No replies to this topic

[Tiburon]

“Well. That's not good.”

“What do you mean ‘that’s not good?’”

“I mean that’s not good,” the technician answered matter-of-factly. Sliding out from under the core generator, the gritty man rubbed his hands on his coveralls. “It’s a blown fuse.”

Fingers disappearing in his thick brown hair, Dylan Yader stared down in emotional vacancy. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re in a DropShip, Pete. A blown fuse is going to bog down a DropShip?”

Leaning his neck until the crick in it was released, Pete Duller, head technician of the Hamilcar-class Messenger, pushed wearily to a stand. “When it’s connected to the nav system, and when it chars everything within five inches of it, yeah, a blown fuse is going to bog down a DropShip.”

“Pete, I have never heard of this.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything. You wanna go down there and see for yourself?”

Not particularly. “I believe you, I just…this is a quick fix, right? I got a client waiting—”

Waving dismissively, Pete walked past him and away. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You know we’ll reimburse you.”

“Reimburse me? You think this is about money?”

“Ain’t it always with you people?”

Dylan blinked. “No. No!” As Pete walked away through the engine wing corridors, Dylan followed in pursuit. “This is about reputation, repeat business. Damn it, turn around and listen!”

“Hey, hey,” Pete said, doing just that as he held a hand up defensively. “I’m gonna work this as fast as I can. I gotta see if this was a multiphase short. If it wasn’t, we’re talkin’ a couple of hours.”

The lack of anything further perturbed Dylan immediately. “And if it was?”

“Like I said,” Pete said, turning around again. “We’ll reimburse you.” Dylan opened his mouth to protest, but the technician waved his arms emphatically the moment Dylan inhaled. Still walking away, he said, “Take it up with the captain after I talk to him. Now, adios.”

Dylan’s hands found his hips as he stood motionless in the corridor, expression flat as he watched Pete pass through the doorway ahead. This wasn’t worst-case-scenario—that title was reserved for the immediate and sudden destruction of the universe, an event he considered the only real worse-case-scenario for any possible situation or decision, and his way of staying perpetually optimistic. But this was probably only a few notches below that. Blowing up at his hairline, Dylan set forward again down the corridor.




Ultimately, Pete had been right. It was all about money, despite what Dylan had claimed. That was the nature of mercenary work. Reputation and repeat business were important, but only because c-bills were at the root of the equation. Income was everything. They called themselves Reclamation Inc., a name Dylan—the group’s founder and leader—had decided on himself. If there was such a thing as a white-collar merc team, Reclamation Inc. was it. Located within the boundaries of the Free Worlds League, Dylan made it a focal point to establish professional, working relationships with Commonwealth officials and particularly with Provincial Brigade leaders—a substructure of the Free Worlds League Military.

The simple truth was that the government sometimes wanted things done that they didn’t want to do themselves. Less-than-charitable things. That was where Reclamation Inc. came into play. They were a merc group, to be sure, though they almost exclusively worked with the Free Worlds League Military, to the point where they knew many Provincial families and DropShip captains by their first names, as was the case now on the Hamilcar-class Messenger. He’d even reluctantly earned a nickname among many captains—the Dylanator—a play on his full name of Dylan Yader. It was not a nickname he particularly enjoyed.

Many of their contracts revolved around repossessions, either of goods stolen by bandits or opposing Houses, or of goods the Free Worlds League intended to steal themselves. In fact, that was the purpose behind the mercenary group’s very name. They reclaimed. There were two things in particular that Dylan had focused on with Reclamation Inc. in order to increase business. First and foremost, when it came to military or government contracts, they blatantly undercharged; politicians and military officials liked that. Secondly, they did things as cleanly as a mercenary group could. They reimbursed businesses personally when a job resulted in damage or a loss of customers for the duration of an operation, as a lance of attacking mechs sometimes had a tendency to cause. In addition, they did legal paperwork and contracted whatever individuals were necessary to ensure that a place returned to normal operations after they “visited.” Did that cost them time and money? Absolutely—and quite a bit of it. But the benefit was that the Commonwealth and especially the Free Worlds League Military loved them. They never had to worry about transportation for them or their mechs. They never had to worry about repairs, or refits, or routine maintenance. The military was more than happy to provide it whenever necessary, a fair trade for the luxury of contracting a mercenary unit tailored specifically for their needs. And thus, Reclamation Inc. was able to operate a mech lance with four MechWarriors and no one else. The powers-that-be were more than happy to take care of any other needs the mercenaries required.




