042. The New Oslo Wargames

May 2992, New Oslo

Officer Aspirant Amelie Gipps looked over at her best friend, Officer Aspirant Marie Francoeur.

It wasn't that their personalities meshed, or they were just that close.

No... it was closer to the fact that they had done everything together over the last year, following Headmaster Kleist about. Was it any wonder they got closer? 

This now being their final year, the two had elected to head over to New Oslo to finish their schooling in the newly inaugurated New Oslo School of Conflict.

Why? Because that was where the 'happenings' were, and if there was anything one learnt at the BSoC, it was that opportunities rarely came to you. 

You, had to go to them. 

Which was why they were here now, on the planet of New Oslo, in the middle of the largest battle that the Inner Sphere had ever experienced. 

20,000 EDF troops. 

30,000 New Oslo Militia (trained by said EDF).

5,000 Wolverines.

350 Blackjack School of Conflict seniors (Battlemech and Infantry track).

4 Regiments of Eridani Light Horse (what remained after Kalidasa at least).

1 Regiment of Defiance Self-protection Forces.

2 Regiments of Lyran Regulars.

1 Regiment of Arcturus Guards.

1 Regiment of Skye Rangers. 

Dozens of smaller mercenary commands of Battalion and Company strength.

And, of course 12 New Oslo School of Conflict seniors.

In other words, this was, by and large, the largest concentration of force that the Inner Sphere had seen on a single planet since the Second, possibly, first Succession War. 

Of the tens of thousands of EDF and Militia, 90% were in Armsman suits. 99% of the remaining as Smialies. The final 1% in actual Battlemechs.

The sheer amount of armour on this battlefield was for the purpose of a single Wargame. 

A truly enormous Wargame demonstrating the effect that the Armsman and Smialy would have on a modern battlefield. 

One that the two teenagers were participating in now, as with all other School of Conflict students who were physically capable. 

Huu Eggers, King of Rasalhague, had spent 2 billion Kroner to just set all this up, deciding that only an actual Wargame would be effective in training the troops. That investment didn't even include the running costs of this month-long event.

Spending to hire the mercenaries. To 'gift' rewards to the LCAF regiments for rewards so that they might drop by. Paying for multiple mercenary contracts to defend his worlds... and then paying them for a training contract at the same time. Then a simulated invasion contract, drawing yet more and more in through the payments being offered. 

Something that had escalated until it was at this size now. 

Amelie Gipps staggered briefly as her Smialy tripped. All School of Conflict Officer Aspirants were in retrotech. To learn how things work on the 'pointy end' being the justification. Amelie really wished she was in her Zeus right about now.

Sure, the Haptic Control system of the Smialy was extremely responsive. Responsive to the point that she was actively trying not to trip over her, and thus the Smialy's own feet. The way it moved like an actual human, despite being waist-heavy.

The engine being located there, throwing off the weight of the entire machine. Something that will need to be fixed in future iterations if she had anything to say about it. 

Which, in turn, meant that hip movements were exaggerated, something to keep an eye on as you moved about on the battlefield. Lots of unexpected hip-thrusts, in other words.

The other problem being the gun, weighing in at nearly a fifth the Automachine's mass, it was a massively destabilising factor. One had to hold the left hand firmly around the barrel to prevent itself just swinging in a large circle, before slamming face-first into the ground. 

Marie Francoeur, on the other hand, had paused, a hand on her shoulder... or the Smialy's shoulder. The Smialy using the same system as a Battlemech with sensors embedded throughout the armour and structure. Sensors that translated different effects through to the pilot. Different vibrations and mild electrical stimulus effectively created the same sensations you would experience if it were the actual skin that said Automachine was touching.

A hand on the shoulder? 

It truly felt like someone had put a hand on her shoulder. 

Marie's Smialy steadied her own, the two wobbling briefly before resetting themselves. 

"You need to watch yourself, stop trying to hump the air." The Blackjack native commented.

Amelie glared, whipping her head back and forth. The little eye-sensor that was her only view at the outside world (aside from the vision slits on the hatch above her head) itself whipping back and forth on its track. The visual feed displayed on a small screen over her eyes, tracking her head movements.

Marie herself chuckled at the sight of the small cockpit glass protected camera wobbled on its track. Amelie's left hand rising up, two fingers at herself, then two at Marie.

I'm watching you.

A snort was her reply, the Grafina of Barcelona did not show it the respect of a reply.

