BattleTech: Threefold Curse

[DrunkenGrognard]

Spoiler: Author's Notes

So here I am, taking a swing at fiction again for the first time in mumblemumble years. This particular idea I've been kicking around for a while now. I'm using Drakenisis' wonderful BattleTech jumpchain as the starting point, though a bit loosely. It's important to note, my SI's in-character knowledge is based on what I knew before I started writing this, so little details that I learned as I was doing the research to put everything together, well... Poor Caseri. Jump-Chan has to get some fun in someway...

With thanks to SirJalinth for beta'ing this

May You Live In Interesting Times
May You Come To The Attention Of Those In High Places
May You Find That For Which You Search

-Chinese curse

Chapter 1

Consciousness returned slowly.

Now, I'm not 100% coherent right away when I wake up, but I do generally wake up pretty dang fast; able to roll out of bed and start breakfast before I'm capable of speech; a survival skill thanks to a job that gets me up at fuck-you o'clock every day. So struggling to get myself upright was generally a bad sign.

Some of that awake came suddenly when I managed to roll over and fall off the bench seat I was sleeping on, and landed on the floor tits first. This was both uncomfortable and confusing because A) tits are sensitive, and B) I hadn't had any the night before.

Flailing and swearing, I hauled myself upright and looked around to see where the hell I was. Accurate but useless answer: back seat of some kind of car? No, wait, looking at the outside of the thing, I was seeing fan intakes, so this was some kind of hovercraft. A convertible, no less, with a ratty looking rag-top to match the ratty, faded appearance of the rest of it. Beyond the hovercar, I saw a burnt-orange landscape that reminded me vaguely of the badlands around Drumheller, rocky flatlands stretching towards the horizon. The sun was hanging halfway across said horizon, though fucked if I knew if it was dawn or nightfall. Looking the other way, I saw that I was parked next to a butte.

A butte with a hatch in it. And a rolling door about forty feet to the left of that. Hokay. Hidden badlands base.

Before I went exploring that, I quickly went through the rest of the hovercar. There was a convincing stick under the driver's seat (exactly where I kept mine in my car back home) while the trunk held a survival and first aid kit, a set of tools I mostly recognized, a sleeping bag, a duffel full of clothing that looked like it was my new size, and a pistol that looked like it belonged to an extra from Star Wars.

And in the glove box, a letter.

Greetings, Jumper! You've been selected to join an exclusive crew of sentients who are provided with the chance to live out your dreams! Welcome to a place that is strange but familiar to you. You have some advantages to your credit here, but not so many as to remove the challenge.

You were rude, after all. And not who I was aiming for initially. He looked like he'd be such fun too. That said, I am a ROB of my word, and should you survive, I'll make good on things and deposit you back at your home, none the worse for wear, the day after you left.

Good luck. And don't be boring!

Well. I was jumpchaining, and seemed to be on Jump-chan's bad side. That wasn't great. I'd been dropped… well, I wasn't entirely sure yet, though I had some suspicions. Being girlified in the bargain… I'd decide if that was curse or blessing in a few days, when I knew whether or not I was getting visits from the dysphoria fairy. The loss of weight that came with it had it off to a good start at least. For the moment, however, it was time to deal with the damn bunker.

It wasn't locked, at least, and I only needed to wait for my vision to adjust to the dark to know where I was. There weren't all that many places I'd run across a Marauder, after all.

Although on second look, I revised that. This looked like a near-relative to the thing, but more of a frankenstein's monster, with more than a little Catapult or Crab DNA in there as well. It had a decent sized energy weapon perched on the right shoulder, over a torso that was a bit more friend-shaped than a Marauder's, with a Catapult's big canopy and an uneven murderer's grin of gunports across the torso. The legs were chunky and sported jet exhausts. Rather than a Catapult's missile pods, a pair of arms sprouted from the shoulders. They looked a bit less bulky than a Marauder's, ending with a single big gun barrel. A gun that looked suspiciously like the one in the shoulder.

The whole thing stood about nine meters at the shoulder, and fairly dripped with menace even in basic primer grey.

With a grimace, I looked over the rest of the mechbay. There was what looked like a standard shipping container marked EVERGREEN dominating the far wall, a gym locker next to a table, and an obvious changing cubical next to that.

A second letter sat on the table. Welcome to the Lyran Periphery, circa 3018! You have some liquid funds, a custom BattleMech you may well recognize, a shipping container of spare parts, and an opportunity to do something entertaining! You've also got the skills needed to operate the 'Mech properly, and maintain it… so long as the parts last. I am a benevolent ROB, after all.

I turned the sheet over, and saw an honest-to-god TRO Mechsheet, formatted pretty much exactly the way MegaMek did, describing the machine in question.



"Huh," I said, blinking at the unfamiliarity of my voice but pushing that aside for the nonce to move on. Three "Clan ER Light PPCs" more or less justified borrowing the name 'thunder god'. Pretty damn good throw-weight of damage for a medium in this era, with the heat capacity to bracket fight or throw an alpha without completely crippling myself. The scattering of advanced tech was interesting; DHS was a no brainer, and the pulse laser would keep infantry honest, but it was the Light PPCs that were really interesting; mostly because there was no way in hell they should exist yet, and especially not Clan versions. Explaining them would be no fun at all.

And the whole thing was going to draw attention like flies to shit. No matter what I did, there were going to be Questions and people Taking Notice. Lyran space in this era meant that Snord and his merry band of thieves were wandering around picking fights with Marik and hiding lostech from Katrina, and if Wolf wasn't on her payroll yet he would be soon. I could probably assume that WolfNet would learn about my existence approximately thirty seconds after I got spotted, because they were bullshit of the highest order. And on the other hand I'd have to deal with Space AT&T, who'd probably want to dump my corpse in an unmarked grave when they saw what I was driving.

And absolutely would when they realized what I was planning to do. Because there was no way in hell I wouldn't be trying to lay hands on the Helm core and get a copy to NAIS, Tharkad, or both. Exactly how I was going to pull that off was a problem for Future Me to solve. He (she?) could deal with it, they were a smart nerd, and kind of an asshole, and thus deserved it. For now, I'd finish taking stock of things and see just how much 'Mech operation skills Jump-Chan had left me with.

I looked over the rest of the goodies in here before trying to figure anything else out. The shipping container was packed full; two crates full of spare circuit boards and electronic parts; one of lenses; and five hefty crates marked Type VI LPPC © Raven Alliance, which kicked my memory into gear- I'd written up a mech much like this one a couple years ago as a militia-trash-for-our-spheroid-holdings machine. Couldn't remember why the LPPCs instead of just ER Large Lasers, but it was probably me trying to be a Special Snowflake.

Anyway.

The gym locker held a set of boiler room grey techie coveralls (without any high vis striping or tags suggesting flame retardant fabric; safety features, in the future of the 80's? Perish the thought), a banana yellow fanny pack with a wad of C-Bills and a worryingly bright green wallet full of ID cards (announcing me as Caseri Sobral, Lostech Prospector - the first name was a frequent one for me to grab in online games for alt-characters, the last name didn't ring a bell) and a Plug Suit in Rei's colours.

Well, Plug Suit with what looked like coolant piping, so cooling suit. Which was going to be much less of a pain in the ass than a vest-and-skimpies, probably. A bit of awkwardness later and I was clamoring up the scaffolding (this outfit was going to take some getting used to moving in) and finding that top hatch. The cockpit, thank God, wasn't a Clan style efficiency job, but was big enough that I'd be able to stash my stuff and have a touch of room to spare (it helped that the new me was smol; I'd lost about eight inches of height along with the weight). It even had some nice reddy-brown wood paneling around the instrument panels, which was very 80s and I kind of loved it. (The new me was an early-20s, 5'1"ish gal who looked like Gengis Khan's tomboy sister, which suggested I was going to have issues with Inner Sphere authorities; because I was willing to bet cash money a gene test would reveal Amaris DNA, given Jump-Chan's letter)

A bit after that, I was rolling out. Jump-Chan had been as good as her word; I was able to get the thing fired up and moving without any problems. I had my clothes and other small goodies stashed around me, the duffel bucked into the jumpseat. Couldn't do anything about the shipping container of parts just yet, or the hovercar, but I'd marked the bunker in my nav system; I'd be coming back here if at all possible. For now, I was crossing the badlands at a decent lope; trying to make sure my granted mechhandling skills actually worked.

Seemed pretty good so far; running around felt like driving a truck, more or less - I just sort of knew how to control this thing as soon as I got going. I was still taking it easy, because I wasn't an idiot - treating this like my first run in any unfamiliar truck. It seemed to be helping; I hadn't eaten shit yet, even when I gave the jump-jets a brief go. And the guns, for that matter. Hadn't fired a full alpha, but I'd turned several strips of sand into glass with various bursts of cobalt confetti along with slashes of green and crimson light. There did seem to be an option to change those colours, but I wasn't going to sweat that just yet. For now, I was heading east at about fifty klicks, getting a feel for things and scrolling my radio through the FM dials. I was picking up the occasional snatch of something vaguely Country. They were slowly getting more frequent and audible, which I figured was a decent sign that I was getting closer to what passed for civilization on this rock.

I was also getting snatches of something on short-wave bands. Probably something like CB, though I didn't know near enough to see if they were on the old-earth civilian bands. I was probably approaching something closer than a town. Sounded vaguely like oilpatch operations chatter, or a survey crew, from the bits I was catching.

The radio chatter got clearer as I made it to the top of one rise; that gave way to a broad plain. It was still badlands, but I could see what looked like a mountain range to the west; the sun's position making it look black against the tans of the badlands. I turned down the FM radio (I had definitely found country music, and at least in Lyran space, the trend of country songs being more about what brand of truck you drive than actual country stuff was sadly alive and well) and started adjusting the short-wave until I could get a clear channel.

Finally, I got one. "Okay, Mal, we're ready to run the next sample, bring in a shovel full."

"Gotcha Fred. Be right there. Just gotta -rnh- gotta discourage some hares."

"Did you stick a shovel into one of their nests?"

"No comment, Fred."

I shook my head. Hare attacks? I had a mental image of saber-toothed bunnies. Par for the course when it came to BT wildlife, honestly. I pushed the thought aside and keyed the mic. "Check, check, radio check."

"...Reading you lima-charlie, stranger. Who'se this?"

"Cassi Sobral, lostech prospector. I've been poking around the badlands for a while, having a bit of an issue with my nav system. Any chance you can point me towards town?"

There was a long pause, then, "...Might be, stranger. Find anything interesting out there?"

"Might have. Still gotta get my claims filed before I can talk about it."

"Can't blame a man for trying. Landing is about two-fifty kays northwest of here."

"Thanks much, friend. Take care."

I turned north-west and moved on. Two hundred fifty KMs would take me around three hours, so I started loping along. While I ran, I started thumbing through files on the little mini computer I'd found in a glove box in the cockpit. Noteputer? Datapad? Couldn't remember what the specific term for them in BT was. Anyway, I started going through some stuff on filing lostech claims, because I'd have to at least vaguely know what I was doing if I wanted to give my cover story even a slight amount of believability.

Two hours later, and it was clear I was on the right track. The badlands had given way to scrub, and the scrub was starting to give way to farmland. Not terribly dense, thankfully, so I was able to avoid stomping through someone's tilled fields as I continued on. I'd thankfully also found a few more radio stations and currently had some polka creating much more pleasant background noise than the ford-and-wrangler country. I'd just spotted what looked like a farmhouse in the middle distance when my systems threw up an alert: mechs detected. Presumably the surveyors had called town, and the Militia was coming out to see just who the heck was wandering up, which was fair. I slowed to a walking pace and keyed the radio.

"Afternoon, folks. Is this the welcome wagon?"

"Might be. You Sobral? The lostech prospector?"

"That's me. Got dropped off a while ago," I technically didn't lie, "and I've been poking around since. Just coming in for some supplies and such."

"...Right. You got any documentation to back that up?"

"I do, and I can produce it as soon as we meet up. I think I see a proper road ahead, shall I wait for you there?" It wasn't strange for them to be suspicious; hopefully by being cooperative I'd be able to get the benefit of the doubt, here.

"Sounds like a plan, Sobral. See you shortly."

The militia lance came into view as I slowed to a halt at the end of a dirt road, next to a little sign proclaiming it to be the edge of the Callaway Ranch, where Trespassers Would Be Shot. The lance was… honestly pretty good for militia in this era. Whitworth, a pair of Centurions, and a Quickdraw, advancing with good spacing along the road. Zooming in, they looked a little threadbare, with faded paint, but nothing seemed obviously broken. As we crossed into weapons range (me with my weapons and targeting systems turned off, though my heart rate picked up as I recognised theirs were on) they spread out a bit, with the Quickdraw advancing ahead of the others. As he reached medium laser range, the lance halted.

"What the hell are you driving?"

"The family FrankenMech."

A long moment, then, "Come on out, let's see those credentials."

I was already on the ground and starting towards him before I saw his cockpit pop open. The 'Draw's pilot was an older caucasian man, reddish-brown hair over a tanned face. He wore combat boots, board shorts, and a jacket thrown over a cooling vest. I felt more than a little self-conscious of how out-of-place I seemed with my nice shiny cooling suit and pristine, primer'd mech. But I put on my best bland customer-service smile (honed over years of taxi driving and garbage-manning) and politely held out my Jump-chan provided documents.

He took a few minutes to go over it all, alternating between reading and looking between me and my 'Mech, and, to be fair, did his best not to loom over me (given he had a foot of height and probably a hundred pounds on me, that took some effort). Finally, "Well. These look like they're in order. And I can't think of any trouble that's come recently you might have been behind. You'll be making a claim for something, I'm sure."

"And paying the requisite claim fees when I get to the local offices, yes."

"Well. The Duke might have a few questions but… if you're willing to stay out of trouble, I suppose… Welcome to Swartklip."

"Thank you, mister…?" I let the question hang while wondering where in the fuck Swartklip was.

