2
A (transverse BattleTech) short story by Daniel J. Neumann
It had been close to nine months since we found the Piranha Memory Core in the depths of the Periphery. We didn’t care to ask why ancient Star League technology was so far out in uncolonized space. Some of the technology could be put on any mech. We called them modules. “Seismic Sensor” gave us forewarning of enemy movements. “Radar Deprivation” made our mechs like ninjas even without electronic counter measures, as simple cover would cut off all sensor readings from the enemy. “Target Decay” let us keep locks longer. “Sensor Range” and “Advanced Zoom” made sniping from great distance easy. Still, there were engineering tricks to overclock our mech’s myomer actuators, allowing us to increase top speed, arm flexion, torso twist rate. Our mechs even ran cooler. Other technology offered by the abandoned satellite contained data that upgraded only some of our organization’s Battlemechs, turning the Thunderbolt-5SS, Stalker 4-N, and Raven-2X, especially, into fierce laser boats capable of burning through scores of enemy units without so much the need of a resupply. We called them “quirks.” When we returned to the Inner Sphere with these refits, our combat effectiveness made the MercStar Alliance on par, if not exceeding, the ComStar Guards.
Being mercenaries, we naturally got greedy.
Antonius Rex, our leader, put it to me this way when I questioned him why we had to go back.
“Dan, the Piranha Memory Core has transformed us into the deadliest outfit. We are, without a doubt, the most bad-ass, successful mercenary group throughout the Inner Sphere.”
“Yeah. Without a doubt. I realize that, but—”
“So what happens if there’s more out there that we missed? We can’t let one of our competitors—or even ComStar—get a hold of this tech. There might be a whole Star League planet or ship out there. We left too soon.”
“Okay. That makes sense. I’m just worried.”
Antonius chuckled. “What are you worried about? Pirates? Our military compliment rivals any house army. We’re literally unstoppable.”
“That’s not it. Why was the Piranha Memory Core just left there in the middle of interstellar space, so far out? What if there’s a reason nobody ever colonized past a certain point? It could be cosmological, like a neutron star or black hole. I don’t know. It could even be a curse.”
Antonius looked down at his desk. I knew he didn’t have spare time to second-guess his decisions. And I knew this meeting meant little to nothing, in truth. We were mere hours from the point we found the memory core and nothing would dissuade him now. Nevertheless, I desired to have my voice heard.
“Okay. I hear you. But I’m not going to abort this mission. The potential pay-off is far too great.” He sipped some coffee. “I’ll keep all pilots informed of any changes.”
I nodded and left.
I wondered, as I headed back to my shuttle, to the Star League Reborn’s (SLR) jumpship, then to my cubby hole of an apartment: Why did I bother talking to Antonius this close to where we found the core? I realized, somewhere while gazing out the window at the stars that seemed like milk drops in the infinite abyss of blackness, that it was a product of my fears. I wanted a way of extinguishing those fears. I decided that I needed to write. I would write about what happened. I was a part of the most powerful mercenary band ever created. I’d write their story.
I cracked open a bottle of scotch whiskey we picked up from the Free Rasalhague Republic on our last contract.
The next several months were a haze, as I eventually depleted my case of liquor and had to resort to drinking the grain alcohol distilled on the SLR jumpship. I didn’t leave my room often.
When we finally encountered something, all the anxiety that had bothered me before seemed fully depleted. I was told what happened after the fact. Our fleet entered “Clan Wolf” space. As they were curious of our warriors' prowess, they challenged the MercStar Alliance to a one versus one duel. They had a convoluted bidding system that inherently put us at an advantage. By the end of it, both parties agreed to pit Hans Davion in a Thunderbolt-5SS (with seven medium pulse lasers) against their pilot, Stefka Kerensky, in his Stormcrow-Prime (with five medium pulse lasers). For some reason, they thought we needed a 10-ton advantage—since our technology was inferior, I suppose.
I watched the recorded fight, and this was the impression I got:
Hans Davion was a portrait, cool, calm, and collected. His hands and arms seemed to not move at all as he cut away at the Stormcrow’s leg armor.
The Stormcrow had an impressive, unexpected speed advantage, going over 97 kph. Stefka Kerensky gritted his teeth and swayed side to side as he tried to dodge the constant laser barrage directed at him. He radioed, “Hans Davion, why are you in a mercenary band?”
Hans gave no reply.
Stefka Kerensky continued, “Davions aren’t true warriors. The Davions were one of the usurping house families that caused Aleksandr Kerensky to flee on his Exodus.”
Hans eyes tracked the mech and his wrists only twitched in the direction of his enemy. I wondered what gave him such stoicism. His nerves seemed made out of some exotic metal, bending to nothing. He was a statue, a machine, a conductor, a component to his Battlemech.
Stefka overheated. His mech shut down to avoid catastrophic failure.
Hans centered his crosshairs on the Stormcrow’s center torso and unleashed a devastating alpha. He stripped all the armor. The sensor read-out showed internals damaged and cherry red.
Stefka ejected out. “No! How could I have been beaten by a freebirth mercenary? By a Davion?”
“You talk too much. A warrior isn’t created by blood or pride, but by experience. I concentrated is all.” Hans smiled. “It was a good match.”
“I offer myself as a bondsman,” Stefka Kerensky said, as he bowed.
We learned later that a “bondsman” is essentially a slave. When warriors were defeated, they offered their services in payment for not being executed on the battlefield. Or, at least, that’s what I was told.
Clan Wolf was interested in how a Thunderbolt, after centuries of technologic retrograde, could compete with Clan Omnimechs. Antonius Rex decided to let Clan Wolf’s leadership know about the Piranha Memory Core in hopes that it could lead to a new ally or client. What followed was a month long progression of “trials of possession” in which Clan Wolf would vie for ownership of the Piranha Memory Core as well as genetic rights to our warriors.
