2
At or about the times between the third and fourth succession wars and centered on the Savage Coyotes Mercenary Company.
The Savage Coyotes
A Battletech story by
Jawbreaker6
The Dog Pound Bar and Grill
Gant
Taurian Concordat
June 8 3001
“You can’t afford me, kid. Go bug somebody else.” The mechwarrior paid for his drink with a thick, silver coin and ambled into the deep clouds of blue smoke filling the grubby bar. Undaunted by the rejection, Moskell Weehawken grabbed his near empty mug from the bar top and hurried after the mechwarrior. He momentarily lost sight of the leather jacketed man when he got to the games area. There he had to stop and carefully step around, under and past pistoning cue sticks and zipping darts. He earned only one snarl and some choice curses from one man with a tattooed face when his cue stick bopped Moskell in the ribs as he tried to dart past him.
He found the mechwarrior in a booth near the restrooms hiding behind a rumpled paper news reader; Moskell recognized him by the messy shock of wiry black hair sticking above the water stained reader. Without asking, the young man dropped into the booth across from the mechwarrior, his mug banging off the wooden surface as he leveled out, “How do you know I can’t afford you?”
The mechwarrior’s shoulders sagged visibly and his head dropped behind the reader. A string of muffled curses rattled out of his unseen mouth. Angry hands crumpled the reader into a ball and dropped it to the floor. “Blessed Blake,” he groaned, “I knew you were one of ‘em the minute I laid eyes on ya.”
Moskell pushed his mug down the table. “One what?” He demanded. The mechwarrior bristled at his tone. When he finally spoke, his voice and his eyes were…meaner. “Kid—
Moskell held his hand up, “Moskell, my name is Moskell.”
The mechwarrior, whose name was Victor Geofries, ground his teeth together as his neck and ears turned red and pulsed with heat. “Kid, I don’t care if your name is Stephen Godamned Aramis! You can’t afford me, I know it! And, right now you are tapping my heat gauge into ‘High Red’.” He leaned across the table and got close to Moskell, “Watch what happens when you peg it all the way.”
Not understanding that he was on the mechwarrior’s last nerve, Moskell leaned forward too, “How do you know I can’t afford you. I mean, for all you know, I could afford you and ten more just like you.”
The mechwarrior growled and gritted his teeth. Appearing as if he was fighting an unseen force, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and shoved it into Moskell’s chest so hard he was pushed against the tattered back rest and pinned in place. The boy went pale and his hands grabbed at the mechwarrior’s wrist as his card bearing hand pushed him against the green, faux leather seat cushion. The mechwarrior gave one, last hard push for emphasis that med the air rush out of Moskell’s lungs then released him with a caustic snort.
Doing as his father had told him, Moskell pretended like it hadn’t hurt or scared the living hell out him. When he was finally let go, he kept as calm demeanor as possible, which for him was a dry mouth, and shaking hands that held the card and made it hard to read.
Kerensky’s Blood! This fortune for one mech, and a light at that? He could see two for this price, or maybe a medium with a working AC/10, but a light?
The mechwarrior sneered at him. “Told ya so, kid. Now beat it before I tell everybody you’re a recruiter for the Free Worlds League.”
Moskell cleared his throat and re-read the card, “It’s not more than we can afford. I just can’t understand why it’s so much for a light.”
Geofries nearly tipped his beer over as he hopped in his seat with righteous indignation. “Whaddya mean, a light. Lights are great, hell, they’re better then a lot of mediums and a couple of heavies I can think of right off the bat.”
Moskell, shrugged indifferently, “I’m certain they can be, it’s just that I’ve already spoken to a Wasp and a Locust pilot and the pair of them cost little more than you alone.”
Geofries ran a hand through his wiry hair and glared at Moskell. Loud in the mouth and hard in the ***, this one is. He forced a deep breath to calm himself; it wouldn’t do to punch the kid out for the insult. Granted, it wouldn’t get him fired but it could get his name put at the bottom of the hiring list; Colonel Vinh punished disgraceful behavior by way of skinny pay vouchers. After a pregnant pause, the mechwarrior said, “I know who you talked to—Chow and Depak—and their mechs are hashed. They’re fine for a show of force, like standing in front of a bank during a riot or stomping some guerillas armed with rifles, but in a real fight?” The inflection at the end of his remark was the only way he could legally say mechwarriors Depak and Chow, Coyote’s or not, were as reliable as their half-assed mech’s.
It took him a minute to get the gist of what Geofries said about the two light mechs and their operators. Moskell pressed the mechwarrior for clarification on a nother point, “Then explain to me why you cost so much?” His people had sent him to Gant to hire as many of the Savage Coyote mercenaries as they could get before Il Coltello returned, but he was worried he was going to be made a fool of by paying too much for too little.