The two were part of a wider detachment of 'rookies'. Or, in mercenary parlance, Green. 

Hundreds of them, in their Smialies, acting as a flanking force to hit the Lyran Regulars and force them to redeploy. 

They weren't trying to actually engage them in pitched battle, of course. Not that it wouldn't be... possible. Just, that they were to withdraw, force a displacement, and allow the Militia forces behind to push forward and cut the Lyran Regiment off from its counterparts.

Annihilation in detail, in other words.

In order to do that, however, they needed to move quietly... stealthily. 

Which, really, on a battlefield as chaotic as this one, meant not making 'boom boom' noises and picking unnecessary fights. Spread over hundreds of kilometres, they could all hear the constant exchange of fire, of artillery. The flashes of artillery on the horizon, the artificial sunrise created by such vast quantities of artillery and cannon fire. Streams of lasers crisscrossing the sky ahead. 

It was beautiful, in a very morbid kind of way. Knowing that each and every one of those... if it had been live ammunition, could be claiming a life.

"Aerospace, bearing 290, distance 10 kilometres!" The voice of their Signals Smialy cut across all frequencies. Priority transmission.

All ducked down, the Smialy being of such... human-like construction, it could lie down prone. 

Each of the 100 distraction force had been equipped with a sensor-dampening cape. A cloth that reflected electromagnetic signals (basically a big foil cape), that, hopefully, should hide them from sensors. 

The Armsman that accompanied them started doing what they had learnt over the last few days of the Wargame. 

Pulling out their tactical shovels... and digging holes to hide in. The enhanced strength allowing the sharpened blades to excavate foxholes in record time, ducking inside and covering their heads.

"I fucking hate this part." Marie muttered. 

Amelie for her part just tapped her fellow officer aspirant with her gun-elbow. With no hand, it was the safest way to get her attention. 

"It's not like they can actually hear us, you know. It's a tight beam, if they could intercept that, we would already be in the shit." 

The heir to Barcelona was about to say something when the roar of "Artillery detected! 45 seconds, 12 rounds, 75mm. Map 12, Sector E13!" filled their ears, all with great panic looked at their maps, at the bottom right of their visual displays.

Sure enough, they were in E13. 

"Fucking fuck." Marie griped, getting into a kneeling position for the Armsman nearby to latch onto the hull of her Smialy with their magnetic hands.

Amelie let out a disgraceful grunt of her own, betraying her noble heritage as she did so. Disgraceful, she thought to herself.

When four Armsman had managed to get a hold, she started to jog forward, Amelie following with her own payload. The entire 100 strong Smialy force trying to get out of the area of effect before the shells came in. 

Because... really... 12 shells? It was always 12 followed by another 200. 

Fucking bullshit, in other words. 

"You know, what I really, absolutely, really, hate?" 

"Please don't finish that sentence."

"VT shells."

Amelie let out a loud sigh. Their private conversation line was, indeed, between the two of them. Allowing all sort of unprofessional commentary... but there was commentary and there was cursing them! 

"You've cursed us, Marie. Why did you say that?" The accusation was sharp. Voidy was proof of Hyperdimensional fuckery, which meant that the great god of 'Begging for Trouble', also known as BoT was real. One that delighted in meeting all the lowest expectations, the puny humans in the mortal realm had.

"Well, it's too late to change the payload now! It's not like it would change anything." 

Then came the explosions. Plural. In the air. 

Looking back, the camera spinning around to face the rear, the noblewoman would see the horrific smoke rings of a VT explosion. 

A ring of smoke, and spout through the centre. 

Twelve of them pasting the area they had just left with simulated shrapnel and death at every turn. 

"This is the third time, Marie! There won't be a fourth!" Amelie promised, trying to maintain her balance as the Armsman clung on for dear life. 

Which meant that they were now going to need to maintain this movement at irregular directions to avoid being annihilated. 

In short, their plan had failed... now they needed to get back without being torn apart by artillery.

+_+

June 2992, New Oslo

Duchess Margaret Gipps looked with satisfaction at her daughter on the camera. 

The observation booth... station... complex? That had been established was utilising a prototype Heimdall system. 

One that had connections to each and every soldier on the field through their equipment, giving those in the complex the ability to see everything, hear everything, and even see real time footage of the men and women on the ground. Their sensory data fed back to a central computer for the observers to watch in their comprehensive glory. 