The dark-haired man gave a crooked smile, brown eyes crinkling for a moment. "Hauptman Klaus Doric. Mount up and we'll lead you in, but keep your weapons offline. No offence, but…"

"But you don't know me, and have people to defend. I understand." Hopefully the tablet dealie has some info on this place…

Landing
Swartklip III, Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
March 12, 3018

Two days later, I'd had a polite conversation with the Duke's deputy and her clerks, who had been happy to take my money in exchange for some salvage claims but otherwise had no interest in talking to me; and with the Adept in charge of the local ComStar office. Swartklip was so small-time that this was a "class C" station, not an actual HPG but just a post-office, getting messages and packages every few months from a courier or contracted merchant jumper. He had been significantly more interested in where I'd been and what I'd been up to, and had been polite-but-strained at my bland evasions. It'd be a couple weeks before the next ship was expected to swing through, which would give me time to plan things a bit. Like how to get my shipping container of LosTech secured without it being immediately stolen.

I'd done a little shopping and research, trying to work out something resembling a plan, which was complicated by just how flipping remote this place was. The closest system-name I even recognized was Kwanjong-ni, then Inarcs, but they were both two or three jumps away. Of course, it was a couple decades too early for Defiance to be doing anything on Kwanjong-ni and I couldn't remember how they found the blasted plant there in the first place. Still, problems for later. If I could find a way to build some rep, I might be able to point someone with lots of minions at the problem.

Comparing my cash-on-hand with what I could find on shipping rates, I had enough to do a fair bit of travel as long as I wasn't too impatient. I'd have to do a little more research and figure out who I wanted to link up with and where to do that, but that was also Future Me's problem. For now I had some time to cool my heels while waiting for a jumper to show up and I could find my opportunities then.

Of course, I made the mistake of saying something along those lines to the clerk at the thrift store I'd found to get more than a set of covies for casual wear(yes, I had a Jump-Chan provided duffel of clothes, but the tops were more cutesy than I was comfortable with, and none of the pants had any zogging pockets), and the universe decided to punish me for taunting Murphy; with the civil defense sirens spooling up just after noon that very day. Moments later, the alarm cut out and Hauptman Doric's voice picked up.

"Attention citizens; a pirate JumpShip has been detected at the planetary L1 point. The militia is preparing to deploy to stand in your defense. When we know where they're heading, we'll let you know. For now, get ready to either bunker down or evacuate."

I threw a 20-kroner note on the table of the restaurant I was in and hit the door running. I dialed up Doric on my communicator while I ran for the rental hangar I had Naru-Kami stashed at.

"Ah, Sobral, I'm a little busy right now."

"I heard the alarms. I'm no fan of pirates, and I was wondering if you wanted an extra set of guns against the bastards."

"...Well. I'd be lying if I said I didn't. And you seem a decent enough sort… Get mounted up and head for the south edge of town."

"Not the spaceport?"

"We don't have a dropper, we're going to have to hoof it to wherever they land."

"Right. I'll call you back once I'm mounted up."

And I tried to strangle the little voice telling me this was a stupid idea.

Blackvalley Badlands
Swartklip III, Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
March 12, 3018

By the time I'd formed up with the Militia out of town it was apparently clear that the Pirates weren't heading for Landing. There were all of four other towns on Swartklip worthy of the title; Orsova (a farming town); Unterklipp (a mining town); Tworivers (a barge-based transport hub); and Hohenau (which did a bit of everything). Fortunately, three of the four were the same general direction away from the capital, and it was immediately clear the pirates were heading that general direction too, heading down with a Union and a Mule.

The pirates descended on the town of Tworivers in about Company strength; a mix of 'Mechs and vehicles. What chatter the militia had picked up suggested that most of the civies had made it clear; and the cops with them, which would at least limit the breakage mostly to stuff rather than lives. The pirates were running heavier than the local militia even with me counted in, but hopefully we'd be able to do some divide and conquer rather than try to take them in a fair fight.

The short scout lance - two Stingers and a Locust-M; the Commando that normally rounded out their numbers was having reactor issues and wouldn't start - was ranging out ahead of us, looking to play bait. It was likely to be rough work for them; outnumbered four to one like they were. But the Locust jockey, an older guy named Mackensen, had just given Doric a nod and deployed. They were using all the Stinger's speed; while our main group was following on at a Centurion's more modest top speed.

I was running with Doric and his lance, and trying not to get too nervous about this situation. From the scattered reports, we were outweighed and outnumbered, which was likely to make the coming battle rough if we couldn't separate them a fair bit. But ultimately… pirates were scum, and chipping in against this lot of them was the right thing to do even before thinking about stuff like "building a trustworthy rep" and "not getting my stuff stolen."

Anticipation built like a leaden ball in my stomach as I tracked things on the map. The scouts approaching Tworivers, scattered bits of radio chatter from the scout lance as they engaged, attenuated by distance and the shitty nature of militia comm gear. More snippets as they killed a pirate Technical and started to fall back, angry pirates in pursuit. An exchange between Mackensen and Hauptmann Doric trying to nail down the enemy's force comp - sounded like Cicada, Vulcan, Valkyrie, one or two Hunchbacks, a Firestarter, one or two Trebuchets, a Blackjack, and a Grasshopper that was probably the commander's ride. Also a report of a pair of UrbanMechs that were either unable to keep pace or just staying in Tworivers to keep looting. The pirate vehicles stayed behind, too, which meant we were a lot less outnumbered than we could have been.

The militia pilots tossed a few ideas back and forth, trying to work out how to play this. I mostly just listened, answering a few questions about Naru-Kami's capabilities. I didn't want to talk myself up too hard, I wasn't sure just how much skill I had. Also, I was the odd man out here, in more ways than one. The militia pilots knew each other and knew how to work together; I was the wildcard. Fortunately, that'd go against the pirates, too - they wouldn't know what to expect from me. Though once I started banging away with the LPPCs I'd probably draw all sorts of negative attention. But there was nothing to do about that now, except try and do my best when the fur started to fly.

As the scouts got within a few klicks on the return; the pirates still following strong; Doric made the call - he picked a good-sized butte for us to set up behind and called for the scouts to lead them past it, and we steadied ourselves. It was a good spot, broad and with a few other small rises we could use for maneuver games once we made contact, but for now the militia Lance took up what looked like a practiced formation; with me tacked on at one end of the rough skirmish line, and we settled in for a very long minute of anticipation.

Then the moment was on us. Mackensen's Locust, looking untouched, roared past, kicking up rooster-tails of flying earth. The militia Stingers followed moments later, looking a bit worse for wear but still moving well. Mackensen sent a burst transmission - "They're almost on us, get ready" - and didn't even break stride, looping around towards the back of our formation while the Stingers cut right to go around the other side of us.

The first of the pursuing pirate scouts - the Cicada - rounded the corner next, and we unleashed the rave. Both Centurions and the Whitworth cut loose with their lasers; I gave the poor bastard the PPCs. About half of our assorted lightshows connected, and the entire left side of the 'Mech just came apart; the rest of it slammed to the desert floor and skidded to a stop in its own furrow.

A Vulcan followed the oversized bug around next, trying to cut away from us - clearly he'd seen what we did to his bud, but couldn't stop fast enough to avoid entering line of sight. LPPCs still cycling, this time I cut loose with my medium lasers while the others salvoed LRMs and the Quickdraw threw an alpha. My heat soared; pointedly reminding me that I was in a bracket fighter. The wave of missiles and disco washed over the Vulcan, but it was breaking away in an evasive sort of shimmy that kept it from getting breached in any one location, in exchange for a lot of generalized shredding of armor.

One and a half down; but they still had eight to go. Hauptmann Doric barked an order; and he and we started falling back before the next pirate hove into view. We got moving none too soon, either, as indirect LRMs started to rain down on where we'd been standing. The Vulcan got itself out of line of sight; the two remaining scout mechs started to loop around wide. Our own surviving scouts were doing the same; I saw a flight of LRMs chase the Vulcan out of sight as we fell back.

Me and the Whitworth were covering one side of the butte; the two Centies were covering the other. We got a customer first; a Swayback festooned with assorted missile tubes. My heat was still higher than I liked; I flipped the hat switch to chain fire and started to pump LPPC shots into the fucker as the Whitworth hosed it down with another laser volley. The pirate was moving with a similar shimmy to the one the Vulcan had used, just slower, but it was still enough to keep us from concentrating damage anywhere. He got in fairly close; inside a hundred meters; before replying. The Swayback vanished in a haze of smoke as around twenty SRMs erupted from its shoulder and slammed across the front half of my 'Mech; followed closely by stabbing crimson beams from its medium lasers.

I swore as the 'Mech bucked under me; staying upright, then swore again as the Swayback emerged from its cloud of smoke. I swore some more as I realized I'd scrapperlocked so hard on shooting I'd stopped moving; just standing there like a moron. The Whitworth had been smart enough to back off, but I'd just stood there with a kick me sign around my neck. I flipped the hat switch back over and cut loose with all four lasers as I lurched into reverse. He was trying to get into punching range now rather than dodge, so most of that tore into his center of mass; ripping a couple panels clean away. From the way he staggered, I might have caught a piece of his gyro.

Then an LRM volley pasted itself across the front of the thing, and one of those definitely caught the gyro; dumping the Swayback flat on its face in a drunken sprawl. I kept backing away for a few seconds, trying to get a sense of what else was going on. In the distance, the Vulcan had linked up with the Valkyrie and Firestarter the scouts had reported, the three machines trying to corner what was left of the Militia scouts. My angle wasn't the greatest, but the Valk was slowing down, probably to get a better missile shot on Mackensen's Locust, and it was inside my LPPC range. No fucking around with chain fire this time; I lined up and fired all three at it. As the heat washed over me I saw two bolts catch it in the side; sweeping a leg and dumping the light onto the sand. Then a scattering of LRMs crashed over me and I spun my attention back to the bigger fish.

The two Centurions were duking it out with a second Hunchback, this one still packing its big gun, with the Whitworth laying missiles onto it. Meanwhile, Hauptman Doric's Quickdraw was dueling the pirate boss in his Grasshopper; while a Blackjack and a Trebuchet hung back dropping fire support. The Trenchbucket having just thrown a volley at me, well, it would be downright rude of me to ignore him. My long guns finished cycling before his launchers could, and I slammed out a full volley aiming center mass, then hit my jumpjets to fling myself to the left and lurched into a jog. The heat alarms were blatting anger at me, but that was ok. Between the jump and the LPPC shots landing, the pirate's missiles missed me clean.

I switched back to chain fire and started laying down shots as I circled around. The Blackjack started pumping autocannon fire at me, which started even more alarms blaring as my armor got sandblasted away. The pirate was going for my legs; possibly thinking happy larcenous thoughts; possibly just luck of the draw. Either way, AC/2 fire wasn't something I could ignore but it was less urgent than the damned LRMs. Plus, he was moving more than the Trenchbucket pilot, who'd almost stopped as he tried to keep me under his guns, sensors clearly not liking the LPPC backscatter.

And then my train of thought was interrupted as one of those cobalt bolts snuck past an armor plate and the missile boat tore itself in half from ammo cookoff.

The thought of oh my god I just killed someone threw me off my stride both ways and I stumbled to a near halt. Before I could recover, something caught the left knee, and Naru-Kami went over for a hard crash into the rocks and sand, slamming me against my restraints. Shaking my head to try and clear it, I used my arms to roll to a recovery position on newly-implanted instinct. Slowly picking myself back up, leg locked into position to lurch-and-stump, I took a moment to look things over before something else could go wrong.

The pirate Hunchie was down, along with one of the Centurions. The other one wasn't looking much better; missing the dangerous arm but still making a game try of moving in to help Doric, who was also down an arm and limping. The Firestarter was down, too; with one militia Stinger laid out next to it. I couldn't see the Vulcan, but the only one of the friendly lights I could spot was Mackensen's Locust. Mostly sure I wasn't going to immediately get jumped, I turned my attention back to the Blackjack.

The pirate 'Mech, probably thinking I was done, had turned away to send shots chasing Mackensen. Even worse for him, he'd stopped, trying to lay his guns on the speed machine. I took a few extra seconds to let my freezers flush my heat - they'd been doing a champion job of keeping me fighting fit, but the lingering desert heat plus my lousy fire discipline had pushed me out of the green zone - to settle my aim on him.

Credit to the pirate Mechjock - he realized I was back up in time to avoid giving me a backshot. As he started spinning back towards me I let him have it; three cobalt bolts slamming into his right side. We both lurched back into motion, trading tracers for cobalt confetti. I wasn't moving so well, but the backscatter from my PPC hits was fucking with his sensors enough to make up for it. At the same time, the Blackjack was also slowing, picking its shots with increasing care.

Then, just as my heat was starting to edge into the yellow again - thank you freezers - he ceased fire completely. There was a moment of what felt like heavy consideration, then his targeting sensors cut out and the arms went straight down. Fortunately, the next shot I fired at him missed short, because it took a few seconds for me to realize he was surrendering. I checked fire as he slowed to a halt and cut his engine, taking a moment to get my breathing and scattered thoughts under control.

By some miracle, nobody shot me while I was distracted. The chiming of my comm kicked my brain back into gear. "Sobral; go."

"Kid, can you still fight? That 'Hopper has just about done in the Hauptmann." Mackensen's voice was steady but concerned.

"Right. Shit. Uh, yeah, I should be good to keep going." I turned in place, taking everything in. Most of the 'Mechs on both sides of this mess were down; just me, Mackensen, the Whitworth, and Doric's Quickdraw still up. On the other side of the rap sheet, I could only see two pirates left standing; the Grasshopper battered but standing tall as it brawled with the Quickdraw, and the Vulcan fleeing into the night in the general direction of away.

I took a steadying breath and settled my crosshairs on the 'Hopper. The first bolt slapped it in the arm as it threw everything but its LRMs into the Quickdraw, the laser show causing the lighter heavy to stagger and topple backwards. The second bolt missed wide, streaking just behind the bigger mech as it made a drunken turn towards me. The third caught it in the chest about the same time as Doric lifted one arm and stabbed a laser shot into its leg, causing the big mech to stagger even further.

Heavily battered and overheating like mad, the pirate 'Mech quite possibly didn't even realize the Whitworth and Locust were still there until the two 'Mechs slung LRM volleys into its back. Its thermals spiked even higher as something caught a piece of its engine. Two more LPPC bolts slammed home center mass; the lens of it's centerline Large Laser shattering from secondary effects; then the pirate 'Mech's head cracked open as his ejection seat fired. We'd won.

I celebrated by unbuckling, popping my hatch, and throwing up over the side.


All in all it was a pretty pyrrhic victory, the kind of knock down drag out fight that usually didn't happen in this era. Three of the Militia's pilots were badly injured, two others dead, and all their 'Mechs save Mackensen's Locust were moderately-to-critically damaged. A couple pirates had surrendered, a few more captured; inspiring a spirited debate about frontier justice versus fair trials. I mostly kept out of it, limiting my comments to a few notes about accepting surrenders and fair treatment for the same.

