Steelton, Tamar March, Lyran Commonwealth
April 3rd, 3050
The dropship shuddered with the thrust in atmosphere; there was a whole different feeling to an atmospheric lift than a drop from orbit. He'd done enough practice drops over Beten Kaitos over the last year to know the difference. The mech was still new to him, he was just learning its systems, but he ran over the diagnostics to ensure that all was well. It was the way of it from the era when the tech base was declining and not the era of expansion now. Battlemechs were hugely complex machines with huge maintenance needs. Check and recheck, before loading, after loading, and as approaching the DZ. The fusion reactor hummed under him and the screens all around him flashed their data, though much of it also fed into his neurohelmet. He focused on this, mostly because he hated dropships. He hated the feeling of being entombed.
The data was more than he was used to; the star league model neurohelmets had a different system architecture and OS than the newer-made stuff. This one was vintage, SLDF-issue rather than a remake with familiar Davion-style screen layouts on his HUD using the old Star League tech; lostech, they once called it.
It was also a different color than the usual gold that he was used to, with different shapes and indicators for features to get his attention. He used the settings in live-training in the mech and in the simulators, but noticed a subtle difference in how the mech handled with this neurohelmet's interface.
In any case, there was a blast of air and a roar of sound on the Cicada's external pickups as the bay doors clanged open with a warning klaxon. Still a red light, but it'd flash green and the drop officer aboard this Leopard, one of the Star Guard's vehicles, would hit the release. The Star Guard were mercenaries, but an elite unit, one of the best, and that was part of why a lance of Nagelring and NAIS cadets were on exercises on a planet garrisoned by these troops.
Suddenly, the drop indicator in his cockpit flashed green and then blinked as the datalink between the Cicada and the dropship was removed; the data from the dropship was on a screen on the cockpit, and that went blank and auto-shifted to a camera view below, so he could visually inspect the ground he was going to find his mech on. They weren't bothering with drop thrusters on this one, the Leopard, never the most agile of ships in atmosphere, was nonetheless going in low and dropping the mechs onto relatively good ground at a pre-designated DZ. He used the sensors to assess and recheck all the same right before the dropship's machinery holding his mech in place disengaged; it was a drop of a few meters, the ship hovering, but it was still a bit of a thump and a rattle in the cockpit as the Cicada's feet hit the ground. The neurohelmet's inputs furnished the sense of balance the Mech needed to subtly shift weight and remain on its feet.
Holding in place for about fifteen seconds, Mattlov waited for the ship's thrusters to engage and push the ship up from its hover so that there was no danger from the thruster's backwash to his mech's systems. He took the moment to verify the diagnostics again and to verify gyro functionality and structural integrity. You never knew.
"RAT 1-3. Status is nominal. Over."
His was the Davion accent; like the BBC of old, Davion school-ships and broadcasts emphasized a common accent, and he had it. It was the product of good schooling and NAIS, though he was not an aristocrat, more of a man-at-arms. The distinction didn't matter that much; a mechwarrior was a mechwarrior, at least in the Federated Suns, and they all fancied themselves knights defending their realm. The armor happened to be painted a dusty desert pattern to match the terrain, and it didn't shine, but that didn't dull the romanticism of being a mechwarrior for Mattlov. He bought the Hanse Davion cult, the image of the great savior of their civilization, a man and a cause to fight for. His Caph upbringing was supposed to make him cynical of the mass media manipulation, even in a constitutional state like the Federated Suns, but he followed his mother's path.
The other voices of "Rat Lance" gave their status. Once that was done, and as the Leopard was already engaging thrusters and boosting away, the lance command line came alive.
"RAT, proceed along waypoints to rendezvous with Task Force Rusty."The TACCOM satellite net had gone down about a day ago, which meant that geographic data was not being updated realtime and commos depended on onboard systems alone. Mechs were fine, but a lot of vehicles weren't. As a result, the Star Guard sent out one of their engineer detachments in the area to check on the backup sensors system and stand by to activate them to keep the navigation networks going. It was an ideal time to send out a lance, preferably a green one, to pick up some good training in the field doing maneuvers with their mechs while providing an escort (and a tie-in to the planet's commo net) for the engineering, infantry and other elements in the area. Steelton was a hub of anti-piracy operations near the Periphery in Lyran Space, but it was unlikely that a raider element would hit a planet with an elite garrison. All the same, standard operating procedure in the Star Guards, and Mattlov approved, was to take it all seriously.
After all, Caph didn't expect to get hit in 3039, but he was there for it when the Ryuken regiments landed. They were beaten bloody by the ready reserve for the Federated Suns push into the Combine, but it taught Mattlov a valuable lesson; don't assume. He vaguely monitored the lance's internal commo net, but maintained relative silence. They had a lance leader and commo discipline could be hard to maintain at times on boring 'milk run' operations, but Mattlov learned the hard way through NAIS discipline to keep it professional in the cockpit. He had a mouth, so the lessons were reinforced with a lot of company punishment before he finally got it.
As the lance started underway, he stowed the mental chatter and focused on visuals; the Cicada had an incredible top speed, he wasn't using it all as he stayed more or less in a formation with the other three mechs of the lance. His position was forward of the others, owing to the Marik mech's speed and the addition of a Beagle Active Probe, but he wasn't relying on sensor data alone. Sensors could lie, after all. The mech had a smoother than usual gait, and he owed it to the interface of the neurohelmet. Always a deft, delicate 'twitch' hand with the controls of a mech, which included a control stick that was set between the legs (not always the case, depending on the mech type,) he marveled at the slightly elevated performance the helmet afforded. He'd gone out in a spare neurohelmet, a regular one, just because Senior Technician Reginald, his mech's crew chief, and he wanted to know if it was the mech or the helmet.
It was an early graduation gift and his mother knew how to shop for a mechwarrior. They couldn't afford a mech, but they got him something almost better. The Cicada didn't have much in the way of arms, but it did have winglets that adjusted to help provide balance. It felt precarious the first time, with a cockpit overhanging the center of gravity, but he got used to it, especially as the plasteel viewport in the cockpit was well-forward and clear of obstructions. It gave him good peripheral vision, which made sense in a mech designed for reconnaissance work. The hum of the engine and power systems, the slight whine of the actuators and myomers, different in every mech, was in the blood with him.
There was plenty of view; Steelton was a dusty wasteland with mineral riches. It had jutting rock formations with a very specific hexagonal sort of characteristic that spoke of ancient geological activity of some sort, but it was mostly sand. Some extra heat, but nothing the sinks on his mech couldn't cope with. It was shades of sand, clay and slate out there, but at least the skies were clear and the horizon extended a ways. It was a desert vista that sung to his mother's heritage, and totally unlike Caph or New Avalon.
Weapons were not hot, but they could be very quickly. That was another operational rule of the Star Guards. They'd loaded with live ammo, not training stuff, just in case...
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