New Dmitri Dyubichev story here. One of the first ones I every wrote, actually, way back in 2015. Originally hoping to get this published in BattleCorps, but since that's gone away and CGL has indicated they have no plans to publish this, I thought I'd share it here with you. It's sort of an origin story for Dmitri, about paranoia and trust.
Other Dmitri stories are available here:
https://one-way-mirror.blogspot.jp/p/blog-page.htmlIn chronological order they are:
1. Like Family: Redfield, 3025
2.
Happy Hope Town (this one)3. <Good Choices--finished but not published yet. Will post after this one>
4. The Mask Does Not Make the Man: Terra, 3027
5. Diamonds in the Rust: Van Diemen IV, 3029
6. Time Enough: Canopus, 3032
* * *
Shepard’s Valley
Stein’s Folly
Federated Suns (Occupied by the Capellan Confederation)
10 March, 3025Orange fires winked and writhed among the homes scattered along the valley. Thick, black smoke hung heavily in the still, humid air, trapped by the high wooded hills on either side. BattleMechs, ten-meter high humanoid war machines, worked their way slowly up the valley, flattening fences and fields under their heavy tread, pausing only to blast the next building with laser and cannon fire.
Captain Dmitri Dyubichev sat listlessly in the cockpit of his
Griffin, looking at the destruction but not seeing it, his eyes locked to an invisible point somewhere in the middle distance. A small, broken heap lay smoldering by the
Griffin’s foot.
Commander Xie Huang’s
Whitworth came up alongside. “Captain,” he signaled over a private channel. “Dmitri. We had to do this. Orders, from Colonel Ridzik himself.”
Dyubichev allowed the silence to speak for him.
“This is war,” Huang began again.
“A war we’re losing. Scorched earth on a planet we never had any hope of holding,” interrupted Dyubichev. “Orders? Stupid, pointless, bloody-minded orders.”
“Careful, Dmitri. Don’t say things like that, even to me,” urged Huang. “You never know-”
Further conversation was cut off.
“Captain! I have contacts to the north. Four birds inbound, coming in low,” Luzia DaSilva signaled from her
Panther on a nearby hilltop.
“Everyone move! Brian, covering fire!” Dyubichev shouted, kicking open the throttle and sending his
Griffin into a run for the wooded hills. Behind, Brian Banks’s
Blackjack raised its arms and loosed a hail of cannon fire into the air.
Four needle-shaped Davion Corsairs roared overhead, black shadows against the grey clouds, slipping past the yellow lines of tracers and stabbing blue PPC beams that leaped skyward. Each released a trail of glimmering silver than plunged to the earth and exploded in a chain of fire.
Explosions hopscotched towards Dyubichev and Huang, barely missing the
Griffin, the ground by the ‘Mech’s legs erupting into gouts of earth and stone that rattled off his cockpit’s ferroglass. Huang’s
Whitworth staggered, then was picked up and spun like a toy as a great fireball blossomed from its chest.
And the Corsairs were gone, leaving nothing but vapor trails, the booming echo of their engines, and a thick pillar of smoke pouring from the crippled ‘Mech on the ground.
Dyubichev extended his hands and slid down the chain ladder from the
Griffin’s fishbowl cockpit, feeling the muggy heat even in his shorts and cooling vest.
The
Whitworth’s head had been separated from its shoulders by the blast that had torn its chest open. It lay a dozen meters from the still-burning body of the ‘Mech, the left side of the head armor cracked like an eggshell, leaving a jagged hole.
In the dim light of the cockpit, Dyubichev saw Huang still strapped to the pilot’s chair by his five-point harness. Huang’s helmet was broken, connectors ripped free of their housings. His cooling vest was torn and shredded down one side, splattered with blood but it was hard to see how much. Dyubichev put his survival knife in his teeth and squeezed his head and shoulders through the hole, cut through the harness with his knife, then took Huang under the armpits, and began slowly, laboriously dragging him out of the ‘Mech. Huang’s boot caught on a jagged edge of the hole twice before Dyubichev could finally maneuver him free.
Dyubichev sank to the grass beside Huang, drenched in sweat.
Huang’s eyes opened. Pupils unfocused, dilated. He’d probably dosed himself with Pallophine, thought Dyubichev, the Capellan emergency painkiller.
“Looks like they got me,” slurred Huang.
“Looks that way,” grunted Dyubichev, struggling to his feet. Huang’s bleeding didn’t seem too bad. Looked like he’d taken a nasty blow to the head, but nothing seemed broken. Dyubichev once again took Huang under the armpits and began dragging him further from the flaming ‘Mech.
“Aren’t you going to tell me the medics are on their way?”
“The medics are on their way.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me I’ll be fine?”
“You’ll be fine.”
“You know what, Dmitri? You’re the worst at this.”
“Have I ever lied to you, Huang?”
“Yes, frequently.”
Dyubichev reckoned that was far enough. With a sigh, he lowered Huang gently to the ground.
“Ah hell, this is painful,” said Huang, clutching weakly at Dyubichev. “You can’t let them take me Dmitri. Can’t let them get me. If the Fedrats come, you have to do it.”
“Do what?”
“End it. Kill me.”
“What? You’re babbling. Even more than usual. How much Pallophine did you take? No one is killing anyone,” Dyubichev looked around. “At the moment.”
“No? I’m one of them, you know, one of the guys who have to do, have to do it, do the thing, you know. Have to do it. For the Chancellor,” Huang’s words came in a mumbled rush.
“Blake’s bloody beard Huang, you are going to be fine. Now be a good lad and shut the hell up.”
Huang’s eyes obligingly rolled back and his body went slack. Concerned, Dyubichev reached over and felt his pulse. Sighed with relief. Huang wasn’t dead.