We won every trial, eventually accumulating an impressive collection of Omnimechs including: Stormcrows, Timber Wolves, Arctic Cheetahs, Dire Wolves, Hellbringers, Ebon Jaguars, and Gargoyles. We thought we hit the jack pot.
But then Antonius Rex called me into a meeting. He explained, “We have a problem. The leadership of Clan Wolf can’t let us leave with Omnimechs. They said the other Clans will bury them if such a dishonor occurred. But, secretly, they want us to help them take Terra.”
“Take Terra? Are you insane?”
“I don’t think that’ll be so hard. We probably could have done it with our Thunderbolts and Stalkers alone. With these Omnimechs, it’ll be a piece of cake.” Antonius repositioned himself in his chair. “Clan Wolf placed the Piranha Memory Core outside the Periphery, among many other Star League caches, to help the Inner Sphere bridge the technologic gap. Their philosophy is that the Inner Sphere should have autonomy. From the way they’re telling it, they are the clan we want to reach Terra first. And make no mistake, one of the clans will.”
I shrugged. “Okay. So why are you telling me this?”
“Dan, I’m going to need you to lose.”
“Listen, I know I’m not the best pilot—”
“That’s not the reason why it has to be you. That Jenner-F that has been passed down in your family, it’s the perfect mech for this mission. Clan Wolf consistently bids down 10 tons. Your Jenner has a jutting out center torso. By the arsenal we’ve seen over the past month of trials, the only mech Clan Wolf would field against you is a Mist Lynx. Its weapons-loadout is light. A Jenner versus a Mist Lynx is the only way of ensuring we’ll lose the trial without losing a pilot.”
“I refuse being a bondsman.”
“You won’t be. That’s already negotiated. Trust me.”
I couldn’t believe Antonius was asking me to throw a fight, let alone sacrifice my family heirloom. “Why do we have to lose anyway? What do we have to gain?”
“Everything. If we lose, Clan Wolf gains the right to a contract in which we take Terra. We’re the perfect choice in terms of logistics, of knowing the landscape, of minimizing battles as we can pull favors and negotiate surrenders without even firing a shot. It’s all part of Clan Wolf’s ‘warden policy.’ In exchange, they’re giving us Outreach and all c-bill taxes coming in from conquered worlds.”
“So… you want me to sacrifice my family’s Jenner to—“
Antonius raised his hands up in the air, his palms facing outwards. “No. It’s better than that. I’ve been ensured that, after the battle, they’ll refit your Jenner with clan-tech, making it ‘IIC’ and much more combat-effective.” He lowered his hands. “This is all a formality. Clan Wolf is our partner now.”
“I don’t know.” I looked down at the tiling of the floor.
“If you do this, I’ll promote you to officer.”
I had to accept.
I spent the rest of that night in the hanger bay, staring at the Jenner my father gave me. His father, in turn, received it from his father—who acquired it in the service of House Steiner during a battle with the Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery. When I joined the MercStar Alliance, I was told of the inner “house” units that were once their own mercenary bands. They told me to choose one, after getting to know everyone. They explained that each “house” had a level of independent agency, each with a different way of doing things. I chose SLR, since they believed in a re-unified Inner Sphere. They also had the same kind of humor I was used to back when I fought for the Federated Suns. Accordingly, I painted my Jenner with black and green—their colors—to show my loyalty. I drank heavily, while ogling my 35-ton Battlemech. I spent much of my salary on upgrading its engine, heat sinks, and ordinance. As I finished the last of the grain alcohol, with a salty aftertaste I tried to dismiss, I wondered to myself, Could we trust Clan Wolf to let the Inner Sphere self-rule? Could MercStar trust them to make good on their promises? I had the distinct suspicion that we had made a deal with the devil. Yet another side of myself felt totally at peace. After all, I was a mercenary, employed by the most successful mercenary group to ever exist. In a way, Clan Wolf’s apparent plan to reunite the Inner Sphere was far better than switching factions in a never-ending war in a wounded galaxy.
The next day, I was in the cockpit of my Jenner with a stinging hangover. The enemy pilot said something about who he was. I couldn’t follow. A headache drilled at my cranium.
The Mist Lynx-C flew up in the air.
Impulsively, I jump-jetted to match his position and alpha-striked six medium lasers focused at his left arm. It blew straight off. My heart skipped a beat. Did I just ruin this for MercStar? Did I just neutralize the enemy pilot’s only offensive capabilities? My eyes strained at the sensor data as my Jenner crashed down to the ground from gravity’s pull. My leg armor was weakened. No. That’s not the info I need, I corrected myself.
Thank God. A weight lifted from my shoulders. I destroyed the arm with the electronic counter measures and anti-missile system. The ER-Large and ER-Medium lasers were still functional, and they now peppered my center torso.
This is good, I thought to myself. It’s almost over. I decided to full throttle and jump-jet to make the fight look more authentic.
The enemy pilot hit the back of my mech, where my armor was weak. I twisted the joystick to spin myself about face. I chain-fired my medium lasers at the feet of the Mist Lynx, deliberately being sloppy in aiming.
Another flush of lasers saturated near my cockpit. Warning indicator lights flashed. I was bathed in strobing red. I knew the rules of these trials by this point. I could now eject and concede defeat. I punched out.
The pilot seat rocketed me upwards. It felt like being at the tip of a fired bullet. I looked down at my Jenner after reaching peak height. I pondered on what this meant for MercStar. Were we capable of conquering Terra, the cradle of humanity, the very headquarters of ComStar? Should we be trusting the “warden ways” of Clan Wolf? And what was the full price of this newfound source of money and power?
Edited by Daniel James Neumann, 12 November 2015 - 12:29 PM.
