Lucky No.7 (Tall Tales)

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=Lucky No.7 - By JA Baker=
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MechWarriors are, by nature, fairly superstitious.
Many have their own little routines that they go through during start up. Or they have a lucky charm that they always hand from the corner of their main viewscreen. Or they've had the same cooling vest since basic training that they refuse to get rid of because it brings them luck. But they can be equally superstitious when it comes to things they consider bad-luck, such as a particular type of BattleMech, or having an odd number of rounds loaded into their autocannon.
Or a 'Mech that's killed almost a dozen pilots.
Enter the THG-10E Thug Assault Mech with the call-sigh Shamrock-7, due to the only identification markings it had being a four-leaf clover and the number seven. Or as she's better known among the Draconis March Militia, Unlucky No.7. No one seemed quite sure exactly how Shamrock-7 had ended up on Raman, the most widely accepted theory being she it had been left behind by the Snakes when they pulled out in 2818, probably in the hope of killing a few extra Davion pilots.
Oh, yeah; Shamrock-7 is a killer.
Far back as records go, every pilot assigned to Shamrock-7 has died, and in pretty much every conceivable way; faulty environmental controls suffocating the pilot before the Techs could break open the cockpit after the release catches stuck, electrocuted by by malfunctioning neurohelmet that passed every safety test before and after the accident, poisoning by coolant vapors seeping into the cockpit, and my personal favorite; ejector-seat rockets firing with cockpit escape hatch securely closed.
They needed to hose the cockpit out after that one.
Long story short, by the time 3039 rolled around, no one wanted to go anywhere near Shamrock-7, let alone pilot her. They wouldn't even scrap her for parts, because when they tried, pilots refused to go near their 'Mech's out of fear that the curse had been carried over. So she was placed in storage in an otherwise unused bunker at the back of an isolate fire-base out in the sticks where nobody senior enough to kick up a fuss had to worry about her. But she was still officially listed on our TO&E, so some poor sod had to run basic maintenance on her, and that job fell to me; Assistant-Technician 3rd class and professional screw-up, Cassidy Sinéad Murphy. I think that the Quartermaster found it funny, giving a woman with the most Irish sounding name in history, yet looked like she'd stepped right out of a DCMS recruitment poster, the job of looking after an old Drac 'Mech with a name like Shamrock-7.
So I was tasked with keeping her in perfect running condition, which is kind of hard to do when you're so far down the pecking order when it comes to parts and equipment that it's often easier to 'borrow' what you need than it is to wait for your requisitions to go through. And as no one in their right mind want to be in the same building as Shamrock-7, I had to do pretty much everything myself, so I spent more than the usual amount of time around the harbinger of death. And in situations like that, well, boredom sets in after a few hours tinkering with a fire-control system you know is never going to be used, and like a lot of Tech's, especially AsTech's, I started out wanting to be a MechWarrior, until I flunked out of training for punching a superior ******.
Not my fault he had a very punchable face and the personality to match.
So yeah, I started running a few extra tests, making sure that, should hell actually freeze over, Shamrock-7 was ready to rock-and-roll. I took a strange kind of pride in getting her combat ready, even if I knew for a fact that nobody was readying to paperwork I submitted. I also started spending some of my off-duty time around the simulators, grabbing as much time as I could. The system was old, prone to flake out on you and the command couch smelt of old feet, but after a year, I managed to get myself simulator-rated on a Thug.
I know, I know; there's a whole world of difference between a simulator and the real thing, but it wasn't like they were going to let me pilot an actual BattleMech, especially given that Shamrock-7 was the only Thug on the entire planet. But I was able to get my file updated to include the fact that I was technically rated to at least move Shamrock-7 around the fire-base if asked. Not that I ever actually expected to do anything like that. Hell, the only time I'd ever brought her up to full power was by remote while I hid outside with the big, thick blast door closed.
But, you know, the universe had other ideas.
You're unlikely to find Raman in any books about the War of '39; we were never officially invaded, more of a raid in force to keep our Militia from redeploying elsewhere. But even a combined arms battalion of second-rate DCMS troops were more than enough to rip our main force a new one when they managed to catch them with their pants down. Caught us all with our pants down, truth be told. Even our quiet little half-forgotten fire-base got strafed by a couple of aerospace fighters that took out the radio hut and the CO before anyone realized what was going on. Two more runs took out what minimal fixed defenses we had and the main generator, leaving us with nothing but what we could squeeze out of the backup and the local civilian grid. The XO managed to get his head on straight and organize what was left of our forces into a defensive line anchored on his battered old Rifleman, managing to scare off the fighters by filling the air with bulk of his autocannon ammo.