Geofries was actively hating the snotty little provincial in spades. His nasal accent and foppish, farm laborer clothes had instantly marked him as an way-outworlder; a peasant from a crudball looking for protection from anything from pirates to slavers to a sawed-off tyrant with delusions of grandeur. With them it was always the same dance, just a different tune. Now he had to educate the little ***** before he could give him the heave-and-a-ho.
“Kid,” he said, ticking off a finger, “first off, I drive a Jenner. It uses SRMs and lasers, not the other way around.” He pointed at the card, “I don’t take the field without a minimum six full reloads; that’s ninety six rounds in case you’re wondering. On top of that, I gotta have me a tech, an ammo hopper and a class one field repair kit—it has a refundable deposit by the way—so you’re not just getting me and my machine, you’re getting an entire array of war making and logistical support structures.”
Moskell was still a bit confused. “I understand that part, but what makes you and your mech worth so much?”
The mercenary slapped the table with an open palm. Patrons at other tables started at the sound and subconsciously reached for holstered weapons. Geofries snarled, “Why you little wiseass—
Moskell raised his hands and pleaded, “But sir, you said the other two machines were in bad shape and their pilots…yellow. What are your qualifications and your machine’s readiness?”
The mercenary huffed, “My qualifications, ya little *******, are that I’ve been a merc for eleven years and I’m still alive. My mech’s readiness level is one hundred percent as far as I’m concerned.” He leaned over the table and got into Moskell’s face, “And it’s at a hundred percent because I don’t go out for anything less than the card says.” He dropped back into his seat and the air inside the foam hissed out loud and hard. “Other guys might go out on some crudstunk freebie mercy mission or give cut-rate prices, but not me. I get full price or I don’t go.”
Moskell did some mental math. The Jenner would cost way more than he and his father had budgeted. With what was left over he could get two more mechs, maybe. Three should be enough to handle the job, if they were good. If they weren’t—
“At what price do you change sides?”
The mechwarrior glared through a cloud of cigar smoke that had wafted in. “Listen here, you little pile of smek; Victor Geofries don’t flip. I don’t care what you heard around the gantries, “I stay bought till the job’s done or the contract’s voided.” He laid his hands on the table and curled them into fists so tight his knuckles went white. “Whatever garbage-bellied, Jack-Jaw told you different is a liar, cuz he wasn’t there.”
Moskell’s heart froze in his chest. He was sure the mercenary was going to pummel him into snail snot. “I, I, I hadn’t heard nothing, Mr. Geofries. I was just curious. Our enemy might be able to offer you more when you’re on planet.”
The mechwarrior’s mood switched from borderline murderous rage to casual cheer in an instant. “Oh, okay then.” He waved for another beer. “Kid,” he chimed in the same carefree, and freakishly bipolar tone, “some guys’ll turn on ya’ for a crusty kroner. It’s just the way they’re built and being a merc suits ‘em fine. Most guys I work with are good to the word of their contracts. As long as you honor it or don’t try to change it on them, you’ll get your money’s worth.”
The beer arrived and Geofries handed a pair of silver coins to the bartender. “Bring another in ten, Jayo.” The bartender disappeared into the smoke without a word. The merc took a long pull on his fresh beer, set it to the side and picked up where he left off, “Our contracts spell it all out, so if your guys show up and offer more, I’ll stay solid.”
That made Moskell feel better. “Okay then, I guess with what you’re wanting as the top end, I can afford two more mechwarriors. Do you—
Geofries fell into laughter and held his hand up, “Kid, hold on a minute. One, I never said I would work for you—gotta know the job fer one—and two: that number there is just my price. You gotta broker through Colonel Vinh; we all work for him.”
Moskell wished his father was with him. When he was talking to the mechwarriors he had felt a sliver of confidence. They were simpler types of people; money being their primary concern. Colonel Vinh was different. He gave the impression of not caring about anything, like he was a mountain, cold and pitiless in winter, tall and deadly come summer. To Moskell, the Savage Coyote colonel was the epitome of the true mercenary.
When Moskell was finally able to speak, he muttered, “Too much.”
Vinh flicked the ash of his cigarette into a polished brass ashtray. His voice was soft like a cool breeze, “That is not my concern. You came to me looking to buy my services.” He flicked more ash away and returned the smoldering butt to his lips. He inhaled deeply, the cigarette glowing bright red and crackling audibly in his quiet office, “I am not cheap and therefore, not for everyone.” He stubbed the cigarette out and lit another. “I understand if you choose to go elsewhere.” Vinh stood, his jacket red leather creaking, and gestured at the door. The meeting was over.
