could supply that much power for weapons and still move a 50-ton machine around that quickly? And who the hell designed a 'Mech whose shoulder and hip actuators ran in a straight line right through the torsos?

He and the enemy pilot were circling each other, sizing one another up. The other 'Mechs of the enemy lance stood eerily still. So did the crumpled form of Rieck's Marauder. Why hadn't he punched out yet? He was conscious, had to be, because he'd opened the private channel to receive Shelter's message.

No more time. The enemy tightened their circle in to run directly at Shelter. He slammed down his pedals and ignited the Griffin's jump jets. Light burst from the enemy 'Mech's left arm and gouged nearly all the armor from his left side in a single salvo. Barely anything left on his torso and leg, and the internal structure of his arm was fully laid bare. Burning gods above and below, how powerful were those lasers?! Shelter fired all three of his own in turn. The large and one of the mediums scored deep into the armor of the enemy's right torso; the other medium piddled across their right arm.

Shelter landed harder than he'd intended. Sure, he was certified on a Griffin, but he was still a tech, not a MechWarrior. He'd only ever used jump jets under controlled conditions at the proving grounds. Twice. Six years ago. Automatic systems kept him from stumbling, but he could hear the gyro straining from the effort.

Where was all the heat going in that 'Mech? Twelve lasers, half a dozen at a time in volley fire, in a medium machine. Firing that spread once would put a load on any Griffin, and that was assuming that those over-tuned lasers didn't produce more heat than a standard medium. Yet the enemy didn't seem to feel the heat at all. Shelter scrambled to calculate the minimum heat transfer coefficient to make it work.

Turn off your engineering brain, dumbass! The enemy had executed a neat turn on their own jump jets and brought their left side around to protect their damaged flank. Another six-laser volley and the Griffin's left arm was entirely gone. Hip actuator damaged on the right side. Desperately low armor in both torsos. The neural feedback wasn't in the danger zone, but the loss of the arm was playing havoc with the interplay between the Griffin's gyro and Shelter's own inner ear.

These weren't pirates. Whatever the fuck they were, they were bad news, and they weren't going to stop with the Oberon Confederation.

One more punch of the jets, and the Griffin arced over the enemy machine. Shelter fired the moment his reticle passed over metal, but his eyes were on the beach beyond the cockpit glass. The Marauder's cockpit was still intact. What was Rieck doing?

No, there he was, running along the beach. He'd popped his cockpit hatch and clambered down on his own. The SERE kit pouch was slapping against his thigh as he hauled ass. Good. He could meet up with Razor Two and take refuge in the trees. Shelter prayed to absent gods that he could give them enough time.

Shelter landed more gracefully this time. Still, the impact jarred sweat into his eyes. He blinked desperately. Had to find the enemy.

But the strange 'Mech had collapsed. Shelter's almost literally aimless shots had damaged the enemy's engine and forced a failsafe shutdown.

The remaining enemy 'Mechs were still and silent, as if they were as shocked at the outcome as Shelter was. But soon enough the Catamarauder--Shelter decided it had to be named something--stepped forward. Once again, the woman's voice came over broadband.

"Warrior, you have bested two of Clan Wolf's elite warriors, one in single combat. The outcome of this battle is foregone, but know that your valor is recognized."

"Big talk for someone about to get acquainted with the dirt," Shelter snapped into his mic, then pushed his 'Mech into a run.

The Catamarauder's missile pods roared like lions. Explosions covered the Griffin. Not a single location escaped unscathed, including the head. Two missiles hit high--above the glass, but still close and loud enough to turn the inside of the cockpit into a front seat at the world's worst noise metal concert. Neural feedback, the real shit this time, seared through Shelter's brain.

The Griffin hit the ground. Engine power was gone. Hell, the Griffin itself was probably an unrecognizable slag heap. There was booming and rattling and clanging for what felt like forever. A monitor panel dislodged from the console and bounced off Shelter's neurohelmet. Then, finally, silence, punctuated only by the cartoonish ping-ping-ping of a washer falling into the rear compartment of the cockpit.

Shelter took a moment to catch his breath and assess himself. Probably had a concussion. Always assume a concussion. Gash on his shoulder that he hoped wasn't deep. His muscles and bones were still ringing from the fall. One of his boots had come off.

The radio was on backup power, but there had been a cut somewhere in the feed to the neurohelmet. Shelter popped the buckle on his five-point harness and dragged the bulky helmet off his shoulders. The air against his scalp reminded him that--

He turned up the speaker built into the radio and grabbed the hand unit. "This is Razor Four. Three enemy units in grid gamma six. Razor Lance is down. Request..." He paused. Request what? Reinforcements? Extraction? A blanket and a bedtime story? His head was swimming.

"Warrior Shelter, last of her family," Star Captain Mila spoke on the radio. "Your 'Mech is disabled and your world has fallen. I claim you as isorla for the benefit of Clan Wolf. Stand down and await medical assistance."

"His," Shelter said automatically. "Last of his family."

He let himself fall back against the command couch's back. There was more chatter on the radio, but he didn't bother trying to parse it. He'd failed. He'd been supposed to die in combat, and somehow that was supposed to fix things for Oberon VI and the War Griffins. He was hazy on the details. But here he was, alive and a captive. Failure.

"Fucking pirates," he mumbled. He reached for the SERE kit, but the effort made him dizzy. He didn't remember anything after that.

[not-kitten-around-blog]

Oh yeah, there were animals too. I’m still waiting for the final tally of the whole 4 week program, but just this past week I think we neutered over 200 animals - not to mention the incredible emergency foreign body I had the privilege of caring for post-op. Kalipso and her mom came back to the clinic this afternoon just before I left to say thank you and bring everyone fruits and chocolates. Every day of this program had me humbled beyond words but that takes the cake. Thank you Kalipso, Tallinn cat, Hippodrome puppies, and every single stray and owned animal that I had the chance to work for these past two weeks. They are the reason. . . . . . . . . . . . . #київ #kyiv #keiv #ukraine #travelblogger #dogsofinstagram #dogsofchernobyl #chernobyl #chernobil #chernobylzone #exclusionzone #powerplant #travellingvet #vetgirl #vetsnobiety #criticalcarenurse #animalcare #traumanurse #vettechlife #vettech #veterinarian #veterinarymedicine #spcainternational #spca #shelterdogsrock #shelterdogs #sheltermedicine #sheltervet #sheltertech (at Slavutych)