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[cmopatrick]

It is hot. Not that desert dry heat that dessicates your eyes on first contact, but the sweltering omnipresence of humidity and jungle-rot that sucks sweat from you mere moments after the dropship's portal thunders open. All coolness within the deck drains as the falling ramps set it free to search for some shadow to hide under. There is no breeze; already, sweat drips down the side of my nose, wends its way through the dust and finally reaches my upper lip, where it hangs for a moment while daring me to remove it.

The first mech in queue tromps by, stirring a bit of dust as the deck plates rattle. Watching it walk leaves an odd appreciation of both those who first applied controlled current to myomer and engineered the balance of these seemingly ungainly apparitions.

The noise of the first has scarcely passed when the Direwolf across the bay from where I stand steps forward... a small earthquake shudders through the girders under my feet, and the huge nose that looks so vulnerable from the cockpit suddenly looks more dominating. Like all the mechs stepping out into the musky afternoon at this Solaris pad, all weapons have their safety covers on; but even with the red streamers dangling from the muzzles they hide, the daunting mass of 100 tons of machinery leaves a touch of doubt that it is less than invincible.

The queue is rigid: first class passengers disembark first, then the sponsored pilots, and finally the steerage rest of us in weight order... I am third from last and still have plenty of time. My current mech, a seemingly nondescript little raven, is actually wedged into a corner between and a bit behind a sponsored Exile summoner and a first class GDL atlas. The paint on the latter is gaudy and taunting, with the face a garish zinc-oxide matching the GDL skull. I sense, rather than see, the atlas rise to position, then have a few short moments to imagine facing one from the civilian's perspective before it too lumbers away.

One of the crew slaps a release lever and the partition wall that blocked off my Rav groans and swings hesitantly away. It looks so small... barely a wisp of a mech in the presence of monsters... the Summoner beside it could eliminate it in one well aimed alpha from the twin CLBX20s that balance menacingly on the arm rails.

"Any time now, pilot." It is the loadsmasher wanting to get on with something more important, anything more important than clearing the restraints on a half-fee light.

Rather than answer, I wade through the sweltering still, knowing that in a few moments I will be comfortable again. The cockpit visor rises on my command and I step from the rickety gantry into the familiar seat of a well known friend.

"Alexis, seal and cool."
"As you wish, sir."
The canopy settles with a smooth gracefulness and I feel the climate controls begin to moderate the heat and mugginess.
"Double pol, please."
"Yes, sir." The windows turn nearly black as the double polarization is energized... shutting off the outside world; then I seat my neurohelm and a visage of it returns again.

"You alive in there? Wait to die till you hit the dirt."
With my power-plant already at full current, all I need is the release of the cargo clamps... yet I sit for a moment, just to delay the loadie from his other interests.
"Release at your discretion, sir."
"'Bout time." I think I hear more but choose to ignore the language as worthy only of the gutter... yet it occurs to me that I no longer mentally define him as a freebirth... rather as the churl he has proven himself to be.

I do not feel the release as I sit, but I am aware that the gyros have taken over balance and Alexis is now depending on me to keep us upright.
"Crouch, please."
"Done, sir."
A solid position taken, I look up to see my neighbor the Summoner stride purposefully away. Still a while before my turn comes... there in line is a Clan Novacat marked Shadowcat. It looks like the B model, with the double flare at the ankle and the more rounded armature; I have looked at it longingly several days now.... the pilot is an energy jumper, but he is canister aloof and I would rather not be thought of as another cauldron born... at least not yet.

The comm crackles and a bored female voice intones, "Raven 39, please stand by for disembarking."
"Alexis, stand please." Thirty-five tons of leggy mech goes upright and I feel the grace the advanced gyros add. The Shadowcat steps into sunshine, onto the ramp... and out of my sight. We steerage are not given the time to make individual exits, a pair of Cougars are already stepping into line.
"Raven 39, follow Cougar 17."
"Aff." It is out before I realize it, but the speaker doesn't care and the comm was linked so no one else heard.

Throttle up, edging the purring engine into movement output and the right leg steps forward. The second Cougar is almost to the door, and I can see one of the KitFoxes that will follow me stepping up. The Raven moves like water across a polished stone, undisturbed and elegant in the tired old dropship's belly. My chair's hydraulics compensate for the stride and I might as well be floating out of the bay portal and into the bright sun... four steps later, I am on Solaris VII itself.

I am here for a reason... but for now, it is best that I am just another tattered merc come here for fame or money or work.

...

Though I have never been here, it seems I know my way through this city of giants. Grand avenues form arteries of mechblood where our machinery has right of way and the citizens and tourists simply watch without fear. The main egress from the spaceport is an impressive 200 meters wide, yet within eyesight there are easily several galaxies worth of mechs. For show or impatience, a Stormcrow sprints past in the outside lane, pushing his myomer to reach somewhere faster. The vast majority of us head calmly to MechSect, the outlying quarter of the city where the pilots and those who wait for us, live off us, or seek to employ us all congregate.

The steady 35 kph gait seems relaxing at first, then monotonous, then boring, then... well it just is. For a time I just focus on the thud of the rav's footfalls: kkrrrrumpp, dzzsh, kkruummmp, dhshh, kkrummpp... on and on for the better part of an hour.

In sight of the flats with the great mech grounds and two of the arenas beyond, I notice a billboard raised to about eye level for the heavies or assaults: "Pilots! Did you know YOUR next FAN could be watching just ahead?! Get the crowd on YOUR SIDE!" Underneath is the marquee of the Solaris Grand, one of the best known of the tourist resorts on the planet. Sure enough, just a kilometer down the broadway is a huge raised grandstand where men, women, and children waved and shouted at the mostly oblivious stream of war machines.

Only an unknown hopeful would grandstand so... hmmm, might fit in... if I am being watched, would it not fit my profile?
"Alexis, canopy up on my mark."
If the computer has ever sounded incredulous, now is the time, "Sir? While we are in motion?"
"Alexis, that was not a request."
"Aff."
I am almost even with the grandstand, and I expect nothing serious at my gesture.
"Alexis, mark."
The graceful curve of the raven's visor rises as if the beak had opened wide. a tempest of muggy oven air assaults my exposed face with the smell of oversweet flowers, a distant bog, and even a hint of detonated gel... the rest of me stays comfortable in the suit. Yet I am in for a huge shock; the entire raggled group gets to its feet and cheers when I wave. Flash-pulses go off rapidly from all over the crowd and in front, two boys drop a banner that proclaims, "RAVENZ RULEZ!"

For a moment I can imagine this going to my head, but the heat is oppressive and I turn back to the business at hand, "canopy down, please."
"Canopy down, sir."
The comm comes to life and a familiar-seeming voice says, "Pilot in blue-n-white Crossed Raven 39, who are you? Your fans want to know!"
It is hard to suppress a chuckle, but I key in and reply, "Patrick, just an old merc out for a little more adventure and maybe a spin at the divisions."
"Well, welcome to Solaris and we'll all watch out for you!"

The remaining kilometers fade without value worth notice, and I begin to wonder if it was such a good idea to announce my presence so, though no one here would likely have ever heard of me, much less have any reason to expect more of me than the average.

The broad gate at the outskirts of MechSect carrys a huge sign announcing: "No weapons off safe!!!", "Mechs of greater weight ALWAYS have the right of way!" and finally, near the bottom, "Persons on foot yield to Mechs!" with the simplified image of a mech footpad above a running person.

Here, traffic becomes more random and precarious. The first businesses visible seem to cater directly to the tired pilots coming in from the spaceport. One establishment has the GDL Atlas already parked and knelt out in front of signs boasting the strongest drinks in the Innersphere. Other places are more like compounds, walled from the casual observation... often with unit emblems and guards to keep the civies out.

To my right I pass Joe's Spare Parts, a seemingly endless wasteland of mech slag and pieces, obviously one of the arena's "clearing houses." the sign out front promises great salvage, but in the rarefied air of mech heavy Solaris, I wondered just how good such would be. Still, this is a landmark I have learned to remember; at the intersection just beyond, I turn my mech down the narrower lane to the left. A couple of pedestrian revelers scamper out of my path, one appearing to shout something at me.