Margaret for her part was incredibly satisfied with how her daughter had turned out. Despite failing to get into a major war academy... it was clear that the Blackjack School of Conflict had indeed lived up to its reputation of pragmatism, if this was the kind of excursion that its students went on. 

Tens of thousands of soldiers, all in some kind of armour, moving about on a great campaign acting out an invasion of New Oslo? What better way to prepare for actual war than to drill for it in as close to real conditions as possible? 

Or so the soldier in her said, a Battalion XO in the 6th Lyran Regulars, before she retired.

The Duchess, on the other hand? The Duchess was marvelling at the sheer economic might that King Eggers was displaying on the hundreds of screens before them. 

Every single second that passed was one where hundreds of thousands of Kroner were being spent. On wages, on mercenary contracts, on ammunition, on fuel, on maintenance... on every single aspect of a running military unit. 

The statement, from noble to noble, was that King Eggers had money, money to spend on frivolous military Wargame. The economic might to support it, the military force to make any invasion of his worlds a death sentence to the units involved.

Monstrous, in other words. 

But the Duchess was taking a backseat to the mother today.

Her daughter's face was on the screen as a 'notable' given she was one of twelve participants from the New Oslo School of Conflict. Her face set in a rictus of concentration as she manoeuvred the 5 ton Automachine on the battlefield. Dancing around enemy fire, her best friend (a rather... close friend if the subtext in her letters home were any indication) following close behind. Despite the fear that she was showing, it did not affect her.

Even when the entire Automachine flinched in the face of artillery and gunfire, visible from the haptic control system. One that caused the entire machine to move with its pilot, flinching as her daughter did. Amelie showed her mettle as heir to the Duchy of Barcelona and pressed forward, never allowing herself to give up.

With a soundless roar, the muted Amelie Gipps on screen, always such a mild mannered child, charged forth with 30 other Smialies in a bayonet charge, her face set in ferocious scowl. Catching the EDF detachment of Smialies off guard. With great ferocity, the Grafina was at the head of the formation.

In the fierce melee that followed, bloodless, of course. Entire squads tipped over, frozen as they 'died'. A tap of the bayonet was enough to announce a kill, the Smialies demonstrating actual... noticeable skill with their weapons. Another consequence of having a haptic system. After seconds of vicious fighting, Amelie stood atop the 'corpse' of an EDF Automachine. Gun in the air, the twin flags of the New Oslo School of Conflict and Barcelona attached to the small flagpole on the back of her Smialy. Flowing in the wind, telling all who could see just which family she was part of, which force she represented. Rather important when one needed to recognise more than a few dozen Battlemechs on the field.

Her expression was victorious... even if she had lost 10 of her 'platoon' in the charge.

The mother was even prouder as Amelie only allowed herself a moment of exultation before barking out orders, the Armsman behind moving up to begin establishing defensive positions. 

"Your daughter is impressive." Margaret heard the words, turning to her right and seeing a rather portly looking man waddle up. His chest was decorated with several service medals, not the least of which was a Mckennsy's hammer. So, he wasn't a useless Social General as several of those in this room were. But the question remained of why he was talking to her... a Periphery Duke. 

"Anton Tolsand, Duke. Head of Tolsand Warworks." His voice was filled with pride... and was that a hint of embarrassment?

"Margaret Gipps, Duchess of Barcelona." Her uniform had her old Regulars patch on it, but little in the way of identifying markers.

"Ah. Well, I just wanted to apologise for what is about to happen next to your daughter." He looked abashed as he said this, rubbing the mechwarrior spot on his head.

Her eyebrow raised, just one. A skill she had practised in front of the mirror for months.

"We just put released the Locust LCT-1VA. This is actually the combat trial for it." Ah, the name Tolsand clicked.

The one that had pioneered the development of Retro-weapons in combination with modern machines.

The LCT-1VP had been armed with quickly out of date retro-weaponry. One that was superseded by an extended 2 pounder with what they called a 'littlejohn adaptor'. 

The LCT-1VA? This was new. 

"We armed it with a 75mm M116 Howitzer. Range of 12 kilometres with modern ammunition, weighing 1.5 tons with an autoloader and stabiliser. Can carry 2.5 tons of ammunition... with each ton carrying 100 shells." The apologetic tone was back.

"You don't mean..." 

"Yes. We've created an artillery mech that can outrun nearly anything on the battlefield, with enough ammunition to last an entire campaign. And... well, they're about to call a fire mission on your daughter's position on screen A1." 