Geofries slapped Moskell on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Told ya, kid. The colonel’s heart is an abacus and unless he can see the profit, he won’t touch it.”
Moskell handed the paper to the mercenary and pushed his way onto the busy street in front of the Coyote Cave. Geofries read the numbers and raised his eyebrows. “That’s not a bad price kid. Four mechs with good drivers and proper load-outs could cost you double in the sphere.
Moskell shrugged and stared up at Gant’s cold white sun. “I was supposed to bring back a lance of mercenaries to fight Il Coltello.” He scuffed his boot across the cracked sidewalk, “Now it will look like I failed.”
Geofries had originally followed the kid because he wanted to see his face when reality bit him on the ***, but now that it had, he was feeling uncharacteristically sorry for him. Against his better judgment he shook the paper out and re-read the numbers. “Alright, kid, how much money do you have?”
Mech gantry Seven
Gant
Taurian Concordat
June 9 3001
“Kid, you are looking at the last surviving Lancelot in the entire periph.”
Moskell stepped around a puddle of something green and stinky and looked up at the battlemech. “That is surviving?” The mech, leaning in its gantry, was supposed to be a bipedal sixty tonner that had once been the pride of Krupp Stellar Technologies some four hundred years earlier. The one he was looking at would probably make its builders cry if they saw it. Its right leg, below the knee, was barely more than a pair of alloy bones pinned to rusted-out ankle socket and foot assembly. Every joint and seam was leaking something and the area under its hips looked to be exuding some kind of toxic rain shower that created a hiss when the drops hit one of the seven buckets arrayed under it.
Geofries stepped over a blob of purple grease, “Don’t let looks fool you kid; this hog has a lot of life left in her.”
“Don’t you talk about me like that, you scrubby-headed rat.”
Moskell turned to see a woman stalk out of the shadows. Her gait was a swagger that made her broad shoulders roll forward with every booted step. Moskell gaped. Back home there were no women like her. Mechwarrior or not, her bare arms were so swollen with muscles that she couldn’t rest them against her narrow hips. Those arms look big enough to rip my head off. And then, the way they flowed into her broad chest made her cooling vest look like swim wear.
The woman ignored Moskell. “So, what’s up? I cut my sim session short to get here on time.” She pointed a finger and strangely coquettish smile at the dark haired mercenary, “Better be good or you’re gonna have hell to pay.”
Geofries laughed and Moskell got the impression there was more behind that laugh than he’d ever know. “Simone, this here is Moskell and he’s lookin to hire.”
Simone didn’t look at him as much as she looked through him, “And?”
“That’s what I love about you, Baby; all the sweet talk. Anyway, he doesn’t have enough to go first class—
“Except for you, right?” Simone asked sardonically.
Geofries bowed formally. “Of course.” He then took a seat on the crippled mech’s foot, “Anyway, he’s got money-- I’ve seen it by the way--and I was thinkin, instead of hiring hammer-heads like Depak and Chow, he should hire you.”
Simone’s blue eyes flashed in the sallow, buzzing work lights of the mechbay. “Now why, in the name of Kerensky’s Bionic Bladder would he want to do that? As we all know, Mr. Pegleg there isn’t ready to do anything but rust.”
Geofries smiled big and Moskell’s stomach soured. “Well, here’s the deal—you work for one third pay and he gets you up and running. He saves you from being dropped from the rolls and instead of a light he gets a kick-*** medium.
Simone and Moskell gasped in unison, “What?”
Geofries pointed at Moskell, “Kid, you need firepower, she’s got it and with what’s left over I can turn you onto some guys who can even the odds for you on the ground. He pointed to Simone, “Swallow your pride, woman. You’re ride got hashed when you went and worked cheap to begin with. This could get you back in the game.”
Kahmal-Kaskaye
Erod’s Escape
Taurian Concordat
August 3001
The voyage to Erod’s Escape was bad. The ship was bad: A Confederate with three working thrusters and leaky sewage system. The crew was as bad as the ship: Smelly, rim-skippers with no teeth or manners. Hell, even the rations were bad: Black bread and beef-gel for lunch, black bread and beef-gel for dinner and black bread with fruit-jel and dried pork cakes for breakfast. By the time the ship’s doors quaked through their opening cycles, Geofries and Simone were ready to shoot their way off.
When Simone saw the planet in real-time she considered staying aboard.“This place sucks. Why would any pirate want to come here anyway?”
She toggled her optics and panned the city in wide angle and then with her zoom. There wasn’t much to see or even like. The few real buildings, leftovers of the old Star League, were fractured, windowless skeletons leaning on rusty girders and cracked foundations. The setting sun was a dismal yellow that reminded her of hepatitis and made their aged remains even more depressing to look at. The rest of the city wasn’t much better; full of three-story, stone row-houses and potholed streets running north, south and east-west and going nowhere. This place, this single place sitting next to a dilapidated spaceport boasting a working septic pumper and two astro-techs was all there was to see. The countryside past the houses held hand cut fields, rubble piles and a short, domed structure that squatted near the western end, but that was it.