Out of nowhere, a Flea speeds all but under my nose, tripping it's trailing leg on my leading one. Between good braking and advanced gyros, I remain upright, but the Flea... well it must have really been moving, becoming a hapless squid-like missile with those two legs still flailing behind it. It sails a good 80 meters before a first glancing blow on the paving kicks up a shower of debris and sparks. It continues its tortuous sliding until crumpling like an accordion against the lower leg of an old Dragon. I look for just a moment or two, shake my head, and continue to my destination.

Just before the road ends, I make a right onto another backalley; the vids have left me knowing the way quite as if I had been a regular. At the end of the road is a brightly lit compound and an exceptionally large sign with letters glowing even in the afternoon sun. "Lights Haven!" it proclaims, and indeed, the walls look solid and the guard points seem well attended.

As I approach, the comm starts up, "Raven Three Nine-ar, this is LH control, stop and identify yourself."
I throttle back, come to a stop, and key in, "LH control, Rav Three Nine, Patrick. I request terms for quarters"
"Raven Three Nine-ar, please power down your active scan and stand by."
"Alexis, radar off please."
"Done, sir."
The moments seem to drag by... and my mind plays little games with itself.
"Raven Three Nine-ar, please identify current unit affiliation."
"CMO. Otherwise unaligned."
"Hmmm..."
His mic is still keyed and I can make out several voices in the background, but not the words they are speaking...
A different voice echos over their comms from some other control room link.
"CMO's Patrick? Hey, LHC, I vouch for him."
"Yes, sir!" the voice seems a bit distant, but then, "Raven Three Nine-ar, terms as follows: closed hangar, 1 thousand C-bills per night, 25 thousand per month; open bay, 250C per night, 6000 per month; open field 150C per night and 3250C per month. Fuel, ammunition, water, ground-crew, food, and amenities all extra. No weapons discharge off the firing range, on penalty of mech destruction. No duels on LH property. 15% off to winning pilots in the light division who agree to advertise once for the Light Haven."
"Terms accepted, request permission to view hangar and open bay facilities."
"Granted, proceed through the gate and follow the left access-way."
"Thank you, sirs."

The gate rolls slowly open and the expanse of the facility becomes more apparent. Lights of several descriptions along with some rather odd mods stand or crouch in numerous locations about the property, and ravens make up a fair percentage of them. A good hundred meters away is the sunken entrance to a huge bunker complex and at least some number of sheltered mech hangars. I urge the rav down the ramp and into the artificial light... and am pleasantly surprised. Above ground, the structure had appeared maybe a hundred meters deep, but down here it is obviously at least three times that length.

"LH control, Rav Three Nine. Request an open bay for the time being."
"Patrick, LH control. Request confirmed, bay slot 314 assigned. Go to the center isle, turn right, proceed through the second bay to the third, right again, fourth slot on the right."
I almost say "aff" but manage to catch myself. "Thank you, sirs."

...

My Raven has barely settled when I notice her for the first time... working on a gauss' magnet array mounted, of all places, under a KitFox's left wing. She wears nothing to indicate her rank or position, but she carries herself in a way that is familiar. After a few minutes she moves behind the mech and out of sight.

The distraction lasts but a moment more, then the business at hand of settling in comes to the fore.
"Alexis, crouch and secure, please."
"Yes, sir. Will you be considering the minor impact damage that flea left us with?"
"Yes, Alexis, after I take care of other priorities."
"Understood. Will you be gone long, Padraig?"

It is rare that Alexis uses the old Terran form of my name, but once in a while she surprises me... this is one of those times. My artificial intelligence was patterned after and even contributed to by a female sibkin named Alexis. There was no more than respect and camaraderie between the original woman and I, but I have been living with her personality in the ai for many years since. I have had this computer “person” as a constant companion in battle and on the endless patrols in Shadowcats and Ravens, Summoners and MadDogs, even the rare Timberwolf. Now, I imagine I have just heard a bit of emotion in that voice... an emotion that I do not recognize.

I pull the neurohelm off and sit for a moment... listening for something I am not sure of and can not even tell if I would recognize. There is only silence.

"Is something wrong, sir?"
Now there is no emotion is betrayed in that well known voice, and I sheepishly admit to myself that I am just imagining things. "No, Alexis, I will demech now."
"Thank you, sir."
The harness frees itself with accustomed ease. I peel the cooling suit off and don my more comfortable old leather unit jacket. It is an old friend, even though I still note with pain the ghostly places my Wolf rank and unit markings had lain.
"Canopy up please."
"Yes, sir."
I swing wide over the cheek of the raven and drop down onto the raised gantry walkway. "Seal and secure" I say clearly and hear Alexis comply.

The flooring seems a reinforced stone-like plate that appears solid under the mech's weight. This individual hangar itself must have been designed for the narrower and taller lights, with gantry rails and cranes designed closer to the Raven. Across the isle, the hangars have lower roof beams and wider spacing for the more arm-centric mechs. In sight are the KitFox across from me, a Cougar on the left next and a Puma beyond that. To my right the bay seems rather empty except for an old Wolfhound torso and head suspended from a crane at the end of the gallery. Flash and crackle of welding implies the reasons for that disjointed body, but I suspect now is not the time to confirm my guess.

There is no one else in sight when I see her walk out from a small doorway carrying a small bag back to continue her work on the gauss. My brain reasons that I must know her from somewhere but I am sure that it can not be. I am not often confused, much less in doubt of what is needed, but I have both in large amounts right now.

Hmmm... best way to address a question is to ask it. I walk over to where the deep dark of the muzzle points all but at me before she looks up.
"May I help you?"
"Yes, Ma'am, I am Patrick. I am looking for work and a place to rest... well, actually, a shower and rest would be preferred first. Can you point me in the correct direction?"
She tilts her head just a bit as if trying to hear something more in what I said or hear something in her weapon... I am honestly not sure which. Even so, I am certain she has not taken her eyes off of me, it is as if I am being evaluated, considered, maybe even sized up.

"Ma'am?"
"I am Samantha, nice to meet you Patrick." She extends her right hand in a gesture I have known many Inners to use in greeting, and I too extend mine. Without intent or craft, my jacket chooses this moment to slip back along my arm enough that the front lip of my codex is visible... my brain recognizes the situation at her glance down, but it is too late already. She does not hesitate to continue to offer her hand... and suddenly I understand why: she too appears to wear a codex.

We clasp hands for a moment, then she points to the door behind her, "Each hangar has an access-way to the main corridor. Off the main to the left are the MRBC offices and the Arena Recruiters... both should have work. The cantina and pilot's rooms are to the right, but don't let them put you in one of the rooms under the ramp or you will be up all night."
"Thanks, Ma'am."
"Don't be formal here, or they will understand quickly who you are."
I am a bit shocked... she has used a contraction! She is no fool and understands my response.
"Like I said, you are still too close to showing yourself. Pick one common contraction and use it ever so often. It will throw them off a bit."
I think I understand, but she is not done.
"And get yourself a good pair of mechanic's bracers to cover both arms like this," at which she pulls back her sleeve and I note that her codex is all but covered by a leather-faced bracer. "You will also find that the reinforcing ribs in the braces throw off codex scanners."
"Thank you very much, Ma'am."
"Please, Sam."
"Thank you, Sam."
"If you will excuse me now, Patrick..."
"Of course, Ma'am... er, Sam."
"You will get the hang of it soon enough."
I turn and recross the open gallery and find the small door behind my raven.

The tunnel is reasonably well lit and it takes no real time to walk the distance to the main corridor. Until this moment, I have only seen one other person, but now there is noise and bustle, especially in the direction of the cantina. Some kind of music is playing, judging by the volume here it must be quite loud there. In the other direction is the plain MRBC shingle and a gaudy flashing thing that must indicate the location of the Arena recruiter... but for now I just want to be clean and have some sleep laying down. I detect the innkeeper's marking and head towards it.

"Patrick!" echoes through the hall from the open cantina door as I am passing by. I am again sure I know that voice, and turn in to the noisy and somewhat rowdy drinking establishment. At first I don't recognize anyone, but then the unit emblem hits home and I recognize the name and voice... Ranger of the venerable Black Talons. More than once I have sparred with or against him, and had even had the honor to merc with his unit once... and when I think of Raven pilots I have tried to learn the mech from, studying him comes first to mind.
"Been a while, my friend! how have you been?"
Been a while since anyone of the Inner Sphere had called me friend, I feel honored. "Tired and more than a bit busy. now just looking for work and perhaps a chance in the show."