The Militia techs started some frantic repair and salvage operations, to try and get the Quickdraw back into fighting shape and get the Commando at least vaguely working. The pirates ran riot over Tworivers through the night, stealing everything not nailed down and on fire, the Vulcan and now-armless Firestarter, which had deassed the fight at some point while we'd all been distracted with the heavier iron, linking up with their fellows around midnight. Around noon, they boosted back to their jumpship. It had been hot-charging its drives, it seemed, and popped out two days after that. Even if we'd managed to flush the 'Mechs, technicals, and pirate infantry out of Tworivers - which would have been a hell of a trick with a Locust and two battered mediums - we couldn't have done a damn thing to their droppers or jumper.

Mackensen had made a point of sitting me down and getting me talking about the battle once we'd gotten back to the militia base. Gun to my head, I couldn't tell you what all I told him; it all sort of blurs into mush in my memories; shock and guilt and adrenaline crash all coming together. We talked, he not-quite shoved me into a guest room, and I slept for about nine hours.

When I woke up, I tracked down the tough old veteran again, and we talked a bit more, me being grateful for his guiding me through the fight and him being gruff but polite about things. Then I bought breakfast for the both of us, and after that he helped me flag down one of the militia's recovery vehicles to run me out to the mesa to grab my shipping container of parts.

This, I was a tad worried about, because I didn't really have much of a way to stop them from stealing my lostech, beyond whatever gratitude my help in the big fight might have garnered. Fortunately, gratitude counted for enough here. We slapped a padlock on the shipping container, threw it and the hovercar on the back of the flatbed, and rolled back to town. I traded the hovercar for the knee actuator out of the Swayback and use of one of the repair cubicles.

Fortunately, Naru-Kami's knee wasn't some weird non-standard type, nor the mount trashed. Even more fortunately, Jump-Chan had indeed seen fit to toss in some mech tech skill along with the piloting, and with a little help from one of the local techs I was able to adapt the Hunchie actuator to work with a bird-leg in about a week. Another small miracle: I hadn't taken more than superficial damage to the endo leg bones; and the knee was the only actual armor breach I'd taken. Repairing the damaged armor plates was still a work in progress when the next jumpship came in, mostly done by the time they made orbit.

Right. Made orbit. While KF-boom jumpers were the "standard" in this era, lots of 'primitive' jumpers remained, especially out in the Periphery. Their inability to move DropShips around made them militarily useless, but they could make a decent living as commercial carriers. There were even a small handful of them being made each year. Not getting conscripted as military logistics helped their survival immensely.

Whatever its origins, the Vesta was a Burro-class JumpShip; which I was informed was "yet another knockoff of the old Conestogas."

They were happy enough to agree to take my 'Mech and shipping container on as cargo for the next leg of their rounds, and for less than I'd expected to be paying for a berth on a regular jumper. The day after they made orbit, I got my stuff loaded, Naru-Kami palletized for shipping and a nice set of new heavy-duty padlocks securing my shipping container as it went up next to the 'Mech. I had a few more hours before leaving at that point, as Vesta's policy was to load passengers last, to keep us from "helpfully" getting in the way while they moved cargo from DropShuttle to cargo bays, which was probably wise. I took the extra time to take a last shower (I was not looking forward to dealing with variable-gravity showers for the next couple weeks) and as I was signing out from the motel and getting my damage deposit back, Doric met me at the door.

"Hauptman, what brings you here? Not to seem ungrateful, but I have a shuttle to catch."

"I'll be quick; we need a favor. The Blackjack pilot's singing like a canary, and he's told us what system this bunch of pirates is based out of. We can't do anything about that, but Bucklands is only two jumps further on Vesta's route, and the Duke there has a lot more hardware than we do. And the spacelift to take it pirate hunting."

I gave a slow nod. I was still a little conflicted about things, but this seemed pretty straightforward. "Makes sense, but where do I come in?"

"I was hoping you could carry the message. I can't leave, and most of my men are too hurt to travel." A pause. "And you're the one who the Blackjack pilot surrendered to; and the Duke is supposed to be a fan of LosTech prospectors and treasure hunters."

Oh hell. "I'm not sure how much difference that might make; I have literally no connections to the Lyran military other than you guys."

"I was going to send Mechwarrior Michaels along, too;" One of the Centurion jockeys; "And I can cover half your travel fees to head out there."

I took a moment. That was a non-trivial amount of change he was putting up for me to play messenger girl, and with an actual militia guy along I was less likely to just get laughed out of the room. And it would let me establish some bona fides as a good person rather than just a treasure hunter, which would probably come in handy later on.

I sighed. "You have a deal."

 

[DrunkenGrognard]

Link to the Jumpchain: https://i.4pcdn.org/tg/1497717069037.pdf

JumpChain build

-select age(22); select starting year(3018); Select location: Bumfuck nowhere

-Perks: MechWarrior Training; Hotshot Pilot; Nose For Lostech; Trained Technician; Luck of the Irish
-Items: Medium BattleMech; Clan Technology; The Mighty C-Bill
-Companions: (REDACTED)
-Drawbacks: Infamous Heritage

 

[DrunkenGrognard]

Author's note: So I'm going to try and be productive enough to post one chapter a week. We'll see how that goes; I've said that before; and it seldom ended well, but hey. Hope springeth eternal and all that.

Thanks again to SirJalinth for beta-reading, and without further ado...


Chapter 2

JumpShip Vesta
Bucklands system, Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
April 9, 3018

Brett Michaels seemed to find my rubbernecking as Vesta made orbit amusing as all hell; but I could not bring myself to care. I was too busy pressing up against the window in the jumper's passenger lounge as we made orbit over a friggin alien world and watching the little blue dot grow over the last two days. It was a marginal improvement over his reaction to me doing the same thing as the ship had flown from Swartklip orbit to the L1 point (for reasons I was assured made sense if one understood KF physics, a boomless jump-core ship could use a Lagrange point to pop out much more safely than a KF-boom ship. They tended to make those jumps to a regular zenith or nadir point because those were easier to calculate and just use L1s to speed up leaving a system rather than for both the jump in and the jump out. Given that Vesta was the best part of a century old and hadn't pretzelized itself in a misjump, I was willing to nod and smile for that explanation) before jumping to Neerabup, where I'd done the same thing.

If nothing else, being slightly annoyed by him made it easier not to make stupid, no-context jokes about his name. It also helped that after the first week or so, we had other things to talk about as I learned a bit more about life in the Inner Sphere while trying not to give away just how isekai I was. He was, at least, willing to give me some benefit of the doubt; swatting pirates together was a bonding experience. Though he confided that he agreed with Mackensen that I was, in fact, mad as a box of frogs but in a useful sort of way.

Which. Fair.

By the time we jumped out of Neerabup, his ribs had healed (he'd had to eject during the pirate fight, and landed badly) and to help stave off the jump-travel boredom, he had agreed to help me get a little work done. The primer grey was doing me no favors in pretending Naru-Kami was anything other than brand new, so I wanted to get the damn thing painted. Vesta's crew was willing to sell me some paint and masks - though the colours available were a bit limited - and then rent me some drop-sheets and a paint-gun. It was a little awkward to manage in half a G of acceleration-gravity but it wasn't all that bad(safety harnesses are your friend) and we got it done before the ship made turnover in Bucklands. While we worked, we'd speculated about what kind of frankenstein's monster his Centurion was being turned into back home(it had needed an arm either fully rebuilt or replaced, and the militia mechanics had still been concentrating on the supposedly-quicker work of fixing the other Centy, the Stinger, and the Whitworth.)

He was hoping they'd do something with the pirate Hunchback's more-intact arm and its AC-20, which sounded like a lot more work than using that arm and some lasers to turn it into a faux Centy -AL but ultimately it wasn't up to us.

I appreciated that he didn't seem bitter about the situation, though it probably helped that his Centy was a militia mech and not family-owned.

Either way, Naru-Kami now looked a lot less brand-friggin-new; painted up mostly in olive drab, with several panels picked out in either desert yellow or navy blue to break up all the green. In an attempt to sell the "family frankenmech" story, I also picked out the seams of some of the armor patches with some stitching painted in white. Which might have been A Little Much, but dang it, I figured it was worth trying.

Eventually, though, the ship made orbit and it was time to get our stuff together for the DropShuttle flight down. As the thrust cut out and the gravity went away, my stomach did a flip-flop. I tried not to react but Michaels noticed anyway, the smirking jerk.

"Two weeks and you were fine, but you're getting space-sick now?"

I sighed. "Not quite."

"You're looking space-sick. It's overdue, honestly. I was getting a little annoyed at how immune to it you were, Cass." His smirk widened, making his narrow, craggy face look surprisingly punchable. "Nice to know you're human after all."

Well, if he was going to be an ass about it… "It's an entirely different issue, Brett. I'm dealing with a little visit from Auntie Flow."

I'd had enough foresight to buy some pads before leaving Swartklip, thank God. Also, thank God, the symptoms were relatively mild. Cramps and indigestion, but based on what some of my female friends had described, I was getting off damn light. Still, supposedly there were medications to be found on the more major worlds that would let a gal not have to deal with them at all for a while and I fully intended to find out if Bucklands was major enough to stock them.

Watching the expression on his face as he processed my statement - bafflement chaining to confusion chaining to realization and a final horrified rictus made up for it. "Oh! I; uh; um…"

"Surely you've heard of this before? I know you've got a girlfriend back home."

"She doesn't talk to me about…"

I decided to show mercy and gave a dismissive wave. "It's fine, it happens, let's not make a big deal of it, hey?"

"Right. Meet you at the DropShuttle bay?"

"Right."

As I gathered up my bags and ran through my mental checklist I reflected that at this point dysphoria was definitely not a problem, for which I was grateful and also A) probably answered a couple things I'd suspected about myself but hadn't dared look at too closely, and B) resolved to not think about too hard, because dwelling on it would be a good way to get stuck in my own head second-guessing everything and that wouldn't be helpful. I needed to get ready for a flight, and then a dog-and-pony show groundside.

I only needed a few moments to repack the last few things in my duffel, then double check the tiny cabin for anything I'd forgotten and give the variable-g-bathroom a parting flip of the bird, then started hand-over-handing my way along the grab lines towards the DropShuttle bay. We weren't the only passengers heading down for this; going along with a small collection of urchins and their parents, a harried family from Issaba who were immigrating for reasons they'd been quite evasive about. They seemed like a decent little family, so I wished them the best.

The flight down was simple and quick. The spaceport was a hell of a lot bigger than Swartklip's, or even Neerabup's; a trio of good-sized blast-pits suitable for spheroid droppers and a long, broad runway for aerodynes, with a tower, several warehouses and silos, and a few long, low buildings along one side of things. We split up on landing; Michaels and the Lymen family heading for the main terminal to handle immigration paperwork while I got my cargo sorted - the parts container moved to one of the warehouses and Naru-Kami de-palletized.

Because BattleTech was… the way it was, apparently it was entirely legal to just walk your heavily armed war machine into town from the spaceport as long as you asked nicely and signed the right forms. So I went through the faffaround of getting the 'Mech going (and annoyingly, noticed a couple spots that we'd missed while painting due to the tiedowns) and met Michaels at the gate. I took a few minutes to take care of the aforementioned paperwork while he settled himself and his own duffle into the jump-seat and then we were on our way.

It was honestly surreal. The road from the spaceport into town wasn't paved, though it was pretty well-graded gravel. We shared it with a mix of trucks - a few big flatbeds and bodyjobs that reminded me of what I usually operated; some tractor-trailer rigs, and an assortment of smaller vehicles ranging from Kei-trucks to the sort of awkward, oversized pickup that usually served as a penis-extension for insecure oilpatch workers, looking all the stranger because these ones damn near all looked like they actually worked for a living instead of posing macholy in a driveway. And among it all, actual wagons and some individuals riding a variety of horses. There'd been one building at the 'port that was a mix of full-service livery stable and car rental joint. As we approached city limits, an honest to god stagecoach trundled past, complete with a driver with a buggy whip.

The city itself was, if anything, worse. Landing had looked downright normal to me; just another slowly-dying industrial town full of prefab and mobile homes, with a couple brick buildings reaching a lofty three or four stories and the tallest thing an obvious water tower for firefighting. Maabade City was a mighty sprawl, with a proper town core complete with ten-to-fifteen story midrises and the big dish of the HPG marking out ComStar's turf. It also had a lot of to-my-eye modern housing, and mobiles, alongside converted barns, shantys and log cabins with that hard-to-describe feel of being actually old and not just artfully rustic, trailer parks, and a few neighborhoods that looked like they'd been lifted off the set of any number of John Wayne westerns.

It felt astoundingly weird to me, and thankfully Michaels didn't decide to needle me for it, possibly fearing I would talk of (scare chord) Feminine Biology again and further traumatize him. Though as we neared the center of town (and I traded a slightly awkward wave with a Griffon that looked to be part of the local militia) he graduated from basic direction-giving to a bit of a briefing. "Okay, I was able to get in touch with the Duke's staff. He's busy for the next couple hours, but then we'll have our meeting. Should be with him and the local militia commander, a Hauptmann named Walt Hahn. I've got the BattleRoms from the fight back home, and I can make the intro."

"What's the Duke's name?"

"Adrian Thompson, though you should just address him as 'your grace.'"

"Bleh. Nobility."

"Heh. Anyway, since this bunch of pirates have hit a few other Lyran worlds in the region the last couple years, we should be able to get 'em to play ball, but you might have to butter the guy up a bit."

"God forbid he make an effort to do something proactive… I still don't think I'll be much help for this, however much the Duke thinks LosTech prospectors are interesting."

"You might need to bat your eyes at him a bit." I could hear him smirk. "Just pretend you're flirting with me instead."

"Brett. You have a girlfriend. She saw you off at the spaceport and gave me a no-touchy glare."

"So? You'll be buttering up the Duke, not me! Just pretend he's a sexy boy like I am."

"Eh, six out of ten at best."

He made artistic dying noises behind me as I found our immediate destination, a Hotel Excelsior whose on-site parking included a small 'Mech hangar. It was a couple blocks from the Ducal residence. It was also a hell of a lot shabbier-looking in person than it had looked in the flyer, but to be fair that wasn't just a BattleTech thing, lots of hotels did that back home too. Michaels had arranged it from the spaceport; I'd just wanted a place close to the Duke's place with parking.