Geofries trotted his Jenner down the dropship’s ramp and into the setting sunlight. “Dunno. This Il Coltelo guy, whoever he is, landed here to look for something or someone worth stealing and it turned out this one little, stinking town; is where everybody gathers their harvests.”
Il Coltelo, rang more than a couple of bells for Simone, but she said nothing. It wouldn’t do to excite Geofries too much too soon. She walked her Lancelot forward. Paying very close attention to the creaking, swaying ramp as she stepped out, “Still not seeing it. Can’t be enough money in grain to justify the losses the kid told us about.”
Geofries put up a nav point for them to follow and waited for their support truck to catch up to them. “Well, there is the fusion plant on the edge of town.”
“Ahh, that’s better.” Simone tried to mentally juggle the math on the value of a working fusion plant. The number she arrived at was more than enough to justify murdering the hell out of a pack of grubby dirt farmers.
A group of locals met Moskell who, after handshakes and hugs to a man in a wheelchair, were led to Geofries and Simone of the Savage Coyotes. As their official leader, Geofries introduced himself and went straight to work. “Is this it?” He pointed at the domed building in front of him.
Moskell, who stayed close to man in the wheelchair nodded. “Yes, as you can see, we’ve done our best to defend it on our own, but...”
Geofries shrugged, “Defenses last only so long kid.” He surveyed the earthen berms and trenches surrounding the power facility then brought out his noteputer. He called up a map of the area and compared that to what he’d seen on the way in. “We can do this.” He pointed at a scorched Burke Hover Tank, “Does it run?”
Moskell leaned down to the man in the wheelchair so his ears were close to the man’s lips. “It did, but the last attack broke something—”
Geofries pointed at the old tank and half shouted over his shoulder. “Buzzroy! Check the tank, make it run if you can. Try to stay out of our kits though.” He smiled at Moskell, “Have to bill you if we get into our spares, you know.” His next order of business was to go to the cab of their support truck, open the door and say something to the people inside. He dropped to ground when he was done. The merc was soon joined by a half dozen men and women carrying rifles and a gaunt looking man with a little girl with red hair done up in pigtails. Both were dressed in the same kind of urban camouflage and carrying bags, the only difference was the man’s bag held a rifle. Hers could have held anything from hand grenades to baby dolls. Geofries leaned forward and spoke to the girl, “Liza, you and your dad go walk about, find some good places to set up and get to work, okay?”
Liza nodded and with bright eyes and bouncing red pig tails, led her father towards the ruins surrounding the power plant. “C’mon daddy, let’s go play hide-and-go-seek.”
Simone stood behind a rubble pile and toggled her sensors into mag-res. Nothing.
Damn.
“Geofries, these guys are making me mad. I could be in the gym right now; my biceps are screaming for some love, I’ll have you know.”
“You’re never happy, Simone. These idiots actually give us a landing date, show up and begin their attack on time and you’re complaining, besides, You know if it gets too bad, I’ll love’em for ya—there’s one.”
A hiss of static followed by the hollow whooshing noise of SRMs being fired filled the mic. Then there was laughter.
“What?” Simone demanded.
“I love catching a tank from behind and popping its turret off.”
She snickered, “Yeah, I like how their ammo cooks off, like fireworks, only better.” She then added with a note of concern in her voice, “Well, if the game is on, you better save me some.”
Ramondo DeCatrioni, or Il Coltelo (The Knife) as he was known by his crew, was not happy. He had been looking forward to exacting his revenge on the peasants of Erod’s Escape for months now. It had been all he could think of since their ship made the first jump towards the Concordat. The beating he had taken at their hands had caused him no end of trouble. Between the equipment and the men he’d lost, three Savannah Masters a half dozen ICE powered ground trucks and the two Mechs; the men had been the easiest to replace and, ironically enough, had given him the most trouble.
After scurrying up the ramps with their tails between their legs and lifting off, the pack of dogs turned on him. They blamed him for their defeat. Brandishing knives and guns they cursed and screamed but, ironically enough, said nothing of their inability to overwhelm the pig farmers or their own cowardice.