With that, we talk and it is good to feel welcomed to this new place.

...........

I wake from a restless sleep to a strange room of stone. It is smallish, barely more than room for a bed, shower, toilet, and sink, but it is clean and cool. The stone gives off the aura of age and permanence; many others have slept here, many more likely will. Touching it is like reaching back in time, to a place not
forgotten, but never to be seen again.

My brain clears a bit and I realize that it is sounds in the hallway that have aroused me... arguing voices, angry words, and now the sound of a threat. I am on my feet in a moment, and through my door into the hall beyond. Several rather inebriated fellows have cornered an older man and are obviously threatening him... thud, correction, they are assaulting now.
"HOLD!" I do not yell it, but the deep experience of command comes out in tone and control, leaving no doubt in the hearers that I expect obedience. For a moment they all turn, semi-attentive.
I do not give them time to lose focus. "WHAT GOES ON HERE?!" There is no expectation in my voice that I will not be answered immediately and I am not disappointed.
"Dis dumb f*** wash tryn to dishreshpec ush..."
To the old man I order, "you, COME here and EXPLAIN yourself!"
None of the others move, the old man... surrounded as he is... make no effort to change from his current poor position to the uncertainty of my possibly being worse.
"MAKE ROOM for him!"
They are still stunned and I have not given them time to realize that I am not their commanding officer... right now, presence of command in one used to authority has to be enough.
"NOW!!!" I thunder, probably being heard throughout the entire complex. Their sodden brains nonetheless obey and there is an opening...
"YOU! IN THERE!"
The old man reluctantly passes between them and follows my pointing finger into my room.
To the ruffians I say, "I will question and deal with him appropriately. You are DISMISSED!"
Again, I give them no time to think through what has happened, I just turn and reenter my room, slamming (and locking) the portal behind me.

The older man before me has sunk onto the side of my bed, a large bruise on his left cheek swelling his eye half shut. His gear may once have been of the finer make, but now looks all the older for wear. That is not to say he looks shabby, just that he appears to have fallen on a lot of harder times. He is watching me closely, but trying not to show any emotion. There is a sense of balance in his position, when his body was more able to cooperate, I suspect he knew how to handle himself in a fight... even now, I believe that he is capable of being dangerous.

I lean against the cold wall almost opposite him, feeling the chill of the bedrock settle my adrenaline charged system back down. "Care to tell me what that was about?"

Nothing.

"Go get a rag near the sink, wet it, and cool that down," I offer, while squatting down to near eye level; it is not a threatening position, though I still have my hand near my weapon just in case.
He nods and moves to the sink. At a noise from the hall he looks up, face dripping with cold water, then sees I have not moved and returns to his personal attentions. After a few minutes of nothing but the splashing of running water and the occasional stifled groan of discomfort, he returns to the edge of the bed and once again perches on its edge.
"Who are you?" he asks, as if not at all sure that he wants to say anything to anyone right now. "and what is an officer doing in the crew rooms?"

Hmmm, a start...
"Patrick, no longer an officer, just a merc. and these rooms are more reasonable than the overpriced pilot holes, better to use resources wisely."
"Yer right about that." he seems to smile for just a moment, then asks, "which house?"
Now it is my turn to be less than forthcoming, "Does it matter? What if my loyalties now are with the highest bidder offering honorable work?"
He looks me over again, trying to place me.
"Again, I would like to know what that was about. I think I have at least earned that much from you.”
He nods, "Short of it is they are crew to one of the new hotshots in the circuit. Been mouthing off in the cantina since they got in. Book boys, the lot of dem... probably never seen a real firefight, much less been dropped in to field rep damaged front-liners while under fire."
I nod, listening to him and watching for any evidence that he is being less than honest... but none appears.

He stops and looks at me, then continues, "you've been there, haven't you? you don't look the grab-for-lost-youth type or the wannabe, you have 'vet' written all over you."
"Yes, I have been there. Please go on."
"Well, I was talking with a pilot and dey wanted her attention. When she ignored them and kept talking with me, they were angry with me for not moving on. Fast as lightning, she had one of dem by tha throat and was tellin them to 'leave while they could. The pilots at the bar all stood to back her up and these creeps left. Looks like they didn't get it out of their systems, though."
"Hmmm..."
He falls silent, studying my reaction.
"Who are you working for now?"
"Well, no one really. My nephew is one of the managers of Lights Haven, gives me a room down here for free."
"Think you can still find your way around a mech?"
The somewhat insulted look on his face has a bit of a smile to it... "does burnt coolant stink?"
I think carefully about the words I am about to use. He studies me with a bit more interest, and probably misunderstands my thinking.
"I'm not famous or wealthy, but if you can handle a Raven I would be willing to give you a try as chief." The contraction all but stuck in my throat, but I got through it without thinking I betrayed how foreign the term was.
"I'm Tom. Where're ya parked?"
"314."
"Done."

Edited by cmopatrick, 21 October 2012 - 07:02 AM.

[cmopatrick]

By the time I get back to my raven, it is early morning. The grogginess of jump-lag is passing and I am ready to resume a normal routine.

Sitting on a gantry platform is Tom, looking both awake and royally disgusted.
"Did you know that damn thing won't even let me touch it?"
"Good morning to you too, Tom. Yes, Alexis is very protective."
"Alexis?" he grumbles, loudly enough that anyone in the bay can hear it. "not one o' those egits that names deir mech, now are we?"

I walk to where the platform has almost reached ground level, fold my arms across my chest and stand with feet planted, watching him all the way. My displeasure at his remarks must be obvious, he falls silent and watches back.
"Tom, let me be clear. I have been doing things my own way for a long time... if you have a problem with that you may leave. I give respect, but I expect it too."
"Yes, sir." he is still sizing me up, but it is important to start out from a position of strength and I have been here before.

"Alexis, this is Tom. He is on trial as my crewchief. please respect him accordingly."
Her voice comes on over the main loudspeaker, "As you wish, sir."
"Tom, Alexis is my ai. she has been with me since befo... well, for a very long time."
"Ok, whatever you need, boss." I am impressed that he no longer dwells on the issue but gets right to business, "looks like you have some interesting parts on this rig. Armor painted and pinned like ff, but that impact on the right shin shows reflective plate underneath instead."
"Good eye, Tom. I would prefer that you keep anything you see confidential... fair enough?"
"Yup. 'Course that leads to da next question... what else ya got on this?"
"Alexis, access granted to Tom for all but cockpit."
"Done, sir."
"Now, Tom, why don't you tell me?"
It is a challenge, and Tom's face brightens to the task.

It is a joy watching a professional doing a job, there is both curiosity and confidence. Tom does not miss a panel, lube point, or myomer connection. it is as thorough as I would expect of a Wolf CC. I am reminded of my earlier impressions of him, he has no fear of climbing legs or harnessing in to dangle the belly. Each weapon and its case magazine is carefully looked at, and there seems little that escapes him. Finally, he gets down and walks back over to me.
"We need to talk, don't we?" he says in a tone that will not carry beyond my ears.
"Yes. Where is most private here?"
He thinks for a moment, then says, "come with me."

We walk in silence down the bay, past sleeping mechs of many weights. the biggest I see are the Wolfhounds and Cougars, it is rather refreshing after so long in the presence of the big rigs. There is a doorway that leads back into the hillside, then stairs. Up and up, sometimes with switchbacks, sometimes not. ever up, my legs begin to remind me that I do not climb this many stairs normally, but I give no notice of any discomfort. Still more upwards, stone steps with occasional ferro spans over chasms that fade into the darkness of depth. Finally, there is a door and we step out onto a viewing platform. Originally meant to provide spotters with a safe clear view of the firing range, it is high, quite isolated, and now unmanned.

The wind plays with the edges of my beard. It is still humid, but not nearly hot like it was yesterday and no doubt will become again today. the water haze hangs low over the entire metroplex, and only the distant sound of an exploding round distracts from the breezy silence. From the trees just below us, I smell orange blossoms and perhaps orchids, with my eyes closed I could surely imagine this another place and time.

It is a hard learned trick to modulate your voice enough that generic audio trackers can not overhear, but Tom seems quite able to do it well, "let me see if I can get this about right..."