Margaret's eyes snapped up and, true enough, on the truly enormous map that was displayed above all the personal screens below... the tracked shells were projected to land in Map 23, M09... the same map location on the top right of her daughter's screen. 

"That is utter-"

+_+

"Bullshit." ArchDuke Greydon Brewer, CEO of Defiance Industries glared at the screen before him. The 'highlights' real depicting the blank-VT fused shells exploding over a platoon of Smialy Automachines. All 30 of them rendered 'mission killed' after 30 shells hit the enormous (artificial) crater they were hiding in. They tried to escape, but when sixteen LCT-1VA's fired a Time on Target Barrage of over 5 shells each to saturate an entire grid square? 

There was no escape.

Several of his department heads were here. Looking almost... unwell. 

They had spent nearly an entire year trying to match Retrotech to their existing product line, adding more gun, adding better gun, going so far as to try and add an entire 5-inch/38-calibre naval gun to an Atlas. 

At 1.8 tons bare, 3 tons with the mounting of an autoloader, it could fire 127x680mm shells, each weighing 25 kilograms at 15 per minute. With a maximum range of 16,000 metres, able to use an archaic computer to independently target and engage at the pilot's direction.

A machine that Defiance Battlemechs had spent the last year trying to get working. Able to handle direct fire roles, artillery roles, anti-armour, anti-aircraft, anti-infantry. It was the kind of gun that would make any military sit up and worry.

Yet.

Yet here was Tolsand Warworks bringing out a kludge of a machine that did basically everything he wanted... for the price of a Locust, with the operational mobility of said Locust, with a weapon system that was infinitely cheaper than a naval gun attached to an Atlas. 

In other words, they had been pre-empted... yet again.

Brewer felt the frustration in his bones. 

If they had managed to acquire Tolsand Warworks in 2990, as opposed to the projected 2992 as confirmed by the accounting department. 

Defiance would have been able to stand here. To deploy... sell machines of such calibre that they would become standard artillery mechs of the Lyran Commonwealth.

The Wasp 1-PA would soon enter service as well. Equipped with the same loadout, merely with one ton less ammunition... in exchange for 6 jumpjets. 

All of it could have been Defiance's... and now it belonged to Huu Eggers.

What a monstrous teen. Not even 18 years of age and already creating such seismic shifts in the Inner Sphere. 

Defiance Self-Protection Forces, a regiment of Battlemechs and Armour, were present to represent Defiance in this. They would learn a great deal from this, lessons that would inform future technological innovation. Vital, in other words, to their future.

In the field of business, one could not hold grudges. For holding grudges saw one fail, superseded by those who were more flexible.

If Defiance could not own Tolsand Warworks, they would work with them to achieve the same effects. 

This entire Wargame was an excuse really for them to be here. The Heimdall research project, the Retro-armour project, the Retro-gun project and so many others. Different corporations across the Lyran Commonwealth deciding, that it may just be simpler to create a Research Think-Tank so that they didn't have 30+ research projects going at a time, demanding their funding and manpower.

"Just imagine, how horrific this would be if it were an actual battle and not a Wargame." Arch-Duchess Natalie Vanderzham of Bowie Industries remarked. Standing to his right, her eyes were picking apart the grand melee that was happening on one of the screens. A company of 90 Smialy Automachines had stumbled upon an entrenching battalion of Armsman exosuits. 

Instead of it being a massacre as it would have been with Battlemechs and regular infantry, the Armsman rushed forth, leaping onto the Smialies before they could react, using their melee weapons to cause simulated damage to the machines. 

That is, before the Smialies began to move their bayonets in and in a simulated evisceration, the Armsman were beaten back. 

Yet, the numbers were too great and the Automachines had to beat a retreat, a third of their number left behind.

Bloodless yes.

But...

If it had been an actual battlefield... Brewer could imagine the sheer bloodshed as man and woman were torn out of their machines. The Haptic System locking them in, preventing them from ejecting... unable to escape as their limbs were ripped off to get them out. Or simply butchered inside, their corpses resting as if they were canned meat opened by scavengers. 

He shuddered slightly.

For all that the battlefield had become more... egalitarian... it was also very much... so much more bloody than it had been before. The future fields of war... a mixture of flesh and metal in grotesque monuments to a distant memory.

All of this spun around in his head before he decided, that he could only get out of the future talks of cooperation what he put in.