We checked in and stashed our bags. Credit to Michaels: while he'd only gone for a single room, there were two beds. Man was a bit of a shit-disturber, but he wasn't all that bad. As I left to do some last-minute prep for things, he dug out the militia uniform from his suitcase and got started on it with the complimentary iron that seemed to still be a universal of hotels.

Everyone thought I'd be required for this because the local duke was a big fanboy of lostech prospectors, so I figured I might as well look the part. Michaels had been incredulous that I was off to do more shopping, and thrift-store shopping at that ("I've seen your bankroll; you're loaded!") But I could think of no better place to look; you found the most interesting outfits at thrift stores; and now that I wasn't a 400 pound slug I could actually fit most things you'd find in one.

I was mindful of the time - we only had a couple hours till our meeting, after all, but fortunately it only took me one of them to track down what I wanted. It wasn't exactly a professional looking ensemble, but, well, I was pretty sure it would work better than fatigues (which I'd not earned, one impromptu battle beside the militia did not a solider make) or a fancy monkey-suit. Instead I went for something a little more old fashioned.

See, much like 40k, BattleTech is, at its heart, a miserable pile of pop-culture references. Old school anime, classic movies and tv, various books… As far as I could remember, there was no thinly disguised expy of the character I had in mind, but I was pretty damn sure he'd fight right in, and I set out on a mission. Two stores later, I was back on the street, clad in a pair of cargo pants the colour of good coffee; a button-up shirt in a khaki tan, a slightly-too-big, but damn comfortable brown leather jacket, and a broad-brimmed stetson. A holster and belt of dark leather was slung around my hips, with a ram's head buckle. A more understated nylon belt that came together like a car's seatbelt was running through the belt loops on the cargos; and a K-bar style knife and sheath tucked into the top of some nice chunky combat boots. (The other boot had a folding knife of a more sensible size tucked into it completely; and a lawyer-friendly Swiss Army Knife in one of my pockets) The outfit I'd walked in with was tucked into a canvas messenger bag along with a few other purchases.

I took a moment to admire my reflection in a store window. I looked ready to poke around ruins, rob graves, and punch nazis.

You know. Archaeology.

Michaels, naturally, razzed me about it a bit, and I razzed him back in turn about his militia dress uniform and its small, tasteful fruit salad. With plenty of time to spare, we hoofed it to the ducal residence. ("Why aren't we getting a cab?" "It's five blocks, dude. Suck it up.") We bickered a bit more on the walk, as I glanced through the hardcopy of the briefing materials - I'd gone over them a fair bit on the jumper, but a little more study could only help deal with my nerves. But I got distracted as the duke's place loomed into view.

The Ducal Residence on Swartklip had been a pretty modest place, all things considered. It had been a small office building, mostly, with the top floor given over to the ducal apartments and a nice tasteful terrace on the roof. A working building, more or less, where all the day-to-day minutia of running a planet took place and largely without pretension. The Duke himself had been a bit of a gomer, but he mostly stayed out of the way of the people who did the actual work and hadn't, the one time I actually met him, been all that pretentious.

The Ducal Residence on Bucklands was a fucking palace.

It dominated about four square blocks, a big outer wall housing a well-manicured garden complete with fountains and a giant golden statue of a 10-point buck deer around a castle that wouldn't have been too out of place at Disneyland, all minarets and spires and a dome over the central hub. The floor of the entry hall was honest to god marble; tiled in a green-and-brown checkerboard and the walls hung with paintings and elaborate tapestries. A pristinely-dressed maid directed us to a plush velvet couch probably worth more than the entire contents of my old condo. I didn't dare sit down, for fear of messing something up, and even Michaels, for whom this was unusual but not quite so alien, looked very tentative as he perched on the edge of the thing.

I pretended interest in the artwork, while we waited to get called to our little meeting. I forced myself to put on my best neutral customer-service smile as we waited. The future is a foreign country. They do things differently here.

Ducal Residence
Bucklands IV, Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
April 9, 3018

Duke Thompson's office was of a piece with everything else; elaborate and expensive. Some small bit of sanity was imposed by the Duke's bodyguards, two tall, sensibly besuited guys named Simon and Hans, with close-cropped blond hair and brown hair with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, respectively. At the far end of the room was an elaborately decorated desk, where a big man sat in a chair that looked comfortable as sin, while a severe man in a fancier version of Michaels' uniform stood alongside.

We were politely required to disarm before we could approach. I'd deliberately come strapped, anticipating something like this as a way to get some cheap cred as a roguish prospector, figuring that my pistol and three knives would be a big enough pile to stand out as someone cautious and ever-so-slightly dangerous. Michaels had defeated me, the jerk, because while his dress uniform only required him to carry his sidearm, he also had a little derringer-style holdout and a pair of knives that he carried by habit.

The Duke himself was a middle aged man, tall and stocky with a bit of a double chin, clad in a ridiculously ostentatious suit with gold brocade on the shoulders and sparkling pearl buttons. A full head of greying hair tried valiantly to give him some gravitas. With a voice that sounded like he chewed raw coffee beans for breakfast, he greeted us. "Ah, it's good to meet you. You're that LosTech prospector we were told to expect, Sobral, wasn't it?"

"I am, your grace. My companion is Private First Class Michaels of the Swartklip Militia. Am I correct in guessing that the gentleman beside you is hauptmann Hahn?"

"He is. I'm told you two are here about some sort of opportunity?"

Michaels stepped forward. "Yes, your grace. On the twelfth of March, a band of pirates calling themselves the Polecats attacked Swartklip. The Militia, with some assistance from Miss Sobral here, engaged them. We took a few of the pirates prisoner, and one of them sang like a canary."

"The Polecats, you say? I seem to recall that name from a few other attacks."

"Yes, your grace. According to the one we interrogated, they were responsible for a dozen attacks over the last year or so, from Issaba up to Engadine and Jerangle and various worlds between. Our pirate tells us they're based out of an abandoned LCAF base on Elba."

The Duke held up a hand and turned to me. "I am not familiar with… Elba. Does it fall into your purview, miss prospector?"

I smiled blandly. "Quite possibly. The colony was founded at some point during the Reunification War and got rolled into the Rim Worlds Republic shortly after. They were in control of the planet until the Amaris Coup. At some point in either that conflict, or shortly after in the Republic-Commonwealth war, a couple of the larger cities were destroyed by strategic weaponry. The Lyran Commonwealth maintained control of the planet until some point in the Second Succession War, at which point it drops out of the history books, presumably abandoned."

"And these Polecats found it again."

"Indeed, sir. A disused military base would be a better foundation for a pirate enclave than most, and it's just out-of-the-way enough to be hard to notice, while close enough to several settled systems for raiding."

"Until they crossed the path of your… rather unique LosTech BattleMech."

Oh hell. "I was in a position to lend some assistance, yes. Though honestly, the deciding factor was the pirates letting themselves get strung out and engaging us piecemeal. Let us whittle them down before the fight really started."

The big man leaned forwards, elbows propped on his desk. "Please, tell me more."

Well. Time for the dog and pony show. I like to think I'm a decent enough storyteller, and I'd had a couple weeks to go over everyone's BattleROMs to get a feel for how the parts of the fight I wasn't directly involved in went. We also had copies of the BattleROM footage, with bookmarks for the most spectacular bits. The Duke was fine with me loading the footage into a vid-player built into his desk (a 24" CRT screen with gilding around the sides highlighting the cooling vents, which I had to grant was a nice touch, even if it was gaudy as hell) I started to spin the tale, with pacing and gesticulation, and the video clips as punctuation; doing my best to emphasize what the Militia boys did as much as my own stuff.

Standouts on their end included Jane Kinsey, one of the Stinger jockeys, who took the Firestarter out of the fight with a thoroughly spectacular DFA; one foot landing squarely on each of the Firestarter's shoulders, tearing the arms off and ending with the 'Mech slamming crotch-first against the faceplate of the Firestarter, which she copped to being a happy accident but I implied she was just that good. Also literally everything Mackensen did, because that man was weapons-grade bullshit. From initially potting one of the Technicals through the end of the battle, the man was getting shot at more or less constantly for most of an hour, and did not get hit once. The others were nothing shabby, mind, but Johannesen the Whitworth driver spent the fight playing keepaway and slapping around the Vulcan, while Michaels and the others mostly just got stuck into slugfests, which were good work-rate but less entertaining.

The Duke seemed quite taken with my narration, and the hauptmann seemed… tolerably amused, dryly telling me it was hardly the least professional AAR he'd ever heard. I fielded a few questions much more professionally, then;

"So," began the Duke, settling back in his chair and looking a little more thoughtful after being indulged, "I take it you've come asking for reinforcements to go root these pirates out of their hole."

"Essentially, yes. Swartklip's Militia doesn't have any spacelift, while you do. My understanding was that they should have at least one lance, possibly more, back in fighting trim by the time we could swing through on the way to Elba. From our intel, the Polecats are down to their vehicles, which are mostly Technicals, two Urbies, a badly damaged Firestarter and Vulcan, and the two 'Mechs they didn't take on the Swartklip raid - an Orion with a blown knee that they didn't have the spares to fix properly, and a Charger that was in the middle of an engine overhaul. They might have that working, but, well. Charger."

The hauptmann gave an amused snort.

The Duke nodded slowly. "And what sorts of goods might we be able to recover through this… operation. Please, do not misunderstand, I loath pirates as much as any other sane man, but even if we can rely on a full five or six BattleMechs from Swartklip, you are asking me to devote a considerable portion of Bucklands' defensive forces to an operation that will take over three months to complete. Time where we would be vulnerable, to say nothing of the expense of such an effort."

"Our captive pirate wasn't entirely sure how much loot they had on hand from their last few raids, but they were sitting on a fairly considerable pile. As well, there's a fair bit of potential BattleMech salvage - especially that one-legged Orion. A few of the Polecats have bounties on their heads, which doesn't amount to a ton on the scale of a planetary militia budget but can't hurt. It will stop them from potentially victimizing Bucklands in the future, or any of your neighbors. Depending on how the chips fall it might be possible to seize some or all of their spacelift. And with at least one Star League era military base there… well, I can apply my expertise to see what might be ferreted out."

Annoyingly, that last really did seem to be the selling point, he perked right up when I said it after maintaining an expression of total boredom over everything else. Hopefully I'd manage to spot something that somehow hadn't already been salvaged over the last couple centuries. If not, the dude would likely be pissed with me.

"Standard rates for your hire, I suppose?"

"Of course- for the attack as well as snooping around after." Fortune and glory; kid. Fortune and glory.


Three days later, we were back in space, heading for the Zenith point to meet up with the Simon's Straight Flush, a Merchant class jumper that did a fair bit of business with Bucklands and was more than happy to haul a Union that belonged to the Militia, and a Mule that had been hired on for a speculative share.

Naru-Kami was tucked into its cradle in the mechbay in the company of seven Militia machines. A pair of Commandos, a Stinger, two Griffons, and a pair of Thunderbolts that were apparently the assigned rides of Duke Thompson's chief bodyguards Hans and Simon - though thankfully the Duke had stayed behind. I'd barely met the other pilots and hadn't really gotten an impression of any of them, save for one of the Commando jockeys, a Judy Dench looking lady named Carol Guthire who was a literal grandmother and had a sense of humor and laugh that brought to mind one Gytha Ogg. She and the other two light 'Mech pilots were much more weekend warrior-y than the rest of the pilots along, AgroMech jockeys who had enough 'real' MechWarrior training to cover scouting.

That said, AgroMech jockeys or no, they were veterans of a sort: apparently Bucklands had a habit of settling disputes between major farming families by slapping armor plates and weapons on some AgroMechs and having them throw down. Somehow, there was no market for the tapes of these fights, which boggled me, because that sounded much funnier than the average Solaris match.

In addition to the MechWarriors, there were fifty-odd infantry along - mostly SWAT people - to help secure eventual loot and possibly rush the pirate base if we couldn't convince them to surrender. We probably couldn't. Piracy wasn't a guaranteed death penalty in Lyran space, but it was close to that, and these jokers had been at it long enough, hitting enough worlds, that approximately nobody would have any patience for them.

Still, that was a problem for the future. In the short term, we had something like a month and a half of travel to get to Elba and pick this fight. Getting through that much travel was going to be… a thing. I'd picked up some books, both digital and printed - my noteputer's screen was only about the size of a GBA's, which was a bit small to use as an e-reader, but i'd spotted a couple data-chips of interest, three of a set of five that made up an atlas of all worlds of the Star League. I had some maps to go over just in case I could spot something of interest. As for the printed ones, it seemed that Franklin W. Dixon and Carolyn Keene were still writing the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mystery series, which was a dang good run for a couple of industry pseudonyms. I snagged a couple more books that had the look of airport-bookstore-thrillers that ought to be good for a laugh or two. I'd also found a collapsing-neck acoustic guitar and had caged a promise of lessons out of Michaels. I'd wanted to learn how to play for years, but had never managed to keep the motivation to get past the god-I-suck phase and start actually learning. Hopefully, these circumstances would have me bored enough to power through that.

But even that was a bit for the future, because the Militia's Union had a pair of simulator pods, and in an entirely reasonable tradition, us MechJocks would be faffing around in sim duels for a while to establish our informal pecking order. The pods weren't entirely functional, not pumping heat, but they worked and they could also display to a nice big widescreen in the same lounge. It was pretty entertaining so far. Guthrie was running around in a simulated Commando, up against Hans in his Thunderbolt.

It was the sort of duel that on paper would be a pretty one-sided stomping, but it wasn't quite going that way. Hans was a pretty decent 'Mechjock, and he had both a hilarious tonnage advantage and was cheerfully abusing the lack of heat pumps in the pods to keep up a high rate of fire. On the other hand, Guthrie, while only a mediocre shot, was a stupidly good pilot. She reminded me a lot of those bucket-loader operators who could open a beer with the bucket without breaking it.

She was playing keepaway pretty well, and was keeping up just enough of a rain of SRMs to keep the bodyguard pushing things. A few of us had figured out her strategy - including Simon, judging by the incredibly peeved mutterings he was directing at his teammate's pod - and we waited to see if Hans would figure it out before it kicked in.