We talk for the better part of the next hours, stopping only when the sun warms the air too much to continue. Occasionally, lights head out to the targets and chase them. Once, I imagine I see an KitFox plugging at a target from what must be full gauss range.

"Well whatever you are actually here for, I s'pect I'll never really know, but at least now I understand enough."
"Good, chief."
He smiles at that one and suddenly salutes; it is one I have seen before... Comguards. He is old enough, I have to wonder if he has ever patched up what I have attempted to destroy...

The stairs back down are like an easy friend, the walls radiate cool freshness and the hot above is rather not missed. we trudge down in silence until Tom suddenly turns.
"Were you there? At Tukayyid?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Wounded at Brzo."
"You're a Wolf, aren't you?"
"Yes, I was."
"Was...," it hangs on his lips like the word is strange to him. He turns and continues down the stairs.

...........

The repetitious sound of the horn and the trite Fisherisms that have followed the blare almost get me to leave.

There is another pilot talking with the Solaris recruiter... I hate to wait, but have done it so many times before. The room is both pretentiously pompous and surreptitiously sparse; lots of appeals to the ego of the pilot and yet a touch of cheapness that implies that the budget has required a few cut corners.

One wall is dominated by the perfect example of this tension: a larger than life sized poster of a male pilot with two barely clad young females fawning on him and a female pilot sitting with two even less clad muscular males behind her. The caption across the feet reads, "Its YOUR turn... what are YOU waiting for?" but the trained eye sees that the poster has been in place for years, edges where chairs have probably rubbed it are worn through and the once clear tones are a bit distorted towards blue as the warmer hues have begun to fade with too many years passage.

The recruiter sounds a lot more like a used mech salesman... changing the topic away from nagging questions, overrunning the kid who is currently trying to decide for himself that he is ready for the arena. On another day in another place I would have invited the recruiter outside for a one-on-one, but today I can not be bothered to intervene.

BBAAAPPPPPPP! the horn sounds again, seeming especially loud. I can feel a bit of a headache coming on and am sorely tempted to blast the speakers from their mounts high on the walls. Oddly enough, the horn fell at some significant moment for the youngster; he suddenly jumps up and flees ashen-faced into the corridor beyond.

The recruiter, also a younger fellow, stares rather angrily at the now empty doorway with a look that is at least disgust. The mask returns and he faces me with that predatory smile.

Might as well set the tone right before he starts. "if you start talking to me like you just did that kid, I will kill you where you sit," I say while standing, my hand resting lightly on the holstered weapon.
Now it is the salesman's turn... color drains from his face as he assesses me.
"Turn that noise down," I continue, pointing up at the speakers, "I know what I am here for and you don't need me getting a headache, now do you?"

The advertisement miraculously loses 90% of its volume and I can't help but smile, at which the recruiter regains a bit of composure.
"I understand you have off season matches in several divisions right now."
Now he positively brightens and begins, "well yes, glad you asked! right now you too can join th..."
"YES or NO?!"
Poor kid seems a bit taken aback, to say the least; must have been a while since he last had someone opposite him knowing why they are here.
"Look, I do NOT want a sales pitch," I say. Leaning forward with my hands on his desktop and my eyes never leaving his, my voice drops to that deadly tone, "Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, sir." To say the answer is meek does not do it justice... perhaps "cowed" fits better.

"Do you have anything coming up in the light or medium divisions?"
"Yes, sir. a morning slot in the light division over at the Parkhenge Amphitheatre."
"Any fees for off-season?"
"No, sir."
"Good. I'll take the slot."
"May I have your handprint?"
I firmly press my right hand, fingers splayed to approximate the screen's outline, onto the scanner surface. He inserts a card into his desktop interface while the thin blue light dances around my fingers.
"Patrick?" there is a sense of surprise.
"Yes..."
"Yes, sir. seems you are already registered in four divisions for offseason: light, medium, open, and circus maximus. I see your sponsor desires to remain anonymous, but you are completely cleared."
"And the morning match?"
He presses several points on his pad, then, "you are now scheduled. please be in a powered up light ready to enter the Parkhenge mech accessway at 0730 local. No weapons or other equipment restrictions."

"Thank you."
"And sir..."
"Yes?"
"There is a note here from Mr. Fisher thanking you for encouraging the crowd yesterday. It appears that while he was doing his weekly spot at the Solaris Grand, you did something that boosted light match preorders... a large percentage of which were dependant on your participation."
Interesting.
"Thank you. Good day." With that I turn and walk back into the corridor.

...

The sim for the morning outing leaves me rather burnt out by mid afternoon.

I honestly know that my chances in the morning are slim; a solo free-for-all against a strong lineup of experienced pilots would not be very encouraging under the best of circumstances, but I am going out in a light rig I prefer to run as a scout or harasser. To be perfectly honest, my concern for the day is not so much that I won't win, but that my ejection pod may not be up to likely task of getting me clear of the damage...

I know the rig I am taking in the morning... it isn't that. It is more a matter that the lack of intel on which weapons or the mechs that are really appropriate for my style. Perhaps that is the reason for the ride I sit in now. I have a lot of time in the chassis, but while Tom insists that this one is ready, I am none the less hesitant.

I can not confirm yet even whom my benefactor is... my unknown sponsor. There has been little solid info, my orders were both specific and vague... come, compete, contact, wait. It does not need to make sense to me... the strangeness of the chess game does not need to be understood by the knight moved carefully across the board.

The seat itself is uncomfortable, but Alexis is here now, at least I am not entirely alone. I recognize that I should not have been surprised to find Tom in the possession of another mech on my return to the main hangar. I am to pilot a
sacrificial mech, donated without indication of source... at least the provision appears capable of doing serious damage, perhaps I will take a name or two with me. Hunter-seeker... I do it so well when I am in my own, but perhaps that is the point of my having been sent with my recon. now I have access to some of the most powerful weapons available, but I can not imagine the point of my running this rig. I am not here for glory, but I am by my ballistics best know.

The one character I know from the arena list for tomorrow is an old sparring partner named Xiomburg. He used to run an energetic harrasser, and was a great pilot to wing with... even so...who are the other 14? Is there a strategy worthy of my introduction to the crowd? Does it matter?

What price the mech? I look down the control face at the shell that will need to protect me in the morning. This is not a spar, the pilots I face will have no problem taking the headshot. Am I still good enough? My gloved right hand takes the firecontrol and in a moment I understand nothing but that I am a pilot. This is a trial. I know not the position I fight for, but I have my orders and will not fail. The only defeat is fear... and I know how to beat that.

Deep down I let my blood begin to boil. If I am not to live, I will die in the best tradition... I am Wolf and will fight as if there were no chance of return short of victory...

........

There is a certain crispness in the morning, before the first dawn, when even the jungle can seem cool and inviting. today is no different, the KitFox I will pilot is marked and ready for me, last minute adjustments made, ready to step out of the light hangar and head for the arena called ParkHenge.

"Alexis, status please?"
"All systems are clear and green. The flow on the cooling suit seems a bit sluggish, but the interfaces are dry and I show you have a complete link with the gyros."
"Aff. Thank you, mam."
Tom comes on the intercom, "Good to go, boss. Blake's speed today!"
"Thankyou, chief."
We give our respective salutes through the cockpit's view and he backs crisply away... if I didn't know better, I would have to say he seems a lot younger today than he did just yesterday. Hmmm, I feel better to be back in the seat again myself, guess it is just a matter of giving a man his chosen purpose, and then letting him be himself.

"Alexis, stand please."
"Aff, sir."
Across the bay is an otherwise empty hangar, to the left of that I can just make out the nose and right arm weapon muzzle of Samantha's KitFox... at this moment, though, I see her standing there by the door. She is quite still and I would not have seen her if I had been in a hurry; she is just watching, not doing anything... no movement at all... just watching.

"LH control, KitFox... er... Uller 70 in 312 ready for arena departure."
"Um... yea, Ok..." There are sounds like I am interrupting someone's breakfast, "Opening arena causeway. Turn left to main corridor, then right, through bays four and five, and on into the open causeway on your right. Oh yea, good luck"
"Uller 70 departing. Thank you."