Defiance was producing the Smialy in number on Hesperus II. He would be truly foolish to not see the production and sales figures... and build on it in the upcoming discussion.

And none, had ever called House Brewer stupid.

+_+

Inside a room, the postmortem of the 2992 New Oslo Wargames as they were being called was happening... elsewhere. The first of a twice-yearly event from the words of Huu Eggers.

In here, however, the heads of a great number of manufacturers, designers, research groups, and universities were gathered. To sign the confirmation of the Heimdall Thinktank, designing both weapons and civilian technologies. Combining all of their might into a singular entity for the good of the Commonwealth... and for their profits.

Combining the Heimdall project, the Retro-armour project, Retro-gun project and more into a singular entity. The most influential and significant, the Heimdall system being the most prominent, and thus lending its name to this group.

After all, with one such group, tax breaks were easier to assign.

Huu Eggers, sitting at the head of the table as per his right as King, looked mildly confused. 

As if he wasn't sure why this was happening.

Which was impossible. All in this room knew just how capable he was. 

In the words of his people, he was a monster of foresight. 

A walking horoscope.

His confusion, therefore, must be about something else, they theorised.

"Are we all sure about this? I am warning you now. This... Think Tank will be to research the unknown and... will likely lose all of your money." Huu Eggers asked of them, looking each in the eye with the certainty of a death god. 

Those present felt more than a little apprehension at the certainty of his announcement.

"What will we be... looking at first?" Archduke Brewer asked, a little cautiously now. He wasn't deterred, of course he would invest in this next venture, to be at the head of the push forth instead of following behind this time. But the absolute certainty was getting to him. As principal investor and head of Eggers General Utility, Huu Eggers was at the head of this Think Tank, the first project direction was at his discretion.

"Super-heavy mechs. 150 tons at least. A new weapon... for a new form of warfare. We have reached the Ultra-Light concept and found great success. Now it is time... to go to the other extreme and see what we can achieve." 

There was a rapid intake of breath. Utter, complete shock.

All knew of Amaris' folly, the 110 ton Matar. One that could not even move its legs before the researchers had been executed by Amaris for treason. 

And Huu Eggers wanted a 150 ton ultra-heavy? 

All were utterly shocked.

All were unable to think straight... truly? 

Truly?

This was Huu Eggers, able to predict, develop, and pre-empt an entirely new wave of technology... at the age of 16. Hell, he had been, with a mere 200,000 Kroner investment, managed to position himself to become a King, equal to the heads of the original three Districts of the Lyran Commonwealth.

Worse, he had not even begun to tap into his wellspring of youth. 

Yet. This was a super heavy, of which none had ever been successfully fielded, even at the height of the Star League. 

These two thoughts battled in the minds of room's occupants. They were titans of industry, and yet, even for them, this proposal was one of sheer, utter, insanity. 

"How much will you be investing", Grand Duchess Natalie Vanderzham of Bowie finally asked. Breaking three minutes of silence.

"100 billion Kroner." The King said, leaning back on his plastic One-Kroner store chair. His expression was one of satisfaction, of supreme confidence. The plastic creaking as he gently bounced his feet. 

And with that, any thought of withdrawing from the Heimdall Think Tank exited their minds. How could they leave now? When Eggers General Utility would be taking the greatest risks of all? And with such... sublime confidence. 

All cheered up, all hurried to get the document passed around for them to sign. Marvelling at the sensation of parchment on their skin, of the weight that came with a signature, a thumbprint in their blood. 

The gravitas of the moment weighed on them all heavily, a silence entering the room. Pregnant, ready to give birth at any moment.

Huu looked shocked, as if he hadn't been prepared for this. The other rumour about him must be true, then, his... general denseness when it came to other people and himself. Clearly, he hadn't been able to predict just how much influence he had. Those in the room did not mock him for it, indeed, the fact that he had a weakness at all was comforting. The idea of an all-perfect god of industry left many uncomfortable. A slightly awkward teen? 

Much more... human.

Dumbfounded, the King of Rasalhague leaned back. Flabbergasted, looking at each of them with an incredulous expression on his face. 

The titans of the Lyran Commonwealth congratulating him, and then each other. Wishing for a happy cooperation in the future. Each imagining the greatness that would, not could, would result from this.

Of the influence they would gain, the social cachet of being in such august company... and the sheer profits that were coming their way.