Blue Skye

11 May 3050

Black Earth Spaceport

Charna Province, Federated Commonwealth

In the space of a mere five weeks, the Seventeenth Skye Rangers settled in to their new home and their new routine. There was little to do except eat and drink and gamble, and those whose Mechs still functioned could maintain some attempt at training. All attempts at military discipline were abandoned in favour of a boost to morale. But behind the thin veneer of relaxation, every warrior was haunted by the memory of Barcelona, and the anticipation of a return to Summer. No-one, not even the most cynical, dared contemplate that it might all happen again. But it did.

The first indication Margaidh had that something was amiss was when the aerospace fighters, boosted by local support, suddenly scrambled just after dawn. The shrieks of their engines as they launched, combined with the wailing of klaxons, aroused Margaidh from a disturbed sleep and she had pulled on her cooling vest and shorts even before she was fully awake. When she arrived in the Mech bays, the rest of the Rangers’ mechwarriors were prepping their mechs, their faces showing noticeable fear tempered with a warrior’s determination. Margaidh knew that each of them was prepared to die in the defense of this anonymous world.

She powered up the Blue Skye’s engine and marched it out of the Mech bay, catching a glimpse of Steve McKernon’s Jenner a couple of hundred metres ahead. Around her, a hotch-potch of patched-up Mechs that made up the First Company of what was barely a battallion of Mechs and tanks. Margaidh hadn’t wanted to take command of a company again, but as one of only three surviving officers of her rank, she figured she didn’t have much choice.

The Rangers didn’t even have time to take up defensive positions. The Clan Mechs, with their falcon emblem painted white instead of green, were already swarming in through the Spaceport’s perimeter. Margaidh ordered her company to scatter into cover in the hope that the wider-spread they were, the greater the chance that a few might survive.

She touched a panel and made sure the computer in the cockpit was recording the battle. Everything the Mech did and all communication in or out, would be recorded on the Blue Skye’s Battleroms. Margaidh wondered briefly if anyone would get the chance to read them. She spoke aloud into her neurohelmet.

“…Yet I will try the last, before my body I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries ‘Hold, enough!’” She knew that if her mother ever got to hear the recording, she would recognise the snatch of the old Shakesperean play. Margaidh paused, then spoke again. “For you, Mam. And for Summer.” Then she turned the Blue Skye to face it’s foe.

An hour later, the Seventeenth Skye Rangers were overpowered. The Blue Skye lay toppled, stripped of armour, both legs blown away and not a single weapon remaining. In the cockpit, Leftenant Margaidh Lewis gradually stirred and moaned as consciousness returned. Slowly becoming aware that the Mech was lying on it’s side, she felt a sudden surge of panic. Inside the body of a Mech beat a nuclear heart and if it breached, the results were terminal.

She hurriedly unbuckled the safety harness and fell out of the seat, crying aloud as a sharp pain in her chest informed her that she’d broken at least one rib in the fall. She wiped at sweat that was running down her face, but her hand came away red with blood, not sweat. Cautiously, Margaidh tested her legs and struggled to release the canopy. When it opened she half- clambered, half-fell out of the cockpit, landing in a heap on the dark, clay-like earth. Her eyes screwed tight with pain.

“You will come with me,” said a stern voice above her. Margaidh’s eyes snapped open and she found herself looking up the barrel of a hand laser. The gun was held by a warrior in a khaki-coloured tunic with a green falcon badge on one lapel. His face was stern-looking, and framed by short, mousey hair.

“Who the hell are you?” Margaidh said, making no attempt to stand.

“I am Star Commander Uvin Buhallin of the First Gyrfalcon Jaeger Cluster. You are Isorla. You will come with me.”

Star Commander Uvin Buhallin kept his pistol levelled at Margaidh’s forehead, and it was clear he was not going to move it until she did as she was told. Margaidh narrowed her eyes. “You’ll have to kill me first, you bastard,” she hissed.

Buhallin did not kill Margaidh. Instead, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and hauled her to her feet with a strength that belied his wiry frame. Stars flashed before her eyes as pain from her broken ribs ripped through her.

“You are Isorla,” Buhallin repeated. “You belong to me.”

For a brief moment, Margaidh considered making a run for freedom, and she glanced around for somewhere to run to. But there was nowhere. Her gaze fell at last on the broken hulk of the Blue Skye, damaged now beyond repair, and tears sprung to her eyes. For generations, the Mech had faithfully served the Lewis family warriors. Now it was nothing more than a pile of junk, and Margaidh was now disposessed. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, and she realised that she had disposessed not just herself, but the whole Lewis family, and any generation that may come after her.

“You will come with me now,” said Buhallin, beginning to get impatient.

“Wait,” Margaidh said quietly, and reached out with her free hand to touch the Shadowhawk’s shoulder. With a single deft movement, she pulled free a piece of shattered armour panelling, no more than half the size of her palm. On one side it still bore a trace of blue paint, now charred and peeling. She held the fragment for a moment in her fist, then slipped it into a pocket and looked squarely at Buhallin.

“I will go with you now.”