The little xl begins to purr as I push the throttle and step clear of the hangar.
She is still standing there, now with Tom standing almost beside her... both are watching, both are still.
I swing the stick left and turn into the gallery. As I pass my Raven I feel a bit odd, almost as if I watch myself sitting there... but the double pol blackness protects an empty cockpit, and I continue.

...

The causeway appears to have been built for just such purposes, a sunken avenue just for pilots headed to one of the many arenas. there are other accessways and in the near distance there is daylight. I turn on the radar after I clear LightsHaven and notice that several others headed the same direction are already on the sensors. Out front is SandmanPro and somewhat closer is Xiomburg. We appear to be moving at similar paces and I feel no urge to catch up with either. The tension in my system is pushing my reflexes into proper form, now if I can only get the mech to follow my lead when I want it to.

Three kilometers out from LightsHaven, the causeway clears the tunnel portion and begins to run under the brightening morning sky. The pale blue of humid air floats just above the closest landmarks, seeming to reach even into the cockpit to recolor neutral controls with a faint coolness. Now, the causeway opens out a bit and I pass the first sign of distruction... a pile of rubble that might have been a Cougar passes me going the other direction. I do note that there is an eject pod on the back of the trailer... it reduces the appearance of finality in the otherwise useless slag heap.

...

I eye the other mechs as we line up to enter the arena. There are a pair of Wolfhounds that appear to be energy boats and I hope my choice to spend the tonnage to go reflective will help me. there is a Flea, and I start to feel
concerned that the lock time on the ATM will be too slow... second guessing myself already...

Here is a Raven, next to that a Cougar, and there are even Urbanmechs in the lineup.

Xiomburg and I exchange welcome and recognition... but we are both focused and after a brief conversation return to our final checks. Likewise, I have a short chance to interact with Edek, but we are mostly about the business of getting ready to destroy each other.

The heavy medium lasers capacitors appear to be holding a charge well. This will be my first outing with a heavy class laser. Odd name that, almost the power and range of an erll but at one quarter the weight. Without BAP, the ATM's will take a long time to lock on, but they can still be dumb fired... perhaps effectively.

The referee indicates the frequency for the start message and also gives us the channel for Duncan Fisher's broadcast of the match. After a moment thinking about it, I decide to forgo the SBC channel and replace it with music.
"Alexis, I am in a quirky mood... Terran Celt, please."
"Any particular group, sir?"
"Hmmm..." Well, I need something with spirit, but not something that will overdrive me or distract from the business at hand. "Paddy and the Shee should do nicely, Mam."
"As you wish, sir."

The thick beat of the base suits perfectly and I am aware that I am no longer thinking about the match, the controls, anything but the unique way that I and my mech are connected into one large symbiotic war machine... waiting for the all clear.

...

There are three down and I am annoyed... none of the kills is mine. The ATM's without BAP are useless, my more normal Clan Streaks would have been a much better choice. There is nothing that I can do to get a lock on anything faster than the Urbies, and even they are doing well evading me. I pop the radar on and am about to chase the speedy flea when I notice a solo mech in the distance; dancing around the closest obstruction, I see it is Xiomburg and that he has just killed another mech. Already damaged myhself, I will not last long in the fray; better to go one-on-one against a deadly opponent than to keep getting blindsided without the armor to spare. I weave through obstacles taking care to note if I am drawing any pursuit. When none materializes, I know I have my best chance now. Xiomburg, however, also sees me... his welcome is fast and furious, searing into the reflective plate with concentrated laser fire. My heavy answers, but the atms follow their own head and miss by an easy mechlength.

TSHHHHHHHHHHHSHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Just below the cockpit, roiling smoke erupts as the lasers cut a meter wide slash and hit a secondary hydraulic subsystem. I reverse direction and catch the Wolfie speeding into me. The atms hit him square, but he is already turning and the damage spreads. I am in good range, but make the foolish mistake of loosing track of an obstacle wall... the bump fouls my shot... the HML vaporises brick instead of mech.

TshhhhsKRrumpBOOOMMMM!!!
First weapon lost... the left arm blows completely away as penetrating lasers stab into the volatile HML guidance pneudralics and hydrogen combines violently with oxygen to make steam. I am getting nowhere trying to slow him down and now have to get 6 second locks on him to do anything. I do get off another shot before...
"Critical hit, sir."
"AhhhhHHHHHHH!" my frustration begins to express itself. I turn and dodge, watching his every move on sensors, but while I get clean shots, I have nothing to shoot the fastmoving wolfhound with except essentially dumbfire missiles... and I miss. Repeatedly. Maddeningly.

I hear the ATM racks finish reloading just before...
TSSHHHHBOOOOOMMMMMMMTHMPPPPPBOOOOMMMMMMMM!
One atm6 and then it's case store of missiles explode and 30 tons of mech bucks at the shock while pieces of side torso and shattered weaponry fly flaming past my view to embed in the now trampled grass.

"Clear pod safety and set auto sequence to the shortest possible..."

...

The medic looks down at me and says, "He'll live," with that blunt matter-of-fact tone that leaves no doubt that I have simply succumbed to the gforce of an eject. My right side is sore, but I am otherwise not aware of any real pain.

I sit up and realize that there are several other pilots here in various states of awareness, depending on their injuries. The board posting shows that Xiomburg did indeed go on to win the match; I would have to choose to pick on him I think wryly to myself. I placed fifth, in the exact middle of the nine rigs that had started the morning. My KitFox has not faired quite so well, current salvage value was estimated at just over 23 thousand c-bills... in other words, scrap only. Xiomburg had well earned the day's purse and I both respect his skill and appreciate his tactics. never the less, lessons were learned and I have a better idea of how to approach the coming matches and season... and I have not disgraced myself. I was not the victor, but perhaps next time...

.........

The headache this morning is massive. it centers on the back of my neck and just radiates up and over the rest of my skull... seems to center on my old wound, perhaps the jarring of pod crashing into earth yesterday was enough to reawaken that physical nightmare. The whole of my neck is tight as an energized bundle of myomer and seems to pull just as fervently... especially on the right side.

Tom looks at me with a bit of puzzlement, and I realize through the thudding torture that he has just asked me a question... on days like this I just want to sit in a shadow and sleep... but I will have neither now.
Not knowing even what the question was, I try to avoid the fact and say, "Hmmmm... let me think about it."
"Think about what? I just asked if you had had breakfast today."
Er... well that did not go quite as planned....
"Define breakfast, chief."
"You know, eat food... morning... together they make breakfast?"
His retort is appropriate; I don't want to admit that I am in serious pain and he is not givng me any slack over my distraction.
"Sorry, Tom, got a lot on my mind."
"Have anything to do with this," he asks and hands me a smallish note on plain paper.

The flowing lettering is almost hard to read, but the simplicity is unmistakable. "name your mech for the next match" is all there is, but there is not even a hint of who is to receive that information or where I am to answer...
"Where did you find this?"
"Right foreleg of your Raven this morning."
"What do you think?"
"Well, I didn't see how you actually fared yesterday and Duncan is not exactly the best person for a blow-by-blow explanation."
"Yea, well, I actually think the KitFox did well, the loadout is what killed me. I want to hold off on some of my options until the season starts, but with a good loadout, another one would probably do."
"So, who do I tell?"
"I honestly don't know right now, chief."

And there is the crux of the matter. someone else knows all about me, but I have nothing on him or her. thinking about it does not lessen the agony of the mad drummer at the base of my skull, but it will not dominate me. So who is "anonomous sponsor?" Were there any clues in yesterday's mech loadout?

As if to distract me from one uncertainty to another, I am a bit startled by a voice behind me...
"Sounded like you couldn't get a lock."
it is Samantha, arriving with a silent feline grace that I usually associate with deadly predators.
"Nope, maybe five times in the whole match, all against the Urbies."
"You might try a different loadout..." her words hang in the air and part of me just wants to respond from the pain and show that I know just how pathetic my outing was; but another part of me wants to wait, and it is this that I heed.
"Any suggestions?"
She looks at me with almost no expression... almost, I say, because she has done that slight tilt of the head that leaves me a bit less than sure of what she is thinking.
Tom pipes up, "Streaks."
She asks calmly, "what do you normally load out?'
"In a light?"
"Yes."
"For most roles, either high scout value or PITA weapons and electronics... but I am not used to facing a boil of lights where there is no star to flow. This 'every pilot for him or her self' has me a bit off balance on my thinking. What do you recommend?"
Before she answers, Tom interjects, "I still need some breakfast... back in a few." He turns and walks away down the gallery.