He used his dagger to kill the tank commander responsible for who’d whipping his crews into their angry lather by stabbing him through his right eye. He was stupid to think he parley with me. After his cold-blooded killing of the man in front of his rebellious dogs, the ship erupted into a running gunfight his and he spent two days running and gunning through the corroded passages of his dropship putting down the mutiny. When it was said and done, nineteen men and women were killed outright or took his knife in their eye and as they lay twitching on the deck, dumped into the black vacuum of space via the airlock. When the last one drifted away and then ruptured in the vacuum he took on a savage smile. The instant he landed he gathered the families of the traitors together in a wooden building and then put it to the torch. He laughed with genuine glee at their fire fueled screams. His power would stay absolute and he’d drink the blood of any fool who thought otherwise.
The meatsacks on Erod’s Escape had gotten lucky, that tank had been a surprise he wasn’t ready for, but this time they would learn the same lessons his crew had and, when he was certain it had been learned well, he would butcher every last one of them and leave their heads on pikes. His mouth watered as he thought of the savagery he would inflict upon them. Of course the lessons would have to be taught after he found the crudstunking Jenner that had suddenly appeared and appeared to be ripping his forces to shreds from behind. He fingered the hilt of his dagger, “Bozeman, ya scummy mutt, git over here!”
A scrawny man with no front teeth and a grimy blue shirt ran over to him. “Yathir!” He hollered through the toothless gap.
Il Coltelo grabbed his shirt and shook him hard enough to make his head wobble. “You git yer flea bitten excuse of an arse over to Zena and tell her to find that damned mech!”
Bozeman snapped an open palm salute, took two steps and fell over dead with the top of his head missing. Instinctively, Il Coltelo dropped to the dirt and used his gun truck for cover. From under it he hollered, “Sniper!” The yell was echoed and soon everybody around him was taking shelter under and behind anything they could find. One man, too slow on the uptake had gotten his guts turned to a bloody stripe in the dirt. He was followed by a third who tried to drag him to cover. The pirate spat in dirt and kicked the tire closest to him. Snipers! Of course they had snipers. Why not? Well, if they’re gonna play that way…
“That’s a kill, Daddy.” The little girl with the red ponytail put her binoculars down and grabbed the sniper’s and hand tugged gently. “We need to get to our next hide; I want to beat them to town.” The sniper nodded his agreement with a slow and deliberate motion, then stood and let his daughter lead them out of the rubble pile they’d spent the last day hiding in. With barely a sound or visible movement the duo slipped from shadow to shadow and disappeared into the shattered stone and mortar walls of Kahmal-Kaskaye.
Geofries throttled his Jenner up and took aim at a pair of ICE trucks firing at him with heavy machine guns. The weighty slugs hammered at his cockpit screen and washed his vision with orange sparks that raced up and over the top of his mech. Instead of using his precious missiles or slowing to open his firing arc enough to use lasers, the mercenary centered the fleeing vehicles up and ran right over the top of them. In his compressed view, the smoking, bouncing and partially crushed remains of the old trucks sent tiny pieces of themselves in all directions but the largest portions had been pressed flat into shapes that matched his Jenner’s armored feet.
“Hee-Hee, too slow,” he giggled. This was going to be a snap. If he was lucky he’d get his deposit back on the reloads Vinh had gouged him on. This might turn out pretty good after all—
Two loud bangs and a flash of blue light that sent his compressed view into fits, tripped Geofries and sent him and his machine over on its face. He moaned in slow motion as the ground slammed into his cockpit screen and rattled his molars off their mounts.
With the skill acquired after years in the cockpit, the Coyote mercenary rolled his legs back under him put his Jenner back on its feet. “Blake’s blood, where did that come from?!”
More of the heavy rounds slammed home and peppered his armor readouts with yellow dots. Not knowing who or from where, Geofries pushed his throttles to their stops and did what Jenner pilots do best: ran away. When he was satisfied he’d gone far enough, he cycled his battlerom and replayed the telemetry.
A Sentinel.
The mercenary grabbed a rag from a pouch near his leg and mopped his brow with it. A Sentinel had caught him from behind and shagged his flanks good. It out massed him by five tons, packed an autocannon, But! It had half his speed. He magnified the image. The egg shaped center torso was dented and scarred from years of wear and tear and even in the grainy imagery fluids could be seen actively dribbling from its hips and knees.
Looks like a junker.
He could take it. The AC/5 would make it hard, but if he played to his speed it would happen. If he could take it a prize, the salvage would more than pay for the three thousand in damage he had just taken from it. “Simone, you’re on your own for a bit; they brought their toys too.”
Simone acknowledged and started to actively scan on all frequencies. That was the good thing about her mech: All the scanners worked. When a Zephyr Hover Tank led a quartet of ICE trucks straight to the plant’s main entrance she opened a channel to the local’s ratty tank. “Tell me that thing is up.”
The kid that had hired them, whatever his name was, came back instantly. “We can shoot, but we can’t turn the gun or move the tank yet.”