Two minutes after the shooting started in their simulated match, and we found out the answer was "no." The pods might not pump heat, but they still tracked it, and it finally punished him for his reckless shooting; hitting him with a simulated overheat-and-shutdown. Guthrie pounced, smoothly pivoting from kiting to charging in for a backshot and putting a couple volleys into her stationary target before the pod let Hans restart. Unfortunately for Guthire, she hadn't done nearly enough damage with those volleys to put the Thud down, and the man started paying proper attention to his heat after. She dragged it out a while, but another very intense minute or so saw the Commando get legged, after which point death arrived swiftly. The two of them exchanged a handshake (only slightly grudging on Hans' part) and then there was another throw of the dice to see who was up next.

It came up as me, against Kasumi Schneider, one of the Griffin jockeys. As I adjusted the seat (Guthire was not a large woman but she still had about three inches on me) and keyed up a 'Mech profile, Kasumi yelled from her pod, "Hey, if you're using that LosTech mech of yours, mind if I dig up the profile for a Royal Griffie to make it fair?"

"If you wanna, though I haven't put together a profile for Naru-Kami."

"Why not?"

"The harder you make the training, the easier the real thing will be. Anyways, don't lie, you just want me to whip up a profile so y'all can play with it."

That pulled a few laughs from the peanut gallery as the blonde put on her most dignified tone. "I can neither confirm nor deny." Then, more normally, "What are you going to be using, then?"

"A dash 20 Crab. Similar movement profile, but a bit less range, firepower, and armor." Settings loaded, I pulled the pod's hatch shut and buckled in, settling the pod's neurohelmet (one much bulkier than the one in my own machine) onto my head. The screens lit up in a wash of pixelated glory, then settled into a series of rolling hills that reminded me of Windows XP. There was a few seconds of visible countdown hanging in midair, then I lurched into motion.

Spawn points were randomized to keep it from being too easy to ambush each-other, so I was just gambling when I picked a direction and took off for a hill to use as cover while I got used to the Crab's movement. Schneider appeared to be feeling much bolder, vaulting one of the hills on her jump jets. Neither one of us managed a hit; my laser shots went low while her PPC shot flashed by behind me. Without breaking stride I kept charging along until I broke line of sight and spun around hard rather than keep running the same way. A speculative volley of LRMs flashed over the hill and scattered around the general area I would have been rushing into.

Having finished my turn (which felt weirdly floaty thanks to the nature of the sim) I charged my way back around. Lucky me - Schneider had decided to shed some heat by chasing me down on foot rather than take another jump, so we found each other again at damn near arm's length.

And a Crab was a much better 'Mech for a knife fight in a phone booth than a Griffin.

I threw an alpha at her, center mass, and slashed the four lasers all across the heavier 'Mech's torso. Her reply PPC shot caught a piece of one leg, but I was inside the nominal minimum range so it was nowhere near what it should have been. Then I stepped even further inside her range, dropped one shoulder, and bulled into her.

Well, I tried to. The simulator, I belatedly remembered, was Not Fond of simulating physical attacks, so our two virtual 'Mechs just sort of bounced off each other doing no more damage and about all I did was throw myself off balance. The time it took me to get the 'Mech's feet fully under it again gave Schneider enough time to bound away once more and break line of sight. We danced around each other a bit more, trading some long-range shots and doing a bit of damage, but nothing terribly decisive.

Then we popped around the side of the same hill again. I was fastest off the trigger this time, pumping both long guns into the Griffin's center torso, which left her nearly open but not quite. Then she swung the PPC in line and the pod went dark. After a moment, the screen informed me that she'd just put a direct hit into my cockpit, as the sound of cheering filtered in from outside. "Sumbitch," I muttered, then unbuckled and smiled ruefully. A few moments of adjustment later and I lurched out of the pod; my jacket zipped up fully with my head inside. There was a moment of surprised silence, then another round of laughter, and I popped my head up through the jacket's neck. "Good shooting, Kasumi. Good match, but I'll get you next time."

She smirked, blue eyes sparkling. "You did pretty good yourself. If we weren't in sims, you might have had me from the start with that shoulder-block." A handshake ended with a friendly hug, then we settled in to watch the next victims dance for our collective amusement.

Zenith Point, Canal System
Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
April 28, 3018

To my surprise, it took until we were at roughly the halfway point of our trip, a few days after we'd linked up with the Swartklip crew, for someone to finally ask me the big question. It had become a nightly tradition for the pilot corps to gather up after dinner in the lounge with the sim pods to just hang out and kibitz. Most of our time was unstructured, much less than the SWAT guys, whose commander, knowing she was responsible for the conduct of fifty oversized toddlers, was trying to keep them busy. I'd been joining them for PT in the mornings. Microgravity martial arts were hilarious.

But right now, it was us MechJockeys shooting the shit. The conversation had turned to home planets. While most of the two crews were from the planets they defended, Doric was apparently from Inarcs; while Hans and Simon were Tharkad boys. This conversation, as such conversations always do, rapidly devolved into an exchange of slurs and stereotypes against each person's homeworld. Inevitably, this eventually turned to targeting the local lady of mystery, when Guthire deflected a line of verbal jabs with, "Ah hell, you know how it is. Hell, bet you do too, Cassie girl. How do they handle that where you're from?"

"Honestly? Just as dumb. You know how it gets in the Periphery sometimes."

"Where are you from, anyways?"

"Doubt you've ever heard of it. Little wildcat colony called Van Zandt." I'd checked three ships' nav databases and two almanacs now, and there was no mention of the place anywhere. Which made sense to me, since I'd already been about 95% sure that the BPL had just made it up in the first place, but it had felt prudent to check before dropping the name.

"...You're right. Don't think I ever heard of that one."

"What's it like there?" asked Shawn Hart, the other Griffin driver.

"Bit chaotic. The original settlers were all people who were too contrary to deal with life in the civilized world so it's a real mix. Bit of mining to feed the local industry, lots of little farms dotted around. It's just about enough to keep the place self-sufficient, though we got the occasional wandering trader swinging through." A smirk. "Our primary exports are smoked fish, shit disturbers, and tools."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Itchy feet, mostly. Worked for my passage along with the family FrankenMech, and developed a knack for finding lost things."

Hans broke into the conversation then, "Where did you find those guns? They looked most impressive in the BattleROM footage."

"I found 'em where the previous owners lost 'em." He flashed me a deeply unimpressed look. "Hey, a girl's gotta have a few secrets."

The conversation drifted on from there.


High orbit, Elba
Elba system, Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
May 28, 3018

It had taken long enough that we'd had one case of actual Space Crazy break out - fortunately, the afflicted SWAT guy hadn't had a gun on him at the time - but it was just about showtime. We'd jumped into the Elba system three days earlier, finding ourselves about half a light-second away from another Merchant-class jumper named Poyahoga Punisher, which matched up with a report from one of the Polecat's raids early last year. The droppers had both detached and started accelerating towards it; thinking happy larcenous thoughts, but clearly it had been charging for a while, because it jumped away before we could get close. And before it could squawk a warning towards Elba proper. We'd shifted course and started a burn in towards the lone habitable planet and settled into our final prep.

We'd made one orbit at this point, confirming our intel - there were a pair of droppers grounded next to an obvious military base about a dozen kilometers from the crater that used to be Ayr Prime, the capital city. The Mule was going to stay up in orbit while the Union headed down for a fight.

I was strapped into Naru-Kami's pilots couch, the engine set to tick-over, with coolant sluggishly circulating all through my suit as I went over the plan (such as it was) one more time. I was in the fire-support Lance along with the two Griffons and Johanneson and her Whitworth. Mackensen was joining the scouts alongside the Commandos and Stinger, while Doric and Michaels backed up Hans and Simon. Doric's Quickdraw was still out of commission; waiting on parts to rebuild an arm and leg, but the Swarklip Militia's techs had managed to get the captured Hunchback working again, albeit now sporting a Centurion head to replace the original. Michaels was driving the Blackjack, as the techs were still trying to piece the less-damaged Centurion back together. We'd be landing about ten klicks from the base, which should be enough to let us get ourselves organized before they could get to us. Unless they had a bunch more hardware than we expected, we would be able to do this proper Steiner style, and just give them the bum's rush.

As the ship started to brake for re-entry, the dropper's captain broke into the Company comm channel. "They just spotted us down there; just got a call asking who we are and what we're here for." A few of us keyed up to make funny/lewd suggestions, which won a chuckle from the skipper, then, "As far as I can tell from here, their dropper's drives are cold, so they shouldn't be able to run from us. But they'll know where we land. If these guys have arty, we're not sticking around and you're gonna have to walk home."

Then we were re-entering and in the heart of gravity's grip. This was a proper combat insertion; dropping hard for the first bit before lighting off the engines for a hard burn so we wouldn't quite actually lithobrake. That part was a kick in the ass; getting shoved hard into my seat as the roar of the drive filled up the world, less a sound and more an elemental force.

A short eternity later, we grounded. The noise of the engine started spooling down as the 'Mechbay doors swung open and the restraints holding us in place snapped free. I wasn't the first 'Mech out, but I was close, starting a slow lope across smouldering grass towards the pirate's base as the rest of the company unloaded and caught me up; the scouts ranging ahead. Me and the rest of the fire support Lance swung a bit west of the heavy hitters; with me slightly in the lead while the LRM carriers echelon'd to my right.

A transmission came down from the orbiting Mule. "They're trying to call their JumpShip. We're letting them know that it left them behind."

Then, from the leader of the scout lance, a kid barely out of his teens named Pokey Reddick, "I see them! Six 'Mechs and some trucks. They're moving pretty slow, but they're coming our way."

Doric had the rank, but given the spacelift and tonnage, this was Bucklands' show, so Simon responded to that. "Relay this transmission: Attention Polecats; this is the LCAF. We are here in Company strength, and are prepared to destroy your force. You have one chance to surrender and throw yourselves upon our mercy."

To his credit, the pirate's spokesman made his reply in an eloquent and classic mode. "Nuts."

I could see our scouts now, falling back towards us rather than pushing in. In the distance, I could make out a cloud of dust that was probably the pirates. On the Company channel, Simon continued; "As we discussed; when they come in sight, focus on the Orion first. Try to leg it; I'll call targets once it's down."

We went up one last rise and were in sight of the enemy. They were moving slowly; the Orion was definitely just stumping along on a leg welded solid. Next to him, a Charger kept pace, with an UrbanMech at either end of the line. Behind them, a half-dozen trucks weaved back and forth, maintaining speed without passing the main lance. The Firestarter (now sporting what looked like Stinger arms) and Vulcan were loping along with them. At a guess, the pirate's plan was to let us get stuck in with the heavy iron, then try and flank us.

But if that's the plan, why's the Charger in the line? It's got speed…

I flicked my sensors onto the Assault 'Mech, then hit the zoom function on my HUD and bit out a curse. Stabbing at the audio controls, I barked, "Break! Threat update; that Charger isn't stock. Looks like they've turned it into a Challenger."

"...A what?"

"Challenger. Can't remember who did it first but… right. Yank the engine for a 240, yank the popguns, use the tonnage to slap on another five tons of armor, four Large Lasers, and a shedload of heatsinks. Basically turns it into a regular Assault 'Mech."

"Noted. Still drop the Orion first, but make the Charger our second priority." A beat. "How did you…"

"Drive a FrankenMech enough, you get a sense for these things."

Then the distance between us ticked down to the edge of LRM range, and the shooting started. Sixty-odd missiles rose from our formation towards the Orion, as the pirate 'Mech loosed a much smaller volley in response.

Aimed for me, the charming little asshole.

Before the missiles could cross each other, I drew first blood; chain-firing my LPPCs as I started going evasive and slapping at the Heavy 'Mech's hip with the first connection. Michaels and his Vulcan opened up with light autocannons at about the same time, followed seconds later by the Griffin's PPCs.

Then the range closed to 450 meters and hell was unleashed. The entire lead pirate lance started throwing Autocannon and large laser fire at me, and even half-expecting it and already trying to run evasive, I caught enough that I had to fight to keep the 'Mech on its feet. I succeeded, but swung away from the fight, trying to claw back some distance and get my ass back out of range. Some fucker over there has decided to make this as expensive for us as possible, and lucky me, I look expensive…

Moments later, somebody whoop'd over the Company line, and I glanced over to see the Orion go down; the leg that had been working at the start of the fight going completely limp with half its panels missing. The Challenger surged forward; leaving the Urbies behind as it closed in ahead of them. The mass of trucks and lighter mechs behind them… did not.

Confident that I had my footing back, I started blasting away at the Challenger as I ran away, little bursts from the jump-jets making my movements more erratic as I dodged - there was Rather A Lot of fire coming my way. Cobalt confetti knocked holes in the assault 'Mech along with everything else that was getting flung at it. It crashed headlong through that hellacious volley and sent crimson beams lancing towards me. In the chaos, only one of them connected this time, but it kept coming.

I thought back to my mocking dismissal of the Charger back at the Duke's place and wanted to smack Past Me on the back of the head. I was faster than it; it had given up a lot of speed in the conversion, but getting out of range was taking time; if I just straightened out and ran hard somebody would probably get a backshot on me so I had to just keep ducking, hopping and diving. Three more LPPC bolts stabbed into the Challenger, shattering armor plates, but it came on like Juggernaut; unstoppable.

Then Doric squared up at about 100 meters from the thing and his AC/20 spoke with great power and authority, saying Sit Your Ass Down. The Challenger complied; crashing onto its side as coolant flowed out of its ruptured right torso like blood.

Watching two of their 'Mechs get killed without taking out any of ours seemed to be the breaking point; the technicals fishtailed, flinging gravel and accelerating away, as did the Firestarter and Vulcan. The UrbanMechs, lacking the speed to disengage, hesitated and for a moment I thought they might surrender. Instead, they formed up and spat fury and defiance at us.

They did some damage, but not enough to matter. Later, when the bodies were collected, we ran their prints and saw that both pirates had death sentences pending, and had presumably decided to cut out the middleman.

We formed back up and ran for the base - the runners could be ignored for the immediate, as long as we secured their rides. All coming in from the same direction, we were able to slather one side of the Union in long-range fire, knocking out most of the guns on that facing and killing a bunch of pirates who were trying to rush aboard with shrapnel and blast effect. A few minutes of tense negotiation later and the two pirate droppers were no longer spooling up their engines to try and run off. We chalked this one up in the win column.