"Good man, but he sometimes misses the obvious," she says.
The insight hits suddenly and I recognize something, "that or he actually sees it
and chooses to let it be."
"In pain, aren't you?" it is less a question and more a statement.
"Yes."
"Obvious."
"I think it is to him too..." My appreciation of Tom grows a notch, he was going to let me be as I wanted and simply work with what I chose to share.

Edited by cmopatrick, 23 October 2012 - 01:52 PM.

[Joe3142]

I read the title as "The Cheeseboard" and got excited

[cmopatrick]

I spend the morning working off the frustration and avoiding my massive headache. It is still around, that quiet rock-crusher that hides in the base of your skull and the muscles of your neck, waiting sullenly for you to turn your head just so or twitch at just the wrong moment. This one is spawned from the old wound site that is my only trophy from Borealtown.

I look down at the simulator where I have just finished another pass at the course I will be running in my next match; this is something called the Circus Maximus division and the arena called "Eightway" is in the southern desert some 600 or so kilometers from here. Dropships are to leave tomorrow afternoon for the match the next morning. Seems a bit odd and out of the way, a raw figure eight in the baren desert, but it is a favorite with the crowds, and I am going to run in it.

The thudding of the maniacal drummer at the back of my head is dampened for now, I have applied some medications and am quite a bit relieved, though this kind of raw torture never really goes away... it just lurks, waiting like a powered down street-sweeper for the hapless to venture too near.

The bay has been empty for quite a while, but now there is a pilot walking towards my raven. I would swear by his walk that I know him, and his closer approach proves me quite correct. Laughing, I order, "Alexis, open the cockpit, please."
"Yes, sir!" she too has recognized the pilot from a quick scan and database review.
I crawl out on the lower beak and jump down onto the foreleg, then the paving.
"I herd yew wer' en towne," he says, matter-of-factly through a thick Welsh brogue that reflects his continuing heritage from Terra itself.
"Gladiator! Duude, good to see ya!" I laugh back and we greet warmly as only those who have fought side by side really can.
"Hhowz theengs been mate? Been ah long tiime."
"Getting pounded as usual, how about you, sir?"
"Aye, herd yewrr name and had to check out the SBC broadcast... we had et aahn en the 'Coop main bay. Was a bit worried I should see yew afore yew got all shot up."

His grin at this last jab is so friendly that I can take no offense. Gladiator Chiken, one of my lance leaders when I merced with the Chiken Confederation and a comrade in arms back when BIR merced in the rebellious hotbed SLAM sector of the Periphery. Times then were hard, but the company pretty good. We talk for a while about all that has happened to their unit since I returned to Clanspace last cycle. Finally, at a bit more sound behind me, we both sense that we need to get on with other matters of our day and the conversation winds down.

"So, how is Peeker?"
"Restless an aht tiems worrisome, but steel en good form. But don taek mah werd ferr it, yew need tah drahp byee and speek to the scot yewrrself. ahll the lahds wood love tah see yew..."
I nod and admit, "Aff, I would like to see the lot of them too, we'll see. How long are you planetside?"
"Don'tt really nouw, ah feew daies aht leest."
"Aff, I will try to make it, my friend. Say hello to all for me."
"Wehll doo, buht yew need tah drup buy yewrrself."
"I will try," I say as we shake hands in the old Terran fashion he prefers before he heads back down the bay to the main isle and back out of sight.

The bay returns to relative quiet... I turn towards the noises I keep hearing behind me; as I spin on my heel, something in the corner of my eye seems to see movement in Sam's hangar, but I see no one and look on down the gallery to where the once disembodied Wolfhound is standing partly clear of it's hangar with a pair of crewmen on a rolling stand franticly working on one of the knees. They are using an air wrench in a manner that can only imply serious problems, but they make no indication that they want or need help, and I leave them to the single-minded focus and tyrannical urgency of their task.

I walk back to the Raven and stand in the chill air, breathing the smells of humidity over cold stone. As if to accentuate the cool, my senses trigger a chill that streaks up my back and fans the headache back into my attention. But the sense brings something more... a certainty that I am being watched. I am suddenly keyed and ready to respond, but to whom... where? I hear nothing else and spin to take on the unseen... but there is nothing and no one. Or is there? I am not looking directly at it, but think the forward "windscreen" on the KitFox has suddenly gone double pol. Someone is in Sam's KitFox... and must have been there for a while. For an unknown reason, I have a serious need to leave the hangar... NOW!

I clamber back into the Rav and order, "Alexis seal and double pol. bring the engine online."
"Aff, Patrick. Problems quaff?"
"Yes, not sure what, but we need to go part hunting anyway, just you and me."
I would swear that there is a smile in her voice when she answers, "as you wish, sir."
The Raven begins to purr as only a nimble runner can, and we leave Lights Haven in short order.

...

The streets have a goodly number of mechs and people, most of whom have real business in mechsect. I am, however, occasionally aware that here on Solaris Mechs are the center of most attention. Sure, there are places like "Billy Bob's Lizard Fighting Emporium" and "Thor's Shieldhall" that have to be catering to a wider clientèle, but even these identify themselves by using the mech's place of importance as a contrast or an attraction.

But as I slow for a trio of Dire Wolves, I see the ultimate indication of the nature of this place. The lumbering rumble that once must have sent fear into warriors hearts and foretold the doom of many, now serves the tour-guide. Perched in the place of a cockpit and upper torso, each obscenely carries a human container most resembling a tour bus. Further adding insult to injury, the arm rails mount not weapons, but fabrication that might be best referred to as children's rooms, with sub-teen youth playing, jumping and waving madly. Worst of all, I can see the Red Wolf of the Clan, and unit markings that remind me of pilots I met before the landing on Tukayyid. Part of me wants to open fire on these travesties to honor those who most likely died piloting these mechs, but sense gets the forehand and I simply sit on my weapon hand and chew on my lip while they pass.


...

Well, the afternoon is steamy. A brief thunderstorm boiled across the landscape, dumping a lake worth of water on the sweltering streets and transforming mere muggy into sauna. For a while the sky had grown so dark that the great arena lights came on and joined the brilliant electrical fingers that kept reaching between cloud and planet as the only major illumination. The clouds are now all but gone, racing on across Solaris to find the next patch of semi-dry soil, and the afternoon sun happily illuminates the steamy skyline.

I have a few of the things I want but not everything. Some of the gear here is fantastic, but so are the matching prices. Other locations offer arena material that has all the evidence of having been in said arenas a few too many times. Well, I was referred to this one, perhaps it will be reasonable... though the prime location and better than average outer appearance leaves me a bit skeptical.

ClanTech, Ltd., sits on lot that is probably several thousand square meters, with the front parking for non-legged vehicles. I do find it a bit humorous that the mech lots are segregated into Clan and IS, with the latter "around back." The numerous lorries parked in the lot out front and the regular running of loaders carrying various heavy gear gives me a feeling that at least I will be able to find what I want.

...

I am a bit disappointed on my stroll through the store. After the "leave me be" look I gave the first eager salesman who ran up, they have held back, though I know they hawkishly follow my every move and note all that I look at. My headache has finally overpowered my medicine and I am now somewhere between cranky and hair-trigger dangerous.

It is not until I stop and examine a "new" ten weight Clan ultra autocannon that an older man ventures up to me.
"That's a good unit. You in the market?"
The bore looks clean and all the loading and case eject mechanisms move with an appropriate amount of fluidity. Still, there are slight discrepancies that the appellation "new" should not have, especially on a unit from the Ghost Bear assembly plant that it is painted as.
"I'm charles, floor manager here. you look like someone who could appreciate this beauty."
"How much?"
"Its fresh from Clanspace and can clea..."
"HOW much?!" I interrupt, my temper a bit closer to being lost.
I see a pair of burly attendants at the counter start moving our way... nothing overt, but I do not miss it. At the same time, many of the current patrons also look our way, with at least some passing interest.