Then word came down over the general channel that we'd kicked the hornets nest, and a full lance of BattleMechs with armor support had been seen headed our way. It's kind of amazing just how quickly news like that focuses the mind. We'd all grown up on stories, handed down generation to generation, about what life had been like under Combine rule, and none of us were keen to experience it for themselves. Especially not a pretty young AsTech who'd probably remind them a little too much of the girl they left behind. No, I was fully in the 'save the last bullet for yourself' camp, but I also knew something that the Snakes didn't; that Shamrock-7 was ready to go, presuming someone had the guts to climb into the cockpit.
Well, better to go down swinging, right?
There's an old adage among Tech's that, in confusion, there is profit, and there's plenty of confusion in a fire-base that's expecting to be attacked by a superior force in the near future. As such nobody paid much attention to another helping hand collecting a couple of crates of SRM's from the ammo dump and vanish into the gathering dark. I held my breath while starting up the ammo loader, each click and bump taking at least a year off of my life. And all the while I was waiting to hear the sound of weapons fire from outside. Yes, the bunker had nice, thick walls. And yes, it was pretty obvious from the outside that it was the equivalent of a junk drawer, even with the 'abandon all hope, all ye who enter here' graffiti on the doors. But that was no guarantee that the raiders weren't going to huff and puff and blow my house down.
I'd finally finished loading the SRM's and topping up the coolant when the alarms started to sound, followed by the muffled whoosh of LRM fire. What was more worrying was the screech of the return fire, which sounded a lot louder and seem to be directed right at me. I know it wasn't, but that's how it felt at the time. The entire bunker shook, dust and I don't want to think what else raining down from the ceiling as I stripped off my coveralls and squeezed into the old, often repaired cooling vest I'd managed to snag and grabbed the neurohelmet that hadn't been used in decades. Climbing the ladder to the cockpit, I could help but feel the entire building shake as I herd the crump-crump-crump of exploding munitions just outside the door. The Thug lurched suddenly, straining against the maintenance restraints, and I felt sure that Shamrock-7 was about to claim another victim. But it rocked back, the violence of the movement almost sending me crashing to the ground.
Cursing under my breath, I scurried up the last few meters of the ladder until I reached the cockpit and hit the quick release. It opened with a hiss, indicating that the over-pressure system was operating, and I quickly clambered inside. Just in time, as it happened, as something exploded outside with enough force to shake the very foundations of the bunker, and the hatch snapped shut right behind me; half a second slower, and I would have lost a foot to Unlucky No.7. Falling head-first into the command couch, I cursed like a spacer on ground-side as I re-arranged myself and then started to connect my cooling vest and neurohelmet. Sure, I'd spent time in a simulator, and the basics are the same, but nothing quite replicates the feel of an actual BattleMech coming to life below you; it's something you feel through the seat of your pants, a deep rumble, throbbing that envelops you.
<<<“SYSTEMS ONLINE.”>>> the 'Mech's synthesized electronic voice echoed through the cockpit, “<<<COMMAND CODE AUTHENTICATION REQUIRED.>>>”
“Authorization code 'shut up and do what I tell you!'.” I snapped back, glad for once that they'd let me pick my own command authorization code.
<<<“COMMAND CODE ACCEPTED.”>>> The computer responded, the various screens and instrument panels flicking to life around me, <<<“ALL SYSTEMS NOW AT YOUR DISPOSAL.”>>>
I snapped the eight point safety hardness into place and took a firm grip on the twin controls sticks, the Thug jerking upright as my own sense of balance, transmitted by the thousands of sensors built into the neurohelmet and the numerous pads attached to my body took over. A lot of people have this crazy idea that a MechWarrior becomes one with their machine, but I've always found it to be more like wearing a really big coat...that just happens to be covered in armor and weapons.
The flip of a switch disconnected all the umbilical that connected Shamrock-7 to the maintenance bay, and a second started the ancient, worn bunker doors opening. They shuddered, the screech of metal scraping against metal reaching me in the cockpit even over the sounds of battle outside. They ground to a halt less than a quarter of the way open, the ancient electric motor dying with a cloud of smoke and a shower of sparks. I unleashed a string of curses that would have one my ancestors proud; there was no way that something as big and bulky as a Thug was getting through that doorway, and that meant that I'd have to get...creative.
A quick look at the range-finder told me that the doors were inside the minimum range of the twin PPC's, and I didn't feel like disabling the safeties if I could possible avoid it. SRM's have no minimum range, but I wasn't about to risk setting off an explosion in a confined space that could be housing who knows what, which left the 'Mech's two massive 'hands' as my only real option. Taking a tentative step forward, I felt Shamrock-7 move under me, and let me tell you, that's another thing that the simulators never get right. Eighty tons of metal and myomer lurched forwards like a drunk as I struggled to regain control. The 'Mech fell forward, its left shoulder hitting the door with a crash that must have been heard half way around the world. The door itself held for about half a second, then there was an ear piercing screech as the ancient bolts started to give way, threatening to send Shamrock-7, and yours truly, sprawling onto the parade ground outside.