Great, covered by a frickin pillbox. “Alright, kid, pick your shots. Only fire if you got a solid lock.”
Moskell was sweating through his shirt inside the crippled tank. He kept his eyes pressed against the rangefinder and his finger on the firing stud. Anything that crossed his path would die today. He had insisted on being in the tank with only the driver and one of the mercenary techs who was trying to get them all the way up and running. Sparks flashed in the corner of his eyes as she brazed circuits and spliced cables in her frantic attempt at a jury-rig repair on something that had been jury-rigged ten times before. A steady stream of curses rolled off her lips as she worked. She had made it very clear that the minute things got too hairy, she was gone. She was a battlemech technician, not a tank jockey and refused to die inside one of the damned things.
Simone had hoped that her mech would be like a big, scary dog; something ugly and mean looking enough to make the idiots turn away. No such luck. Gonna have to fight, sweetie-pie. Its not that she was afraid to fight, far from it actually. The one thing in life she loved as much as her man was knock-down, drag-out mech battle. The adrenaline alone gave her an almost euphoric feeling that nothing could come close too. Sex was close, but war was the best.
This is going to suck. It was obvious that the bad guys were just trying to force their way in through the front door; thinking their numbers would do what their tiny vehicles couldn’t. “Idiots.” She stepped from behind the rubble she’d been hiding behind and opened fire on their only tank. Both her large lasers stabbed at the hover its front glacis. One beam, ruby-red and furious, sliced the into the right edge of the vehicle and liquefied armor like it was water and sent it out in a fan-like spray. The second shot, pure luck as far as she was concerned, burned into the tank’s rear mounted control surfaces and welded them into a solid mass that sent the tank racing to its left and slam head first into a jumbled pile of ferrocrete that, to Simone’s eye, looked like an old parking structure. Tangles of rusty reinforcement rod and grey rubble tumbled down onto the tank and buried it. From beneath the pile its old engines whined until they were finally smothered by the debris.
Moskell laughed uproariously as the tank disappeared in a cloud of flying debris. “I told you she was something else!” He slapped the driver’s shoulder in celebration. “I think I’m in love, Liam.”
Liam snorted. “You go ahead and be in love. I’ll just stay terrified; women with muscles like that are the stuff of nightmares. Why, if I were to tell her to cook me something, she’d probably punch me in the nose and throw me into the kitchen to cook for her.”
The trucks, suddenly deprived of their tank, tried to beat a hasty retreat but Simone wasn’t being paid to let pirates escape. Ignoring the flash of heat firing both her large lasers earned her, she sliced two of the little trucks to pieces with her torso mounted medium laser and took a third with a the large on her right arm. Now the heat inside her Lancelot was awful. She backpedaled with slow, awkward steps and spoke into her external speakers, “Hit me.”
An old fire service truck rumbled from behind its private revetment and used a roof-mounted water cannon to spray her machine down and help her beat the heat that could shut her down or, worse yet, turn her into a plasma volcano where she stood.
Clouds of steam swirled around her legs as the Lancelot’s heat sinks were quenched by the water and then made to cycle the freshly chilled coolant back into the firing systems. Simone frowned at the heat exchange rate. This stinks; taking twice as long to cool me down as I originally thought. She turned her Lancelot in a lazy circle to get the spray all over her. I guess that’s what happens when you choose armor over cooling.
She had been forced to decide between getting her armor up to snuff or buying another heat sink; Vinh refused to make one available to her on credit; even offering her mech to him as security did nothing. Vinh refused flat out. “You know the rules mechwarrior; anything that goes out my door is paid for in advance. No exceptions--ever.”
“Another mech!” Il Coltelo cursed and stomped his booted feet as the hover tank disappeared under the rubble, “Where did these dirt-farming, inbred swine get two mechs?!” His fury boiled in his veins and turned his vision red. Two mechs and that infernal tank, BLAKE’S BLOOD!
He roared at the men and women around him, his voice crackling with rage, “Get the Crab and the first one of you to bring me a prisoner gets to live!”
The Sentinel pursued Geofries east. Keeping his speed high enough to stay just out of range, he led the pirate into the twisted ruins of an old sports stadium and crouched among the scrap.
The common channel crackled inside his neurohelmet and a raspy, woman’s voice, said “Merc, how much they payin ya? Bet we can double it.”
Geofries, hiding behind the remains of an old wall, put his reticule on the forty tonner and watched it go gold and give an audible lock tone. He smirked and let his SRMs fly. “I don’t know…I’m already paid for.” The missiles corkscrewed across the distance between his Jenner and the pirate. The high-explosive warheads detonated in thick ugly grey clouds against the Sentinel’s frontal armor and sent clouds of slivered metal through the air like wood chips.