Charles gets a pseudo-serious look, seems to think for a moment, the pronounces, "650,000 c-bills."
"You have got to be kidding me."
"Hah! you have any clue what these cost in clanspace?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do," I reply, folding my arms across my chest and making sure the leather sleeve slides back far enough that the codex and it's red Wolf are unmistakable.
He does not miss the armband, nor its significance, but now makes the error of continuing the pretense of selling new merchandise.
"You must think I can ship this all the way from the Ghost Bear..."
"STOP!!!" I roar, my headache and my frustration teaming up to push me beyond the point of enduring this liar.
His lip starts to curl and my blood begins to boil, then I notice again the gathered who watch...
"This weapon is new, right?"
"Of course..." he begins but I do not leave him to it.
My voice rises to carry the patron's ears, "so why does a clan Ghost Bear made CUAC10 have a Jade Falcon serial number?"
His face drains of color.
"Why is the titanial shell pocked with indentation the way one would expect if it were an outboard weapon in an arm mount damaged or destroyed by an lbx discharge?
He glances around and knows that the shoppers are starting to hang on my words.
I now point at the hardware with a motion that carries not only his eyes but those of the rest, "why are the omni mounting rails not standard Clan forged, but Inner Sphere fabricated from an alloy different from the mounts?"
A taller man to one side exclaims, "yeh, charlie, whasup wid dat?"
"Just look at the actual connections, why were they adapted for use in Inner Sphere ballistic mounts if this is straight from clan space?"

"Hey pilot, take a look at this erll, is it 'new' too?"
I start to turn towards the voice and feel a hand grab my sleeve. Charlie looks angry and rather determined... but he has made a crucial error and my reflexes are blood tuned... he loses his grip, then feels my hand slap him like the stravag cur he is.
"Hold Clanner!"
The new voice comes from the counter and a middle aged woman steps forward. "Charles, take a break." When he does not obey, she orders, "MOVE!"
He does indeed head for the back and she approaches with a mix of confidence and deference that would indicate a respect the salesman had not embodied.

"I am Tamra Jorgensson."
She does wear a Ghost Bear codex, but right now appearances mean nothing.
"I expect that you are ready for a fight, pilot."
My look is cold stone, but that in and of itself tells her what she needs.
"If it will serve honor, you may challenge for possession... but make no mistake, I will be your opponent and I too am blooded."
"Your servant lied to me. Would you ask that I let that go?"
"Let us say you have won a trial of knowledge and may now claim a ransom."

This is a bizarre twist to the concept of trial, but trust a Ghost Bear to find a way to protect one they are responsible for.
"I want a reasonable rate on gear I need, and I do not want to deal with your sales persons."
She seems pleasantly surprised at this and counters as if negotiating a cutdown, "I will give you half off anything, but you must deal with one sales person of my choosing."
"Half off equipment I want that I can reasonably show is used and I deal with you."
"Agreed."
"Done."

...

There are a few things on my list and I talk with her for a while. She invites me to her office and then, rather unexpectedly says, "you are a thinker, I did not think there were any left of Wolf who did so."
She must see that I am not wearing the insignia of Wolf on my leather jacket, she may even note that I have places where it is obviously missing what once rested there.
"You must not be surprised, I did not recognize you at first, but there are those who have been advised of your name and are watching. I am one."
My face remains impassive... no, on the other hand, it is only impassive from the perspective of the free born.
She notes the response by continuing, "you must also be careful, there are those who know you are here who may not share your Khan's interests..."
I am not surprised that I am being watched, but my link to the Khan is not common knowledge.
"And you are telling me this why?"
"Would you understand if I said, 'we are pieces on the chess board... the knight does not need to know why he is moved' or if I say I do not know why I am here either?"
Pieces on the board. I have indeed heard that before... from Khan Vlad himself.
Something strikes me as odd, "I thought Ghost Bear prided itself on everyone knowing their role and participating in the decision. It seems a bit odd that a Bloodname sits in a parts store."
"You mean just as an independent Wolf officer who would never submit to leaving the service of his Khan becoming a "dishonored" roving mercenary... who occasionally is quietly welcomed deep into Wolf space as if he were not the dezgra merc some believe him to be?"

Touche.

"You must be careful. others knew someone like you was coming... they have been asking questions through insignificant voices, but they now know your name and should not be underestimated. This game we are moved about in pits us against foes who are likewise moved."
"So, do you know who my sponsor is?"
"No, but there are many players or those who want to be who might sponsor for other than expected reasons. Be careful whom you trust. Nothing may be the way it seems."
She turns towards the window at the back of the room and surreptitiously tosses a datachip in my direction...
"Consider it a gift for your companion."
"Excuse me?"
She turns back and mouths the name, "Alexis."

...

There is a certain rhythm to a moving mech. the regular thmpppp thmmmppp of footfalls, the pneudraulicly dampened swaying while sitting in the command chair, the perpetual hum of the powerplant, the constant throaty but muted roar of the cooling fans, even the little sounds of radar and other scanners... all make this a world of experience that becomes a cradle seemingly rocking on a peaceful sea.

I have elected to take a new Scat for a run... six hundred and eighty-one kilometers worth... and approach my next match with a bit more familiarity than a simple suborbital jump and some target time might give. Reports at the MRBC office were that there had been some mech-sized banditry a bit east of the arena city of Samplac. I have most of a day to kill, perhaps I can have some fun while I am at it. I have no doubt that the sats can track me here, but anyone else not in a stealth aerodyne will not be able to get close without my knowing it.

Things have been happening in ways that make me uneasy and I need to have some time to breathe... to think through everything that has happened since planetfall. The questions are many, and I have no answers save that I am indeed here and have fought a single battle. Even this mech is something of a surprise, but it is well equipped and at least this time I know the provider... Tamra Jorgensson. It is not a loaner; my account mysteriously got a transfer for more than enough some time before the price was quoted.

I remember her statement that I should trust no one and wonder if that includes her...

There are others in play as well that I know little of, with Samantha and Tom being at the top of the list.

Tom's wound the night I met him was real enough, but not more than a bruise I would expect to take if it furthered my mission. Yet his contrast of cranky honesty and grudging but apparently real respect does not seem to fit the model I have of someone I need to fear... of course, that could be his plan or his orders. Can I ever really trust a man who may have repaired mechs under fire that I may have damaged? Did he too lose friends at Brzo? The violence there was incredible, we were relentless and hegira was not offered to any. It also occurs to me that the odds of an unemployed Comstar veteran from Brzo with obvious master crewchief experience happening to be in the hallway near my door the first night I was on planet (and would soon need a good crewchief) are rather significantly hard to accept.

What about Samantha? I still would swear that I know her... her mannerisms, her face, even that cute little tilt of her head... but do I really know her or is it repressed hormones trying to wear me down or convince me that I am attracted to her as a male interested in her as a breeding partner?

At this thought, there is an open conflict within me... yes, she is physically attractive and I am... well... attracted. Nevertheless, I am committed to the way of the sibko; I want my giftake and not physical exertion satisfying sexual desire to be my legacy...
Anger, lingering on the edge of my mind since yesterday comes forward to toy with me for a while, "I will not sire a FREEBIRTH!"
It takes Alexis' voice to bring me back to my chair and the swaying mech. "Neg, sir, you will not do so."

Alexis' face, so long forgotten, flashes through my mind. Deep down, I have to admit that I liked her.
"What do you remember of Alexis?"
"She too liked you."
I am a bit stunned, my computer knows me by scans and artificial intelligence, but carries more than a simple set of heuristics... now I find that I am actually comfortable with the understanding that she can almost read my mind by the years of experience we have together.

"What about Sam?"
"I don't know, sir. She flirts terribly much with you, but seems to watch your every move when you are not aware." Scans show an elevated temperature when she is interacting in close proximity with you, but there is something inconsistent..."
"Do you trust her?"
"No, sir. In all honesty, however, that might just be defensiveness."
"Not sure I understand your meaning, mam."
"It is logical that I may see her as a threat to you and your mission... not as an enemy, but as an unexpected complication. The kind of challenge to your loyalties that would have you suddenly concerned that you might mate with her."
"Aff, mam. quite well put."
For a moment I think about her eyes, the shape of her mouth... suddenly, in the back of my mind I see the shadow of another face, almost Samantha's face, but I am younger... I do not remember where I am or who it is, but there is now a sense of something ominous that I have missed...
"ECM and Beagle on."
"Aff, sir. Problem, quiaff?"
"Aff..."