There were still the two Pirate 'Mechs unaccounted for, and one truckload of infantry, but we had scouts out watching for them as the loot was catalogued and loaded aboard our two Mules(because of course we were taking the pirate Droppers, even though that would be Somewhat Complex given our jumper situation). The pirate crew had a mix of attitudes - lots of people angry at our timing; they'd been a few days short of sending their reduced strength out for another raid and we'd almost not caught them at all; while others seemed quietly relieved when nobody else was listening. The situation was still a little up in the air, but at this point, Simon exercised his command authority (and his status as the Duke's Voice) to put me on a job much more important than making sure our people were safe as they loaded up (in his opinion) and told me to start snooping around for LosTech.

I had considered telling him to go fuck himself and wait until we had everything secured, but ultimately that would be unwise since I didn't much want to walk home myself, so instead I asked to get a download of all the aerial photos we had of the city's ruins (because the old base had doubtless been picked over thoroughly, but the still moderately radioactive ruins had probably gotten a lot less attention) and the assistance of a 'Mech with hands.

So Guthire and I were poking around the edge of Ayr Prime, dividing our attentions between navigation, photo-interpretation, and keeping an eye on our geiger counters. So far, it didn't look too bad. A couple centuries had passed since this place got its can of sunshine, after all, and unless you went out of your way to make a nuke particularly dirty, well, life would find a way.

Which was an argument that the nuke that hit this place came from the Lyrans during the Republic-Commonwealth war, rather than the SLDF (who had been pretty dang tired and generally out of patience when they got here during the Coup) or the Rimjobs themselves (because House Amaris had some habits when it came to dealing with planets who didn't get with the program or were perceived as Having Failed Their Lords) but hey, details.

I'd taken some time to go over a couple pretty good photos before setting out and… I couldn't put my finger on it, but something had itched at me about one of them. So now we were prowling around the ruins of a nuked city, looking at the patterns in the ivy trying to reclaim it and trying to figure out what the hell had caught my eye.

The sweep continued for another quarter hour with minimal conversation between us. Then, passing through an intersection, I paused. Backtracked and turned. Nothing about that warehouse looked particularly odd… save for the fact that it was more intact than those around it. It looked like a taller building had collapsed along one side, but hadn't actually landed on the thing. Up in one corner of the building's side, I could see a line of intact windows. "Sumbitch," I muttered, then keyed up, "Guthire, you seeing this?"

"That looks like it's in pretty good shape."

I double-checked the geiger counter. "Ambient rads aren't bad around here… I see a man-door; lemme check it and see if we need a can-opener here."

The wind had teeth, biting at me through the cooling suit and jacket (by cheerful coincidence, it had proven just too-big enough to go over the thick layer of the cooling suit) and I tried not to let my imagination run away with me for good or ill as I made my way over to a man-door. The sign next to it declared in faded writing that this was a facility for Helmsley Heavy Haul; Serving The Rim Since 2405, which was probably the date for the company as a whole and not this branch. The door itself had a big old key-lock that would have been normal back on Earth, and a little digging through my pockets produced some lockpicks.

A little fiddling later, and I felt the lock pop. The door still didn't want to open, but by then Guthire was beside me with a crowbar, and between us we pried for a couple minutes before giving it up as a bad job. She clambered back up into her Commando, complaining the whole climb back up about ungrateful youngsters making a sweet old lady work like this, and crouched the little 'Mech next to the door.

Demonstrating the sort of fine control that heavy equipment operators like to use to win bets she very carefully poked a single finger through the door, which gave only token protest, then rotated the finger and tore the door out of its frame without damaging the surrounding brickwork. At this point I was just going to assume that every light 'Mech pilot I encountered over the age of forty was made of 100% weapons-grade bullshit.

Producing a flashlight, I walked through the doorframe as a resumption of spritely old lady complaints heralded Guthire rejoining me. I played the beam around the warehouse, and gave a long, appreciative whistle at what I saw.

 

[DrunkenGrognard]

One of the resident artists on a Discord I'm a member of was looking to exchange arts for car-repair money these last couple weeks, and I decided that this justified some indulgence. And so, courtesy of [KV]; an image of Our Heroine and her faithful ride.



(the 3d model of Naru-Kami was made by me, crudely, in TinkerCAD hacking together pieces of three other 'Mechs whose models I found on Thingiverse years ago. Everything about that mech picture that looks good is KV's doing, because the base model I handed off was, to put it kindly, amatureish.)

(KV is available for hire, folks, if anyone needs character art for an RPG or something. He's got very reasonable rates too)

 

[DrunkenGrognard]

So I was noodling a bit about the theoretical future that our SI came from, and from there to the specific special sauce toys on the 'Mech. Which lead me to cooking up fluff and the like for the CERLPPC, and why not share it?


Clan ER Light PPC

In the early 3090s Clan Snow Raven was faced with the reality of increasing the size of their touman in order to defend the vastly increased holdings represented by their new Raven Alliance. The inclusion of the AMC helped, but the nature of their new neighbors suggested they needed more forces. As they began to solve that problem, the newest additions to their Scientist caste, recruited from the Outworlds, were put to work alongside the engineers. One early project of this effort was an attempt to improve upon the Inner Sphere's novel PPC variants.

The Light ER PPC project was considered lower priority; because the estimated performance of such a weapon was unlikely to become a standout, with much more emphasis placed on an improved version of the Heavy PPC. But that project floundered; as the prototypes had a disappointing tendency to melt down under even modest testing. And as predicted, the initial prototypes of the improved Light PPC were considered a disappointment during early testing with a damage output considered well below Clan standards for their tonnage.

However, they proved surprisingly reliable, and further development lead to a pleasant surprise: the internal power circuitry of the prototypes, while less energy efficient than their clan equivalents, proved to be able to handle noticeably more energy in absolute terms. These 'lesser' power circuits were brought to the Heavy PPC project and proved key to it's eventual success.

The Light ER PPC seemed destined to become a historical footnote, but it was realized that the weapon could be built entirely of parts and materials found within the borders of the Raven Alliance's Inner Sphere holdings; while the Heavy version required a few parts to be built to Homeworld Clan standards and materials in order to be reliable. This caused it to find a niche in a few designs intended to bulk out the Raven Alliance's second-line forces, simplifying the logistics of building and maintaining their garrison clusters.

The Heavy ER PPC, while considered somewhat less efficient than the Clan entirely wanted, had a sheer damage output such that it carved out a small niche in the arsenals of the Alliance's frontline galaxies.

STATS:

Light CERPPC Range: 7/14/23. Heat: 8 Damage: 7 Weight: 3t Criticals: 2 BV: 220

Heavy CERPPC Range 7/14/23 Heat: 25 Damage: 22 Weight: 9t Criticals: 4 BV: 610

PPC Capacitors: the Light CERPPC can be equipped with a PPC Capacitor for the usual additional weight, heat, and critical slots; this increases the BV cost to 300. The Heavy CERPPC is not generally compatible with PPC Capacitor systems; the additional energy in the system gives the weapon system a distressing tendency to suffer catastrophic failures, to the point where they are considered unsuitable even for slohama troops.

(And since that won't stop most of you, and at least one idiot on Solaris has doubtless used it to spectacular if brief effect: the Heavy CERPPC with Capacitor increases its weight, heat and crits as normal for a PPC Capacitor; and increases the weapon's BV to 700. When resolving an attack using the capacitor, if the to-hit roll is doubles; after resolving any hit and damage from the attack; disaster occurs. If the number you rolled doubles of is a 1 or 2, the PPC and Capacitor explode, resolving as a 30 point ammunition explosion. If it is a 3 or 4, the PPC and Capacitor melt down, completely destroying the weapon, causing one crit to the location the weapon and capacitor are mounted and generating five additional heat that turn. On a 5 or 6, the weapons are merely knocked out and may be repaired after the battle at a difficulty of +1)

EDIT: If the BV values given feel a bit high, that's deliberate on my part. I'm not entirely sure what all the factors that go into BV calculation really are, so I'm deliberately padding my estimates a bit in the hopes that if anyone does try to use my homebrew nonsense in a game, it shouldn't be overpowered

 

[DrunkenGrognard]

Sorry this is late; I fully intended to get it posted last night but I lost track of... everything. Work has been A Thing this week, and I am just now getting home from shift 6 of 5 for the week. Hope y'all enjoy, and remember, comments give the author happy brain chemicals.

Chapter 3

Ducal Residence
Bucklands IV, Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
July 16, 3018

The flight back had been both better and worse than the flight out. Better, in that there was no anticipation of a gunfight at the far end but worse in that things were more crowded. Most of the SWAT guys were split between the two captured droppers to keep their crews (most of whom had fallen over each other to assure us they weren't real hardcore pirates but that they were mostly victims of circumstance or kidnapped into service or somesuch) on their best behavior, but that had also involved breaking up various groups and scattering several of them around. Which had a lot of the different rooms around the various droppers converted into temporary holding cells to keep the more reluctant-to-surrender or otherwise unruly pirates out of our hair.

We'd done a bunch of cross-loading to get as much of our various bits of salvage and high-value loot onto the Mule and Union we brought with us as possible(the stuff from the warehouse outright offended the pirates, who were furious they hadn't given the town's ruins a close enough look to find them. This, naturally, was All My Fault). Most of the bulkier, high volume/low value stuff we'd found wound up in the pirate Mule; stuff like ammo and the trucks and the various consumables they'd had, because, well, we had the spacelift to take everything not nailed down and on fire at the base, so by damn we were going to do that.

We'd made radio broadcasts giving the escaped pirates the option of surrendering up until about two hours before we lifted off, partially because marooning people in a place like this was bad form, and mostly because folks were hoping to add two more 'Mechs to the pile of valuables. Most of a truckload of runaway infantry took us up on it (coming back with the bodies of two of their own who hadn't been interested in surrender and also had prices on their heads) but the two 'Mechs did not, and they'd gone bush well enough that our orbiting dropper couldn't spot them. We left behind a fully stripped base, a small care package (a couple weeks worth of MREs, a basic survival kit, and for their religious edification, copies of both the Word of Blake and the Bible - the Gideons were alive and well in the 31st century, and still providing the things to hotels everywhere. The stamp on the inside cover of this one informed us it had been stolen from a Motel Six on Inarcs.) The only other things we left behind were the bodies of the various pirates we'd killed; buried in simple graves on a small hill overlooking a river. One of the militia guys had been a frocked priest in his younger days and had done the honors.

Then we flew all four droppers back to the zenith point and jumped to Kwangjong-ni to start our trip back. By happy coincidence, there was a civie jumper just about finished charging that didn't have anywhere to be too urgently at the moment, so Simon had done some long-distance three-way calls with them and the system's HPG station to arrange to hire them to go grab our waiting droppers. Hans had gone along with that ship to do the retrieval and they'd be just a few weeks behind us instead of a few months.

The trip back we went straight to Bucklands without swinging through Swartklip. Doric and the gang would be coming to Bucklands for a layover that would last just long enough to sort out their share of the loot and probably attend whatever celebration the Duke threw for our victory over piracy before taking the last two jumps home, which was An Lot of extra time but, well, that was just sort of how it worked in this day and age.

Once more, we were mostly left to our own devices and expected to not make trouble. Given it was a forty-odd day trip, it was a minor miracle it worked out as well as it did. Once more, the sim pods proved a major part of keeping us pilots busy enough to avoid Space Crazy, though by the end of it any pretense of fair or realistic duels was long abandoned in favor of us test driving every profile we could find in the system for Star League designs like the Cestus or various Royals. I read every book I brought with me twice(three times for one of the Nancy Drew ones, whoever that version of Carolyne Keene was, she spun a better yarn than her sister ghostwriters) and kept up with microgravity kung fu practice, learning the guitar, and repaired the armor damage on my 'Mech. After doing that last the technical side of our crew, realizing I A) knew what end of a wrench was which and B) was not too proud to use said wrench, decided I qualified as Good People and linked me up with the Dropper and Jumper crews' media trading scene, through which I finally found some 31st century country music worth listening to, including a band local to Bucklands that reminded me a lot of Poor Man's Poison, and a neat fusion band from New Kyoto that used a shamisen in place of an acoustic guitar for their stuff.

It was long and boring, but we all survived and made planetfall. Even as everything was getting unloaded, I was called to attend a meeting with the Duke at my earliest convenience, and the Militia crew was told they'd be the guests of honor at a party he was hosting that evening, which prompted much scrambling for ironing boards to fix up dress uniforms. They'd sent a car to pick me up, so I stashed Naru-Kami at the secure hanger at the 'Port and headed down, Simon riding with me in the same car after getting a minion to manage the loot-securement.

Duke Thompson was eager to see me, waving me towards his desk as soon as I got to his office. I'd avoided coming strapped this time, so Simon only twitched a little as I walked up and shook his hand. "Welcome back, Miss Sobral. I understand the mission was a success."

I shot an apologetic look at Simon; he was very much the Duke's man, this should have been his moment, and the expression on his face was eloquent with his annoyance. "It was, your Grace. Our intel on the Polecats' location and equipment was accurate and we were able to force a decisive battle. Their jumper got away, but we seized the rest of their spacelift and essentially all of their materiel, including-"

He cut me off with a gesture. "Yes, yes, quite a bit of mundane equipment and stolen goods. I have a report coming. What LosTech did you find?"

I forced myself not to sigh, then, "Twenty-five Curtis TriFil portable water purifiers and a set of industrial tooling that is supposed to be able to make spare parts and filters for them, plus a few crates of consumer electronics. The portable units are about the size of a groundcar and they'll make about ten-thousand litres of clean drinking water per day." Which didn't sound like much but was damn good for a trailer the size of a Kei-van that could run for a month straight before it needed to even have a filter swapped, while handling everything from mud, silt, heavy metals, trace chemicals, bacteria or viral agents. That seemed vaguely ridiculous to me, but to a Star League that considered geoengineering projects like Helm or Hesperus II to be straightforward, they were probably downright quaint in their day.

The Duke's expression went through a progression as I went through that spiel. At first, utter disappointment, presumably that I hadn't magically conjured up a Royal Black Knight or something. Second, poker-faced blankness. Then grudging consideration as he realized what this could do for his people - Bucklands did better than most worlds as far as water security was concerned, but it still wasn't great. Then back to poker-faced. "I… see. Well, those should be of some use. Once we have them catalogued, I'll see to it you get your finders percentage."

"Thank you, your Grace."