“Hey! We was negotiatin!” The pirate hollered as her mech staggered from the missile strikes.
Geofries sprinted left as the Sentinel’s autocannon barked five times in rapid succession. Two rounds slammed into his torso just below his cockpit. Dang, that’s gonna cost at least seven hundred to fix! The damage to his mech didn’t stop him from snickering at his dirty trick though. He opened his mic, “Gotta give me some numbers hon, Can’t just talk about buyin out my contract,” he smiled like the cat eating the canary, “you might be buyin time to set me up for an ambush.”
The pirate mech wobbled on weak legs as its old gyro fought gravity. “What are you getting paid then?” A pair of SRM raced free of her launchers and hammered a pile of ferrocrete and metal bleachers to Geofries’s right.
Instead of letting himself get chased back into the open, the mercenary ran his mech through the cloud of shrapnel and debris and used his jump-jets to cross a piece of the old stadium’s collapsed roof blocking his path.”
“You got workin jets?” The pirate asked rhetorically, “You must be expensive; bet they got you with salvage rights and some other crap they got hid from us.”
Geofries landed with ease and idled his mech over some debris piles until he found the Sentinel cutting a path to where she thought he had landed.
Hah, no sensors!
He put his sights on the mech’s legs and hip socket. “You’re right bout that, hon; they said I could have first crack at salvage on top of a ‘per kill’ bonus.” He fired his SRMs and gasped a sudden burst of heat filled his cockpit like thruster exhaust. Two of his rounds missed wide and shattered a huge block of ferrocrete, reducing it to tiny flying pieces. Two hit home and sent the remaining thin layer of Valiant Lamellor armor the same direction of the ferrocrete fragments. The Sentinel fell like tall timber and raised a giant cloud of dust when it hit. Geofries raced forward. The Sentinel was on its knees trying get back up. He lashed out with one of his armored feet and kicked it over. He switched to his lasers and aimed at its flayed hip. The blue beams turned the grey metal to red-hot slag. Then he raised his foot and held it over the cockpit, “Surrender or I’ll stomp you flat.”
The Sentinel’s reply was to go limp.
Geofries toggled his radio, “Moskell, send some of your guys to the arena; they got a mech to secure.” He laughed as the mechwarrior exited the fallen mech and scurried like a rat into the piles of ferrocrete and reinforcing rod and disappeared from sight. Switching frequencies with a thumb, he said, “Simone, got the Sentinel as salvage; we should be bout done by now.”
Simone fired the large laser in her right arm and ducked back behind cover as answering fire scorched the air apart. “Well, if it weren’t for the Crab trying to carve me apart, I’d be inclined to agree with you.”
Geofries cursed. She could take trucks and tanks easily, but a mech was too much for her without enough heat sinks. His voice was tense, “As soon as the locals get here to secure this thing I’ll come help; it still runs and can’t let them to get it back.”
When her heat gauge dropped back into the low yellow band she stepped out to fire again. The Crab was coming hot and heavy, banking on its size to back her down. “Well, Tiger, don’t trouble yourself; one way or another, this fight’s gonna be over soon.”
Il Coltelo watched the Crab charge forward and smiled like a shark. The mech, he was thinking it was an old Lancelot, looked to be in bad shape. The Crab, however, was his best mech; three working heat sinks and seventy percent accurate targeting system made it very formidable. But it was the one weapon he loathed to use. It’s was one of those things that were invaluable, a thing that could make or break a battle. But he would much rather spend blood to on his prizes, but at the rate he was losing men and equipment, he’d had no other choice. Even the ground teams he’d sent into the city were dying left and right from snipers, improvised mines and ambushes; his Sentinel, that stinking pile of smeg, was Blake only knew where. That Jenner had led it off by its leaking, clunking nose. Just thinking about what this venture was costing him filled him with a shivering rage that sent his limbs to shaking. The fusion plant he’d come for would instead of turning him a fat profit barely cover his equipment losses; profits would come from keeping the shares owed to his dead and the screams every last one of these wretched local scumheads would give out for the next year. He had decided their screams will be part of his payment. He’d stay in Kahmal-Kaskaye until ever last stinking one of them had been reduced to quivering, insane masses of screaming blood. They’d all learn first-hand why he was Il Coltelo: The Knife.
Simone fired often enough to keep the Crab confident it had the upper hand in the engagement. When it got to two hundred meters she gave it pause to think when she stepped out from behind her dirt pile far enough to fire both her large lasers at the same time. The heat struck her in face and turned her cockpit into a furnace. The water being sprayed on her legs by the diligent fire truck crew was keeping her from shutting down, but her retreats to cover were slow and clumsy.