Stopping at the door to his quarters, Dylan allowed himself a moment of composure. As insignificant as a blown fuse might have sounded, if it was enough to delay their arrival to Hazeldean, it constituted an emergency. How was he going to explain this to the rest of the team? Passing his keycard through the door slot, he instinctively stepped back as the door slid open into the wall. The moment he stepped inside, his entire train of thought and anxiety was erased with a single word.

“Daddy!”

Smiling broadly—the stress of a possible blown contract momentarily subsiding—Dylan knelt down as his four-year-old son, Devon, collided into his arms. “Hey sport,” Dylan said warmly, embracing Devon before the brown-haired child stepped back and grinned at him.

“Guess what!” Devon asked.

“What?”

The boy’s arms moved emphatically. “The clans were attacking the World of Lakes, and they had five mechs!”

Dylan opened his eyes in the most impressed-looking way he could muster. “Five mechs?”

“Yeah! But you know what?”

“What?”

“I killed them with my Puma!”

There were so many things about the story that were less than totally believable, from the likely possibility that the clans had slightly more than five mechs, to Devon’s continued misunderstanding of Word of Blake to mean “World of Lakes.” But none of it mattered. Spinning away from his dad, Devon ran across the small room to his collection of toy mechs on the floor.

“Come see how I did it!” the boy said.

Rising again, Dylan stepped inside the room, the metal door sliding shut behind him. In that same moment, a slender woman wearing a bathrobe stepped from the bathroom into the room. Whisking a towel through strands of wet, black hair, she smiled lovingly as Dylan approached. “He’s been having more than a little fun on the middle of the floor while you’ve been gone.”

Walking to her, Dylan placed his hands at her sides and leaned in to share a tender, if not brief kiss. "Remind me why our son is defending jihadists again?”

Her lips curved up slightly. “Because he’s four and doesn’t know any better.” Her name was Elena, and she was the second-best MechWarrior Dylan knew. She was also his wife. Brown eyes searching him, Elena seemed to peg that something was wrong immediately. “What happened?”

“Daddy, come see how I did it!”

Sighing heavily, Dylan shook his head. “So apparently, it’s a blown fuse.”

Elena cocked her head back strangely. “A blown fuse?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much the same reaction I had.”

“Daddy! Come see it!”

Turning to the boy gently, Elena said, “Your daddy and I are talking, sweetie, just play with your toys for a bit.”

Dylan went on to explain. “Apparently, if a fuse blows bad enough, it can blow other fuses, and one thing can short another thing, and I don’t even know. All I know is that we’re here and not on our way to Hazeldean.”

Ever the encourager, much as he often was, Elena touched him on the cheek. “Well, let’s not freak out just yet, okay? Let’s see what happens first. It might not be so bad. Did he say how long it’s going to take to fix?”

“Best-case scenario is a couple of hours, after they do some inspecting. That won’t affect us. But if by some off-chance a couple hours becomes a couple days…”

“Shh. Don’t say it. Think positive.”

He usually did. But military techs also didn’t throw the word reimburse around lightly. Dylan knew that meant there was a chance this could drag out.

“What do we need to tell Bryce and Jez?” Elena asked.

Bryce Clayton and Jezebel Joshlin were the other two members of Reclamation Inc. Any news regarding the contract would impact them as much as it would Dylan, Elena, and Devon—in fact, more so. In order to make sticking with an undercharging mercenary team worth their while, Dylan had offered Bryce and Jezebel thirty percent profit a piece per mission, effectively splitting all earnings sixty for them, forty for the Yaders. Despite the fact that Bryce and Jezebel weren’t a couple, the individual breakdown between all four MechWarriors still slanted profits in their direction. It was enough to keep the veteran foursome together.

Dylan slowly exhaled. “We need to tell ’em the truth, you know? The same things we know.”

“Which admittedly, isn’t much.”

“Right.”