I think Chapter One of the MechWarriors handbook starts “never find your face-first on an active battleground.”
Gripping the controls for all they were worth, I managed to steady the Thug, getting its feet back under me even as the door gave way and crashed to the ground. Days later, the clean-up crews would find I took out a squad of Snake infantry, but I apparently can't claim them on my kill-card, as it was classed as an 'Act of God' as opposed to an intentional act on my part. It had the unfortunate side effect of announcing my presence on the field of battle, drawing the attention of a pair of Panthers that had been playing whack-a-mole with our own infantry, and they responded by firing blind into the bunker. Still slightly unsteady on my feet, I almost landed on my arse as two PPC bolts and half a dozen SRM's hit Shamrock-7's chest just below the low-slung cockpit. Armour flaked off in dinner plate sized pieces, and the heat levels in the cockpit spiked, but none of the alarms sounded, indicating that the Thug had taken the hit without suffering any lasting, and more importantly, critical, damage.
The outline of one of the Panthers appeared in my HUD, and I instinctively dropped the cross-hairs over it. The targeting radical pulsed yellow for a moment, then turned green, indicating a good lock even as the far lighter Mech started to back up. I don't remember pulling the triggers, but Shamrock-7 spat forth man-made lightning from its arms, the glare nothing short of blinding in the confines of the old bunker. One missed wide, but the second connected with the Panther's left arm, neatly severing it at the elbow, the sudden loss of the lower limb making the smaller Mech stagger, dropping it right back into my cross-hairs.
The tone of a missile lock sang in my ear, and eight SRM's leapt forth from my Mech's shoulders without my fingers moving a milometer.
Explosions peppered the Panther Light 'Mech from waist to head, obviously catching the pilot by surprise as the scout fell backwards, crashing into the next bunker down. The wall cracked but held, the second Panther moving to cover their lance-mate as it struggled to right itself, huge rents in their armor testament to the damage Shamrock-7 had done. The capacitor lights flashed green, indicating that both of my PPC's had re-charged, and I quickly shifted the targeting radical to the new target. And again the weapons fired without any input from my part even as Shamrock-7 started to lurch forward again, stepping out of the bunker into the chaos outside.
The second Panther was far less fortunate than the first; both PPC bolts converged on its head, which simply ceased to exist as the twin lances of man-made lightning washed over it like the wrath of the Good Lord Himself. The Snake 'Mech stood stock still for a moment, smoke and sparks emanating from the glowing stump that had been its neck, then it fell like a puppet with the strings cut, landing in a undignified heap on the ground. Seeing their friend killed before them, the first Panther raised their right arm, bringing their own PPC in line with my cockpit.
I froze. I'm not shamed to admit that; I froze up like the half-trained idiot that I was, just waiting for the world to turn white before I found myself before St Peter and the Pearly Gates.
Shamrock-7, however, didn't freeze.
Stepping forward, the Thug swung its huge left arm round, knocking the Panther's arm out of the way even as it fire, the PPC discharging harmlessly into the night sky. Then the Thug's right arm came round, the battle fist clenched as it smashed into the far lighter machines head one, twice, three times. Mettle smashed into metal, the hideous sound of armor and structural members giving way until the cockpit gave way and the Thug's hand came back.
To this day, I choose to believe that the red stains I saw covering Shamrock-7's fist were hydraulic fluid.
It's safe to say that the Drac's weren't expecting the face an Assault 'Mech at out little fire base, and my sudden appearance on the battlefield, along with the speed and savagery with which Shamrock-7 had eliminated half of their BattleMech support had their armor and infantry in disarray.
<<<“TARGETS ELIMINATED, CASSIDY MURPHY.”>>> the voice of Shamrock-7's computer announced with what could only be described as a smug tone, <<<“PLEASE DESIGNATE NEXT TARGET.”>>>
I froze again, but this time for a far different reason.
Anyone who's spent much time around advanced equipment, especially anything dating back to the Star League, knows how people just love to add voice synthesizers to everything. Often it's little more than an advanced operating system programmed to react to pre-set voice commands, much like the voice-print authentication used for BattleMech security. But this...this felt like something far more advanced.
<<<“I AWAIT ORDERS, CASSIDY MURPHY.”>>> Shamrock-7 sounded almost impatient.
“The Dracs!” I found myself shouting, “Target any DCMS units!”