Il Coltelo smashed his fist down onto the hood of his truck. The damned thing had just fired again! And it was two weapons at once! The ruby-red beams cut down both sides of the Crab’s top carapace armor and put something he couldn’t make out to sparking and smoking. He grabbed up the truck radio and screamed into it. “Attack, you baboon! You aren’t in best mech this side of Hades so you could dance about like a Sunday wench; attack it before it kills you!!”
The Crab stopped. Slowly it swiveled to look directly at him, as if it were thinking about attacking him instead of the mech guarding the fusion plant. Il Coltelo bared his teeth and snarled. Then he slapped the woman kneeling next to him. “Grab all the belly-crawling pigs you can find and take them forward. When you get there, destroy whatever it is spraying the water on that damnedable thing and see if that tank is still there.” The woman, a thick, black-haired brute with a burn scar on her cheek stared at him like he was cursing in mandarin. He slapped her again, this time with the back of his hand. “Are you deaf and stuipid?!”
Simone’s Lancelot shined when it was on a big battlefield. Its sensor suite could handle fifty targets at once and prioritize them according to range, loadout and if they were shooting at her. This day, against a mech of equal weight in a stand-up brawl it did not shine one single bit. The fire truck was the only thing keeping the fight going on her end and as the Crab rushed her, she wondered how much longer that was going to be.
The fifty ton Crab came at her full speed, both its large lasers firing. Her heat gauge, an ad-hoc thing taken from a portable welder and wire-tied to her console, showed mid yellows but the taste of burnt insulation in Simone’s mouth said it was higher.
She took one laser hit square in the chest and then follow-up second that sliced the armor around her neckline wide open. She gasped as her entire torso went from green to red and her gyro howled like a banshee as tons of armor flew into the like molten rain. The Crab didn’t slow down. It was going to ram her. Eyeing her heat gauge once more, she bit her lip in worry but then mumbled, “To hell with it.” and fired her PPC.
Her console dimmed and her torso slumped forward as the weapon sent manmade lightning streaking across the gap between them. The Crab stumbled as the PPC’s electrical charge overloaded its systems and sent the mechwarrior driving it into a fit of nausea.
The fire truck, seeing her predicament, raced forward and sprayed water across Simone’s legs to help her dump heat, but the truck’s windshield was suddenly filled with bullet holes and the powerful stream of water turned to a dribble as its crew died in a hail of gunfire.
“Not good, definitely not good.” Simone croaked in the heat. She had one shot left at the most and then the heat would either shut her all the way down or turn her into crater where she stood. With one eye on her compressed view she took two drunken steps to the left and waited to fulfill her contract. She knew Il Coltelo well enough to know there would be no surrendering. There would only be victory or death. She hadn’t told Geofries that, but it was her revenge her husband for being such a money grubber.
The Crab regained its momentum and charged into the protective embankment encircling the old power plant. Without hesitation it angled left and ran straight at Simone. The mercenary gritted her teeth and fired the only weapon she had available.
Nothing. Too hot to fire. I’m really screwed now.
The crash shook Simone to her core. Her mouth was suddenly filled with blood and her vison went to a soft, dark blur and then completely black.
Moskello, his eyes glued to the rangefinder found himself staring into the cockpit of the Crab. As an almost reflexive action, his thumb caressed the firing stud and sent a single PPC blast through the Transpex cockpit screen. Everything behind the screen was burnt to a tiny cinder or melted into runny slag.
“The tank!!” Il Coltello jerked his pistol from its holster and shot the man next to him in the throat. “I said look out for the tank, didn’t I!!” The Crab’s leg bounced in the dirt as a second PPC discharged from somewhere behind the embankment. He looked for the woman he’d sent forward earlier. He wanted to shoot her too. He turned in a circle, but she was nowhere among the retreating dogs that called themselves his crew. Out of anger he shot two more men as the climbed into one of the few ICE trucks still in one piece. Jerking the dead driver from his seat, Il Coltelo started the truck up and sped through the rubble piles and tall weeds for their pick up zone.
The ship would return in two days, but without his mechs to guard him, it was going to be difficult to survive long enough to lift off. He stared disgustedly at his men and then spat in the dirt when the stragglers from the town began arriving and started telling tales of slaughter and a ghostly snipers that could shoot three men in less time that it took **** a pistol.
Il Coltelo pulled at his beard in exasperation. When he came back to this place he was going to do more than get his revenge. He was going to catch them, keep them and make them breed. Then he would take his revenge out on them, their children and their grandchildren. Their suffering would be epic.
In the distance, two shadows lay in a small depression overlooking the pirates’ hasty camp. A little girl with a dirty face and red pony tail stared at them through binoculars. “Three O’clock from the center, seven hundred meters, in the second truck, a man with a beard—his head is visible.”