"For now, quarters will be provided for you to freshen up. I'll want you at the gala tonight, we have a great victory to celebrate." He turned his attention back to his desk and its paperwork.

"Thank you, your Grace, but I couldn't impose." He audibly blinked, turning back towards me. "I made a few calls as we were burning in and arranged a hotel. Though I will, of course, be honored to attend the gala."

He gave me a look I couldn't entirely parse, beyond him being not terribly pleased, but he nodded. "Very well. Tonight, then."


Fully decked out for a party, the place was even more of a gaudy eyesore than it was in daylight. Part of that was the gathering of the rich and connected of Bucklands, clad in a wild mix of suits, extravagant pseudo-uniforms, and the kind of perfectly tailored Western suits and pristine white cowboy hats that could not scream I Am Less Of A Cowboy Than Even Kid Rock if they'd been lit up with neon signs. Most of the women in attendance wore a similar mix, though with the addition of Southern Plantation Belle dresses in the mix. I stuck out a lot more than I expected in my prospector duds (though I'd substituted the nicest of the blouses Jump-Chan had stuck me with for the workshirt) but, well, it was the part everyone seemed to expect me to play in this whole mess, and I was hardly going to grab a fancy dress for this.

One of the Duke's flunkies caught up with me just after I entered the palace; but before I got to the ballroom where the celebration was - one of his people had checked over the recovered LosTech, verifying what it was and how much there was of it, and handed me a cheque for my finder's fee, along with a payout for my share of the salvage and bounties on the pirates who had them (as a single owner-operator merc alongside a full company of militia) and the general pay for my travel time as well. I hadn't really run the math on that last bit before; it wasn't that much per day, but it had been almost a hundred days of travel, there and back, with essentially all my expenses paid. All of it had added up to a pretty solid chunk of change, and almost despite myself my opinion of the man ticked up a notch. Always worth remembering a client who pays promptly.

Still, he was an obsessive goober who was so interested in looking to the past that he let it hurt the management of his day-to-day. I tucked the cheque into my billfold for now; I was going to have to drop by the bank tomorrow to get this into my account. Business concluded for the nonce, I plastered on my best customer service smile and headed for the ballroom.

There was an official greeter sort at the door, checking everyone against The List (and damn me if he didn't look like Chris Jericho in a suit) and announcing those who were on The List in bold, stentorian tones. As he rattled off a series of titles and acclimations for the guy ahead of me(a series that really coulda used an arm bar) I firmly forced down the butterflies in my stomach, and stepped forward.

The official looked down his nose at me, clearly contrasting my subdued and rather drab outfit with the finery of the last couple guests, and asked, "Whom might you be, and what is it you think you're doing here? The help is meant to go around back."

Well, if he's gonna feed me a straight line… "I'm selling these fine leather jackets," I said, turning in place to show off the goods. I chalked up a mental win at this being far enough out of left field enough to render him silent. "Caseri Sobral; LosTech prospector. I should be on the list."

That kicked his brain back into gear. One consult later, and I was announced and gestured into the ballroom. I froze for a moment at the threshold; it seemed for a moment that the entirety of the room turned to face me. I forced myself to smile and keep going, tipping my hat to the crowd before walking in. I was quickly greeted by a trio of stuffed shirts, whose names went in one ear and out the other in the time it took to shake their hands and exchange meaningless pleasantries. Then salvation came; as one of the Militia folks by the buffet table waved me over.

I exchanged nods and much more sincere handshakes with Mackensen, Guthrie, and Michaels, followed by a quick friendly hug with Kasumi. "Thanks for the save."

"You looked a little lost," Michaels grinned

"Damn right. I work for a living." That brought up some guffaws. "You're all looking pretty good; I guess you wind up doing these sorts of events a lot?"

Michaels gave his hand an "eh?" waggle as Guthire chuckled. "A few times a year. More if there's some excitement and we do well with it," she said, then smirked. "Often enough to know what's expected of us, seldom enough to be novel. You'll get used to it eventually."

I shuddered, which kicked off a round of laughter. Then Michaels handed me a plate of h'orderves, which earned him temporary forgiveness. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up." I munched a sausage roll. "Guessing the officers are elsewhere?"

"With the Duke," said Mackensen. "He wants them making him look official when he gives his victory speech."

"What with all the hard work he did on this op."

"Oh, naturally. Always how this sort of thing works."

"Cynics, the pair of you," said Kasumi, then, "Oh, by the way, when they were processing the bounties it came up that you're not MRB registered yet."

"I, ah, haven't exactly had the chance yet."

"Yes, yes, you're all mysterious, prospector girl. But if you keep helping out against pirates and the like, it'll become a problem -"

"And it simplified the payouts and paperwork" interjected Michaels.

"-And it definitely simplified the paperwork," nodded Kasumi like she hadn't just been interrupted, "So we signed you up when we swung through the HPG compound."

"...Signing up a third party with the MRB was less paperwork than just calculating the split?" Okay, they're ribbing me on something here.

"Honestly? Yes. Red tape moves in mysterious ways. Anyway," she produced a slim white card from her back pocket. "You're now an officially licensed mercenary with the MRB!"

I accepted the little card and read it over as I replied, "So I get to add 'Dog of War' to my list of titles along with 'Grave Robber?'" Okay, that's not a bad photo of me, looks like it's from the big pre-drop dinner. Name, age, green rating which… fair. Love that they put an asterisk next to my homeworld. Callsign… wait what? "Hopscotch?"

"From the way you like to bounce around on your jump-jets, rather than doing proper high-ground leaps." All four of them were giving me their best attempts at cherubic grins, as though butter would not melt in their mouths.

I opened my mouth to shoot something back, then paused. Reviewed my two field battles, and my antics in the sim pods. Took a moment to consider the way callsigns usually worked; with the badassery of the name usually directly proportional to the dumbassery of how you earned it.

"Okay, all things considered, you could have gone with something much meaner than that for a callsign. Thanks, gang."

"We thought you might appreciate that."

Further conversation was delayed by a flunky appearing; my Presence Was Required. I pocketed my shiny new MRB card and followed, still carrying my appies, and did my best to keep on the customer service smile. His grace the duke was near the center of the room, accompanied by Simon, Hauptmenn Doric and Hahn, half a dozen fops and fopettes, twice that many aides, and a dude in robes.

The Duke noticed me and opened with effusive gestures. "Ah! Miss Sobral! How are you, this evening? Glad you could join us."

"I'm doing well, your grace. I was just touching base with my fellow pilots." I shook his hand, then those of a few others. The Duke introduced the fops in turn and I wasted not a single braincell on remembering their names. Then came McRobes, an older gentleman with a careworn expression and thin white hair, who he introduced as "Jose Takagi, our local Precentor."

Precentor Takagi's smile seemed genuine as he shook my hand; solid but no knucklecrusher. "Always nice to meet someone interested in history."

"Those who fail to learn from history are damned to repeat it," I replied, then allowed myself a smirk and continued, "Those who do learn from history are damned to watch others repeat it." That got a genuine chuckle from Takagi and Hahn, then moments later chuckles from everyone else as they pretended to recognize the reference.

"In my experience, history seldom repeats, but it does often rhyme."

"Agreed; but that doesn't lend itself to pithy sayings so well."

Some small talk followed, along with some deflecting banter on my part. Recognizing that I was less than comfortable, Doric sidled over and served as a conversational firebreak from the fops, for which I was grateful. Man was good people. I fielded a few questions about where I planned to go a-prospecting next with some polite deflections; though I did throw a small bone that I suspected there was something good on Kwangjong-ni that I didn't have the resources to track down. This immediately prompted inquiries as to what I'd need, which I offered to talk about at a later date. One of the guys supposedly had an in with Olivetti, which put me in the annoying position of having to at least theoretically consider this party a (shudder) networking meeting, as they might actually be able to do something with the plant there. Still, I took his card and said I'd get back to him later(which prompted half a dozen others to hand me business cards too. I pocketed them all and resolved to round-file all but the possibly-Olivetti guy's later).

A small eternity of small-talk with rich idiots later, Jericho had announced enough people's arrivals that the Duke apparently decided that it was time to officially kick things off and moved our little group to one end of the room. Mounting a stage, he launched into a long, meandering speech, and I tuned him out once more.

Shortly after he started, I found that the brownian motion of the crowd had brought me next to Takagi again. "Interesting, isn't it; how the past and its mysteries fascinate people so."

"Half remembered tales and mysterious buried treasure. Humans have always found both fascinating." I shrugged. "There's worse things for people to obsess over."

"That's true." A beat, as we let the speechifying flow for a bit. "You seem satisfied with what you did in this recent action."

"Pirates put out of business and some genuinely useful stuff recovered, yeah."

That teased out a raised eyebrow.

"Mechs and guns have their place, but those water purifiers will be able to help people all the time. And the equipment to build parts, well…" I looked the man right in the eye, my expression only technically a smile. "Those will bring older units back into service, helping even more folks. A most worthy thing to bring to light, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, absolutely. If only more people would concentrate on such things, rather than weapons."

He seemed entirely genuine. Either this guy was actually dedicated to ComStar's stated aims and not its actual ones, or his poker face was much better than most. Speculating wouldn't get me anywhere, so I shifted tacks. "At any rate, we're here for a party. Probably best to leave philosophical talk for now."

"Entirely reasonable." His smile widened. "Though before we shift entirely, I must say… you're truly dedicated to the look of your profession."

"You're one to talk."

"It's a dress uniform like any other."

"Fair."

We slipped at that point into what felt annoyingly like a companionable silence as we listened to the speech. I forced the customer-service expression to stay in place; I didn't want to be friendly with ComStar; I knew too much about what they were really after to do that. But this guy was an uncomfortable reminder that even villains had many facets; few people went out of their way to be all bad. Bah. Don't dwell on it. Capone fed people with his soup kitchens, too; but he funded it with racketeering, murder, and crooked sports betting. And don't get close to this guy; he's being nice so far but go far enough up the chain and they get all 'Redde Creditore Tuo, Fucko'.

Mercifully, Duke Thompson's speech finally meandered to a close. I was able to go and hide by the punchbowl for a while as he hobnobbed and networked with the local glitteratti. Guthrie joined me for my people-watching for a while as the crowd did its thing, and I let her ramble about the folks we watched and let it wash past me. Made it much easier to put up with.

Unfortunately, around about when I judged it had been long enough that I might be able to get away with slipping out early, one of the Duke's minions pulled me aside; the man himself wanted a word before "the next phase" of the party got going. He led me to a small meeting room just off the ballroom. His grace was seated at a small table, with Simon looming at his shoulder. "Miss Sobral. I shall be blunt; I am not happy with you."

I bit back the first two replies that came to mind and went with a mild, "Dare I ask why?"

"Me and mine have extended you great courtesy and opportunities and yet tonight, you offered to work with that ingrate Lothan instead."

Blinking, I pulled the one keeper business card out of my pocket. Lothan Jervais, Esquire. Huh. Slipping it back I replied. "In my defense, I was mostly trying to get through that conversation with a minimum of dealing with those folks."

"But you were still talking business with them."

Oh for fuck sakes. "In the unlikely event that anything comes of it, I can make cutting you into the deal a requirement?" Hopefully he just wanted money and/or access.

He let the poker face drop, expression twisting. "You were offering up the kinds of secrets that you've declined to share with me."

"Your Grace-"

He cut me off. "If you are, indeed, willing to talk - which you weren't to my trusted men these last few months - we shall have to come to an exclusive deal."

Okay, this seems to be him feeling like he's not the Specialist of Special Boys as much as anything else so I might be able to work with this. "What did you have in mind?" Please be some pro-forma nothing…

"Work for me. I can offer a considerable salary, funding and personnel for expeditions, and bonuses for any treasures you might bring me." A pause. "We could make Bucklands great again."

I forced myself not to snarl or otherwise react to that slogan. "As I told your men, I left home because I wanted to explore. I'm not sure I'm interested in getting tied down, even to a place as… unique as this."

Another flash of anger from his expression, then, "Please consider it, at least."

"That I can do." I've considered it. The answer's no.

"And on that note, if travel is what you truly wish… Well; Kroner and C-Bills make the Sphere go 'round, as they say. If you're not interested in gainful employ, perhaps there could be another arrangement. If I were to offer up, say, two million C-Bills, might you be persuaded to sell me your BattleMech?"

"Naru-Kami is not for sale," I bit out, taking a firm grip on my temper. "It holds great sentimental value, along with the practical." That's also a pittance compared to what it's worth, and you can't even drive a BattleMech, you just want a damn trophy.

A silence stretched, then, "Pity. Ah well, you can hardly blame a man for trying."

"Something like that, yes."

"Very well," he stood, waved me off. "Have a good evening, Sobral. That said…" he gave a pointed gesture at the pocket I'd stashed the business cards.

Well, not like I hadn't been planning to… Wordlessly, I pulled the handful of cards out, took two steps, and dropped them in a wastebasket by the door. "By your leave, your grace."

---

I retreated to the hotel. Part of me wanted to do something rash; to make the arrogant fuck pay for having the gall to dictate who I could and could not do business with. The more rational part of me pointed out that I hadn't particularly wanted to do business with any of them. And the more paranoid… Well.

Quickly, I threw my stuff back in the duffel. Fortunately, I hadn't had time to unpack much earlier, and I quickly headed for the front desk. I flagged down the evening clerk and slid the room key and some cash onto the counter. "Evening."

He looked from the money to me. "Checking out early? I'm afraid corporate policy means I can't give you a refund for the part of the night you didn't stay."

"That's fine, that's not what I'm after. I'd just like to check out. That said," I pulled out my billfold and slipped another hundred Kroner onto the desk in twenties in a second pile; "I'd appreciate it if you didn't actually sign me out until the morning."

"Uh…"

Another hundred Kroner in twenties. "In fact, if anyone asks, if you could just let them know I went to the hotel bar for a few drinks, then retired for the evening around, oh…" I glanced at the clock, 9:25. "Ten PM, I'd really appreciate it."

He glanced from the bribe, to me, and back to the bribe. Another fifty-odd Kroner in small bills (all the smaller change I had on me) magically appeared on the pile. He swallowed, then asked, "Ma'am, are.. Are you trying to establish an alibi?"

"I solemnly swear that I have no intention of using that alibi to commit a crime. Quite the opposite, in fact."

A long moment of consideration, then the pile of money vanished. "What should I tell them you had to drink?"