<<<“ORDERS RECEIVED AND UNDERSTOOD.”>>> I flinched as the computer all but chuckled, <<<“ENGAGING THE...DRACS.”>>>
I don't care what anyone says; I had little to nothing to do with what followed. Shamrock-7 stalked the Fire Base, unleashing death and destruction upon the raiders, while I could do little but watch from the confines of the cockpit. I've been told that the Thug moved like a veteran MechWarrior was at the controls, but after a while my hands fell from the joysticks, the 'Mech more than happy to fight on its own. I tried to remember everything I could about the 'Mech's computer and the pilot interface system; nothing had seemed at all out of the ordinary, with even the operating system being SLDF issue.
Then it hit me; the Thug was a Terran Hegemony design, and they'd put a lot of time and money into AI research, the M-5 'Caspar' drone WarShips being perhaps the most infamous example. But there had always been stories about plans to build entire armies of drone BattleMech's that could fight without human intervention. And given how nobody seemed to know just where Shamrock-7 had come from... I didn't want to finish that thought.
I was brought rudely back to reality as a flight of LRM's slammed into Shamrock-7's left arm, shattering armor plates that were then pulverized by a burst of autocannon fire. The Thug stopped and turned to face it's attacker; a Dragon heavy BattleMech and most likely the Snake commander. I felt my ride crouch low even as the weapons locked on, and I braced myself for what was to follow.
A wave of heat struck my with near physical force as Shamrock-7 unleashed a full Alpha-Strike against the Dragon, filling the air with smoke and lightning. Everything hit the Dragon; the PPC's gouging huge rents in its center and left torso while the SRM's peppered it's right arm and left leg. The lighter 'Mech staggered under the onslaught, but its pilot maintained control, keeping it on its feet and unleashing another blast of autocannon fire that stitched a series of impact craters from my left hip to right shoulder, only narrowly missing the cockpit. This was followed by an emerald lance from its left arm mounted medium laser that did little more than scorch the paint on Shamrock-7's left forearm.
<<<“AT LAST, A TRUE WARRIOR.”>>> the Mech's computer hissed excitedly, <<<“I WILL ENJOY THIS.”>>>
Stepping to the right, Shamrock-7 unleashed another flight of SRM's, the PPC's still charging, forcing the Dragon to pause to take the hit before turning to track with its most powerful weapons. A second volley of LRM's missed wide, but the Combine pilot walked their autocannon fire into my left hip, stripping away most of the protection there. Shamrock-7 replied with a one-two barrage from its PPC's, stripping away the armour protecting the other 'Mech's left shoulder and eating into the internals. Myomer strands melted and snapped, the arm hanging lip at the Dragon's side as its artificial muscles were severed, only the internal structure keeping it attached. Shamrock-7 kept moving to the right, forcing the Dragon to keep turning in order to bring its remaining weapons to bear on the larger 'Mech.
I hadn't had time to fully load the missile bins, and Shamrock-7 fired the last of them into the Dragon, finally ripping its battered left arm free, followed by yet another one-two punch from the PPC's. The cockpit was an inferno by that point, but I could just about make out the first glow from within the chest of the Dragon that indicated that the remaining LRM ammo had started to cook-off. They exploded like the devils own firecrackers, flames billowing out of the open missile ports and through rents blasted in the armor. The heavy 'Mech almost seemed to dance as the fire reached the ammo bin for the autocannon and it likewise detonated, sending the right arm spiraling off into the night. At least one of the explosions must have damaged the shielding for the reactor, as the Dragon suddenly went into emergency shut-down, the pilot hitting the chicken-switch and blasting off into the night sky, riding a pillar of smoke and flame that served as his rides funeral pyre.
<<<“YESSSS!”>>> Shamrock-7 growled, <<<“VICTORY IS MINE!”>>> the Mech seemed to shudder, and I suddenly found the controls responding again, <<<“I THANK YOU, CASSIDY MURPHY: I ENJOYED THIS.”>>>
“You're...you're welcome?” I stuttered, relived to once again be the master of my own destiny even as I listened to the shouts of triumph announcing the retreat of the remaining Combine forces from the Fire Base. I quickly started the shut-down sequence, locking Shamrock-7 in place as I struggled to come up with a way of explaining what had happened.
I went with the truth, what with it being the easiest to remember, but no one seemed willing to believe me. Instead I found myself transferred to the capital, promoted to full MechWarrior, permanently assigned to Shamrock-7, as I was apparently the only one willing to pilot it. And it's kept quiet ever since that night, acting like a good little BattleMech and not hurting anyone. But every time I have to strap myself in, I can't help but feel that it's just waiting to be set free again the next time someone attacks Raman.
The End?
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