She canted her head delicately. “Why don’t you wait a bit, first? Talk to the captain, gauge what the real outlook is. We might be making Bryce and Jez worry for nothing.”

Talk to the captain. That was exactly what Dylan needed to do. The only reason he wasn’t doing that already was because Pete wanted to talk to the captain first, understandably so. The last thing any head technician wanted was to try and relay critical information to their captain with a merc hyperventilating behind them.

“Give it a few hours,” Elena said, smiling as comfortingly as she could as she slid her arms around his waist. “Let Pete do his thing, you know he’s a good tech. If it can be fixed quickly, he’ll fix it quickly.”

Sighing resignedly, Dylan answered, “I know. I just don’t want to lose this contract.”

“I know, baby.”

“If this wasn’t a first-time client, it wouldn’t be as big a deal. But this is a first impression. We’re supposed to be getting there and getting an advance. And here we are, in the middle of…who knows where?” That part was the truth. All Dylan knew was that he was somewhere between Hazeldean and Maximilian, an independent world just past the outskirts of Free Worlds League space, on a rare route that avoided the typical jump point routes that most vessels traversed. Reclamation Inc. had just finished a contract on Maximilian that had been done specifically for the Free Worlds League Military—once again, of the reclamation nature—with part of the contract establishing that the military would assist them with transportation to and from the outworld. What Dylan hadn’t known was that their transportation wouldn’t be via standard jump routes. Apparently the Messenger had been assigned somewhat of a scouting assignment, odd for a Hamilcar-class DropShip, past some barely-scouted worlds at the rim of Free Worlds League space. The route was just out of the way enough to make time critical for the mercenary unit’s next contract. Just the same, it was hard to complain when your mechs were being serviced and refitted on taxpayer’s c-bills.

Reclamation Inc. was just shy of standard lance configuration, consisting of an assault, two medium, and one light mech. Their assault mech was a Mad Cat Mk. II, Dylan’s, complemented appropriately by a smaller Mad Cat III, which was piloted by Elena. Bryce and Jezebel piloted a Stormcrow and an Osiris, respectively. When working in conjunction, they formed a formidable, veteran team, with more than a few years’ experience working together. So far as mercenary units went, Reclamation Inc. was fairly middle-aged, with Dylan and Elena in their lower thirties, Bryce right at thirty, and Jezebel bringing up the rear as resident young ’un at twenty-six. Just the same, they were all quite a bit older than many of the MechWarriors they faced on the battlefield, when head-to-head confrontation became unavoidable. Experience and skill had kept the foursome ahead of the curve and a force to be reckoned with. It was never a good thing with Reclamation Inc. was handed your name.

It was also never a good thing when you were late with a first-time client.

Pushing back his hair, Dylan looked away from Elena briefly, just enough for his gaze to find Devon sitting on the floor in the middle of his collection of toy mechs, staring up solemnly at his daddy and mommy. And right then again, for a moment, all anxiety faded. Very faintly, Dylan smiled.

“Are you sad?” Devon asked timidly.

The only thing that could have prevented Dylan’s heart from melting would have been if he hadn’t had one at all. “No. No, of course not,” he said. He lied. But he didn’t care. “We just have grown-up stuff to deal with.”

Devon seemed less than comforted. “Are there bad mechs coming?”

At that, Dylan could only laugh. And Elena smiled in the way that only a loving mother could. “No,” Dylan said assuredly, kneeling down to Devon’s level. “No bad mechs are coming.” He and Elena had never intended to have a child. Devon was the best accident they could have ever dreamt for. “You beat five clan mechs with a Puma?”

Immediately, Devon’s grin reemerged. “Yeah! They were shooting with PCPs—”

They were actually called PPCs, but Dylan didn’t care.

“—but I had super jump jets, and I flew to the top of the mountain where they couldn’t reach me, and I shot the leader five thousand times!”




The story that followed was the most ridiculous, unrealistic, and in that way, completely wonderful story Dylan had ever heard, as told from the only person on the Messenger, as little as he might have been, who could put things truly into perspective. It was a story about big mechs, fights in space, and heroism against insurmountable odds. And for that little span in time, it was a story that took precedence over everything else. The captain, and the aftermath of the blown fuse, could wait.

There was a World of Lakes that needed to be saved.







(obviously, to be continued)