Half an hour later and I was settling into Naru-Kami's cockpit, sincerely hoping I was setting myself up for a sleepless night for no reason. A sleeping bag and a few liberated hotel towels made a little nest on the far side from the hatch. With the chair adjusted back as far as it'd go (to a spot it would normally be if you were working on the controls) it gave me a clean line-of-sight to the hatch. The interior lights were off, but the spaceport mechbays had enough lighting that I could more or less read while I waited.

Between that and a couple cans of coffee, I would probably be good to stay awake through the night, and if nothing had happened by that point I could figure out my next move. Was it wise to do that sort of thing while short on sleep? Probably not, but why change the habit of a lifetime?

The night crawled along. I spent the first hour or so going over a pre-1SW map of Helm, one with a damn impressive scaling option and picking out a few things that looked familiar to my memories of the Gray Death Trilogy and sourcebook readings. After that, I switched to a paper book, and about half an hour after that I found out that I was right to be paranoid tonight: there was a little ping! from the lock on the cockpit hatch. Somebody was trying to pop my door with some kind of techno-lockpick.

I drew my laspistol in a two-handed grip and settled back in my little blanket-nest. The next five minutes took approximately three hours to pass, and finally, with a small pop of equalizing air-pressure, the hatch swung open, more light spilled in, and a human figure pulled itself into view, an electropick clutched between his teeth.

He spotted me and my gun at approximately the same time as my eyes adjusted and I recognized Simon.

Because BattleTech is the way it is - Quintus Allard sent his own son undercover to set up Operation Lactic; while Morgan fsking Kell and Jamie Wolf went skulking around ComStar black sites on Terra together at the Royal Wedding, after all - I wasn't actually surprised to see him. Though I was slightly surprised and vaguely insulted that he wasn't even wearing a mask; nothing to conceal his identity; only a black turtleneck, toque and gloves as a nod to stealth.

The tableaux was silent. Me sitting in my blanket nest, Simon hanging outside my 'Mech cockpit, both hands occupied on keeping three points of contact. I let it hang for a long moment, then, "So, come here often?"

There was another moment of silence, then with a pleh Simon spat out the electropick onto the decksole and said, "Not so you'd notice."

"Y'know, I was honestly, genuinely hoping that I misjudged the situation. That I was overreacting to the Duke's words and actions earlier." I sighed. "I was really hoping that this was just gonna wind up being a really long, slow waste of a night."

Simon started to pull himself up. Maybe to try and pop inside, maybe just adjusting his footing to make hanging there easier. I flicked the safety catch off. The low vreeem of the laspistol's capacitor charging didn't have the same impact of a hammer drawing back to my ear, but it seemed plenty arresting to him.

"But no," I continued, "No, the greedy shit had to be like way, way too many greedy shits I've known in my life. Man thinks he deserves anything he damn well wants just because he's the most special boy, and doesn't know how to take 'no' for an answer." There was some heat in my voice here, even though I was keeping my volume down; this touched on some old angers. "I gotta admit, I feel a great swell of pity for any pretty young thing who catches his eye, knowing that."

Simon drew himself up a little. "How dare you; Duke Thompson is an honorable man!"

I gave him a very old fashioned look.

A moment, then Simon deflated, sinking down a few inches. "The Duke has always remained faithful to the memory of his beloved wife."

I gave it a moment, then, "Okay, sure. I'll accept that. But I said it back at the party; my 'Mech and I are not for sale, and we're definitely not for theft. Are you and he going to accept that?"

"If I don't?"

"Look, dude, I don't actually want to shoot you, but I'm not gonna let you steal my shit."

There was a long, long moment where we just stared at each other across my gun. I could see him running the math; his eyes darting around from me to my gun and working out his plans. Trying to work out if I was, in fact, willing to shoot him in cold blood; and if so, if I could do it faster than he could reach me. I was wondering the same thing. All the violence so far had been a little impersonal, at one remove. Shooting at machines and pretending I wasn't shooting at people.

Finally, Simon decided… I wasn't entirely sure what. Possibly that this wasn't worth his time and gave him an out. He visibly relaxed, backing off a bit. "Fine. I'll grant that this is poor form. I would politely suggest that you've worn out your welcome here." He started to descend.

"I'd figured that out, thanks. Grab your spy toy, Simon, and get out of here."

He gave a vaguely friendly, vaguely mocking wave with one hand, then scooped up his electropick and descended the ladder.

For a few long minutes, I sat there, gun pointed at an empty hatchway, trying to get my heart and breathing back under control.

I caught the first dropship offworld that morning.


Forbes City
Adelaide I, Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
August 25, 3018


I hadn't appreciated just how damn long it took to travel in BattleTech until I had to live it. The first dropper off Bucklands had been heading for Anembo, with a recharge-stop in Baggville. I'd shlepped around there for about a week until I could catch a ship for Adelaide and about all I'd been able to accomplish was visiting the bank to deposit my cheque from the Duke. Oh, I'd killed a day stomping around some old ruins, and found a noteputer with a bigger screen and some accoutrements for my cockpit in various shops, but it was still seven boring, utterly wasted days. And I wasn't even on a direct path! Adelaide wasn't on the way to Galatea; it was just the first ship coming along that wasn't going back out towards the periphery.

I had a strictly limited amount of time to get to somewhere I could make a serious difference if I wanted to make that difference soon enough to matter. Sure, I was helping people and probably improving lives where I was, but that was less than I was hoping to do. So many of the things I wanted to do would have greater impact, and of multiple types, to boot. If I could get Helm discovered early; and avoid the issue of the core copies being in a bad format for modern computers reading them; that would kickstart the tech revolution and in turn make it easier for them to resist the Clans in thirty-odd years when they showed up. And at the same time, getting the core early would mean there was no reason for Precentor Rachan to set up the attack that discredited the Gray Death and incidentally (in that asshole's opinion) killed a shedload of people.

If I could set things up so that Steiner and Davion got the core while the other powers didn't, all the better. I had nothing against the people of the Combine or the CapCon or the League, but their leadership was another matter - Kurita was a fascist police state with bad habits of war-crimes and the Black Dragons waiting in the wings to break everything again if anything managed to improve; Liao was run by lunatics and kept going out of their way to destabilize their neighbors to try and drag them down, plus the whole issue of the servitor caste; and Marik was a shitshow.

Mind, honesty compelled me to admit that Steiner and Davion weren't that much better. Katrina was trying to undo a shitload of systemic corruption and reform the nation's laws and military, but the powers-that-be in the nation were fighting her tooth and nail to protect their privileged gravy train, to say nothing of idiots like Lestrade. And Davion had its fair share of atrocities over its history along with horrendous wealth-inequality and a system of laws that wasn't terribly subtle with how differently they were applied to nobles versus commoners. The Periphery powers weren't really viable options, too small to leverage those advantages and, well. Remote enough that Space AT&T might decide to just have Invisible Truth and StarSword roll up to their capitals and burn them to the ground in ways they couldn't get away with over New Avalon or Tharkad.

So I was going to have to settle for the least-bad options. But, like, that was hardly new; I'd spent most of my life dealing with that choice, it was one of the joys of living under Capitalism. And I was honest enough to admit that helping some people was a lot better than helping none, even if I couldn't help all of them. But getting myself into a position to actually lay hands on a datacore was going to be a hell of a trick to pull off, because it would require laying out a lot of groundwork and some skullduggery. If I could somehow lay hands on the map-chip and find my way to the field library, I could probably smuggle a couple copies out in my 'Mech cockpit even if I left everything else behind but that felt horrendously inefficient. Getting the firepower and spacelift to take it all openly would be a hell of a lot more. Doing all that and not getting shot by ComStar in the process or immediate aftermath would be even more than that.

I'd need to do it before the 4th Succession War kicked off if it was going to be any good, because as long as there wasn't a major war on it would be harder to do the mass-murder-and-coverup thing. Not for the first time I wished I could remember more about the place where the Aranos found that Star League bunker in the HBS game, or more than "somewhere on a moon in the Alloway system" for the Argo itself; that would be much less of a fuckaround to do early but finding it would the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack.

(New Dallas was basically a non-starter; given ComStar had a base on world and as best I recalled liked to keep one of their Dantes patrolling the system. Given the place had no legitimate civilian traffic to hide in, going there would be just about the biggest kick-me sign I could possibly slap on my back.)

Dear Christ this was depressing. I'd been here for almost half a year now and I was for all intents and purposes no closer to accomplishing any of my major goals than the day I'd woken up in the backside of nowhere. I was at the mercy of the commercial shipping schedules now, waiting for the next ship heading Terra-wards for the next leg of my journey. Supposedly there was a convoy heading for Great X rolling through in a week or so, which was at least mostly the right direction.

I was so caught in my own head that I lost track of where I was going, until I walked into another person walking along. I bounced off, landing on my butt with a thump. "Gah! Shit, sorry!" Giving my head a shake to clear it, I looked up and saw the person I'd walked into. She was an auburn haired lady, stocky but fit, with laughing brown eyes.

"No harm done," she said, reaching down. Taking her hand, I let her help me back up to my feet. She wasn't terribly tall, but she had an inch or two on me, and a lot of strength. Her hair was done up in a sort of short, organized cut that reminded me of most JumpShip crewers I'd met, something that looked nice without interfering with a vacuum suit's helmet seals. "You really ought to pay more attention to where you're going," she said with a small smile.

"You're not wrong. Was stuck in my own head there." I gave a rueful smile. "Thanks for being kind about it."

"If you want to thank me for it, you could buy me a drink." She gave a wink then started walking along.

I blinked twice, then, "I mean, I could go for that." Was that flirting? Is she flirting with me? I followed along. It wasn't like I had any objection to that - my preferences had long leaned towards women, but with just enough dudes who triggered an 'Oh no he's hot' reaction that I couldn't call myself straight… or I guess lesbian now? "Feels a little forward, mind you. We literally just met and I don't even know who you are?"

Another smile, "Why overcomplicate things? But fine." She turned and extended a hand; I took it. "Dancia Holstein."

"Caseri Sobral." She turned back around with another smile and I kept following, distracted. I wouldn't call it bi panic, per se, but it was something related. I'd never had a gal try to pick me up before, and I was 100% blaming that for why it took over a full minute for my brain to kick over and recognize her god damned name.

"Wait. Dancia Holstein?" I'd frozen in place; two steps further ahead, she half turned and looked at me with an inscrutable expression. "Mother of Clovis Holstein? Captain of the JumpShip Bifrost?"

Her expression was suddenly very guarded as she nodded.

"Oh thank Christ. I've been looking for you!" Relief hit me like a physical force; and I felt my grin grow wide and goofy. "Or like, maybe not you specifically but, y'know, one of the good guys? Someone who can help me get this shit done, and Heim-" belatedly, my brain caught up with what I was saying and I managed to chop off my sentence before I blew that secret, actually slapping a hand across my mouth. I glanced around furtively and felt another bit of relief as I recognized we were alone in an alley and not, thankfully in the middle of the streets as I word-vomited. Then I looked back and saw her expression again, as she pulled something from an inside pocket. "Okay, that came out wron-"

There was a pff of compressed air and a pinch as something caught me in the neck, and the world blacked out.

LIC Safehouse; Forbes City
Adelaide I, Coventry Province, Lyran Commonwealth
August 25, 3018

There was an art, Dancia knew, about using truth serum to interrogate someone. N-Stoff was LIC's preferred cocktail for the process and it was always a little tricky to use. You not only had to adjust your dosage to the subject's bodymass, but you had to take into account things like their pharmacological history and adjust slightly more if they were aneurotypical. Sobral was a tiny thing, and a lightweight alcoholically speaking, so she'd started with a low dose to begin with.

N-Stoff was intended to simply produce a suggestible state; one where the subject had little to no verbal filter and would answer any direct question succinctly. It created a layer of emotional separation from what one was feeling to what one was saying. In a subject who normally suffered from some form of depression, that tended to lead to a more relaxed rambling style of answer. In a subject who was moderately autistic, it tended to cause free-associated oversharing. In both cases, if you knew it was coming you could tweak your dosage to counter it, but they had too little observation or history on Sobral to adjust beforehand.

Sobral appeared to suffer from both, which was leading to a sort of cheery, roiling babble. It wasn't a difficult babble to direct; she was still responding to questions; but would quickly wander off track down a verbal rabbit hole. Which had turned interrogation downright surreal an hour ago and it wasn't getting any more sensible since.

"Hell of a conundrum you've found, Holstein." The agent who ran the local field office was a nondescript, serious man, with no sense of humor about things. The two had been in the interrogation room earlier, but now were simply in the observation room, leaving the subject on her own for the truth serum to wind down.

"I freely admit I panicked, but bringing her in was definitely the right plan." Initially, she'd panicked because she thought that Sobral's knowledge of her meant she'd been sent by Lestrade; and then that she was somehow LOKI. Now, it seemed much, much stranger.

"You believe her, then?"

"Oh, the total package is bizarre but.. The things we've asked that we can verify? She knows far more than she should." Including the identities of several highly placed agents and details of a number of incidents that Dancia would bet her life savings that nobody outside of Heimdall could possibly know even happened. "Besides, I've questioned actual insane people on N-Stoff before. These answers are too coherent and consistent to be the products of insanity."

For a moment, the two agents simply observed Sobral in silence, listening as she transitioned from talking about her recent pirate-hunting into a song about Hunchback pilots.

"Probably just as well, yeah. And that you skipped straight to the interrogation."

Dancia grunted vague agreement. She hadn't planned for a rendezvous to become more than just an initial sounding-out, nor anything more affectionate than a kiss. Listening further, the song about Hunchbacks had finished, and given way to a song about a mercenary infantryman. After a long moment, she turned away from her subject and walked for the door of the interrogation room. "Okay. Let's let her sober up for now and come back with an adjusted dose and some better questions. This calls for an initial report and request for instructions before we go much further." This was potentially very sensitive; she'd have to burn one of her one-time-pads for this. And not think too hard about some of the metaphysical implications of this.

"How the hell do you report this?"

She gave the man a wan smile. "Think back to your academy days, Agent. Remember all those theoretical cases they liked to bring up in the example reports?"

"Like that example of reporting a planet that changed hands over a children's card game?" A pause as the man searched his memory. "Case MILLENIUM PUZZLE?"

"Indeed. But first I need a drink." A sigh as she reached the door. "I am far too sober to try and report to Chancellor Johnson that I have an actual Case NARNIA on my hands."