For the first time this morning, I take the combat controls. "Alexis, clear and arm all weapons."
I hear the missile pod covers doing their swish-clank and the first rack of warheads loading into place. There is the reassuring electrical hum as the lasers begin to warm and charge the capacitors.

Now I swing the mech south, clear of the road and into the open countryside. To the southeast, the road continues on to the target, but there seem hidden reasons to doubt what lies ahead and what may be behind.
"Alexis, can I get a satcom uplink?"
"Yes, sir. there is a securable available."
"Overhead?"
"Neg, best location from here is 80k WSW."

I swing the mech around and pick the pace up to near top speed. There is no hard reason to change my plans, but I sense something is very wrong. Dust behind me is the next thing I notice and I look for cover. North of my position about seven or eight kilometers out, trees seem to parallel my path and I turn for the cover and push up into MASC. The sprinting mech covers the ground quickly, but is it quickly enough? Who do I sense? Am I being hunted, or is it just an overactive imagination sure of a mob of hell's horses stampeding towards the closet door?

There it is, just above the roadway, five klicks east... a distant flash of sun off metal. It could just be someone else on or following the road, or even a trick of the eye from something even further off. The trees are almost to me when I note two more flashes... not together... they are more constant, but they are slowing...

I throttle back and deftly sidestep the bore of a huge leafy teak and am into the jungle's outskirts. To my surprise, there is a small river flowing eastward through the tangle. I weave my way cautiously through the arboreal giants, stepping with greatest caution over their fallen brethren, cross the bank and am quickly knee-deep into the creek. Overhead, the branches knit together to create a dense canopy and shade reaches out at least a dozen meters over the water surface. Here, they might see me with a chopper or aerodyne, but the satellites will be blind if I can control my heat.

Who hunts? Who knew my route? Does that knowledge matter when my every move may be watched?

At first I swing to the west... but then I wonder... they might reason from sat detail that I only turned south because I detected them. Perhaps they will expect me to reach the creek and then continue west. The hunter in me likes the idea of reversing the roles... stalking them... and I turn the mech east and begin to walk.

Ripples run ahead of my legs as the machine carefully places each footpad on the invisible creek bottom. My senses become those of the Wolf, heightened and comprehensive. An odd creature unexpectedly swings out on one of the branches just about eye level, oblivious of me until moments before I would otherwise have walked into it, then turns, shrieks, and madly clambers away through the vegetation. It is at this moment...
"CTC. Three or four airborne, south of our position moving slowly west, average thousand out. They are acting like choppers, but not sending any ids."
"Bait, quiaff?"
"That or very confident."
It is a reasonable statement. I continue east, hugging the shoreline and the overhanging vegetation.

The trees are beginning to thin just a bit and I realize that in about a kilometer they will disappear entirely into a fetid fen... the bog does not look like a good place to pick a fight.
"Ground contact. 1100m almost due south."
"Id?"
"Mechs, but the only signals are the numbers '3' and '4' with the latter closest. A lance with close air support seems most likely."
Very gently, I ease my rig onto the bank and through a small tangle of vine and branch. From here it looks like a mixed lance: a heavy and two mediums visible, the likely fourth of unknown size and nowhere in sight. At least now I know that the heavy is '3' and looks like an Argus from here. '4' is obviously a Bushie and '2' looks a lot like a Hunchback II.
Alexis confirms this before suddenly reporting, "Osiris in the river, heading fast towards our position."
"Aff, crouch, please."
The mech settles, lowering in a controlled fashion.
It is about 600 out, closing. "Power off..."
"Aff."
We are holding our breath, the mech and I. I can not take all of my opponents at once... if I must fight, surprise will be crucial.

A brightly plumed bird flutters through the trees, dives into the water, then surfaces with something writhing in it's beak. Yet the meal escapes as something startles the winged fisher, who bereft of its meal flies into the trees of the opposite bank. I feel the thud of the little mech before I see if, but it is pivoted to look after the motion of the panicked sapphire avian and does not get a visual on me.
"Alexis, on my mark, power up and jam his transmissions immediately, then stand..."
"Aff, sir."
The little mech seems to sense that it is almost to the end of its cover and slows quickly... it's rear torso still towards me. It stops and the warrior at its helm twists left and right, looking for any telltale hint that I am hiding out there... it is in range... the little head comes around, then the legs too. To his credit, the pilot moves into the middle of the river where only the torso and arms remain above the surface.

Closer...
Closer...
Closer...

My body, like the mech beneath me, is coiled to spring. The mech passes me, again my location drifts away from his vision...

"Mark."
"Aff"
My Shadowcat comes to life and my comm goes blank as Alexis bursts the channels. The little mech pivots towards my position just as my weapons go green... and I fire full alpha.
The pilot never has a chance... he may not even have had time to mentally recognize the hail of missiles as the lasers pound the thin hull at the cockpit. There is no eject, and the dead mech falls into the river, blotting out anything more than smoky bubbles. Before it could go under, Alexis had cleared the comjam and we were already moving stealthily back through the jungle. From the edge of the trees I can see movement on the road, but it is that steady motion of purpose and I see a chance. We step quickly to a stride, then run, and finally a sprint.

But the road is further away than I would hope, and while the mechs are no longer visible, the choppers have evidently spotted me and are headed my way. I round a low rise and turn suddenly to greet the incoming challengers. A fusillade of missiles dumbfire at my former position, but I am not waiting and hit two of the assailants with lasers, the third and fourth with streaks. Now it is
my turn to test my opponent's discipline.

Wide open, we pound westward; I have one of them close on sensors giving chase... the others must not be far back, but he is hungry and misses the fact that he is now growing more and more alone... I hear the shock as a massive gauss round screams by, enroute to some other oblivion. Now it is my turn and his ability to pursue me is my target, not the better protected weapon or the heavier armor of the chest. All my racks empty, following my lasers into his right leg at the hip. The shattering limb wildly deflects a fired gauss round into the hard earth, sending a cloud of dirt and rocks a good five meters into the air.

But I am not waiting to see it fall; already, I am twisting away and again I speed west. I can see the other mechs reach, pass, then turn back to their crippled companion. I neither slow nor return... they still outgun me, and I would rather not play those odds right now. The uplink point, a smallish mountain that happens to also have a commanding view of the plain, slips closer, then arrives without further incident.

I ask a lot of questions, perhaps soon I may have some answers.

...

The nurse is one of those with a look that inspires acceptance and who carries herself like she could take on the best elementals a touman could muster. It does not bode well for me today that she has replaced the simpering whelp who was insistent on my taking the mind numbing medication that is supposed to help me heal.

"You're going nowhere until I say so." It is not a command, nor an order, but her tone and self-assurance leaves no doubt that she is stating fact.
"I will not be a drugged moron with nothing better to do than drool." I give no quarter either.
"The doctor said you will take this."
"What doctor? Produce him or accept that it will not happen."
Her scowl deepens, "I don't care who you think you are, I have seen hundreds of bot-jocks and will do as ordered with you."
"So you are a cow, obedient and unthinking? I would have thought better of you."
Her eyes flash and she seems on the verge of a hot response, then realizes the catch in what I have said. The look returns to steel, but she is listening, evaluating.
"I will cooperate with you alone if you do not enforce medical senselessness. If I may keep my wits about me then do whatever, no matter the pain... but if not, know that I..."
I feel the moment's pressure on my off side and recognize the sound of an air injection system.
Her smile becomes rather satisfied and victorious. She does not realize that I will not forget this... or she does not care. The induced paralysis speeds with my bloodstream and I find myself too quickly
falling away from the nerves that connect me with the outside world. I will myself to move, only to find I have not... it is the maddening sense of self-command being drained like water grasped or wind netted.

My body's inventory of reset broken bones and surgically mended muscles is not attempting to capture my attention now, but I know also that my eyes are closed and I can do nothing but lay here in the mental whirlpool and accept the spiral. At the edge of dreams I stop the descent and relive flashes of the last few pathetic days. The Circus match with the horror of last place haunts me... I rode that KitFox into the ground, taking a gatling gun and then having it shorn with hardly a scratch on my first opponent... and the eject ride came a moment after a shard of torso came screaming through my armor to rip through arm and shoulder blade on its way to the frame of my command chair. That it missed my spine is indeed fortunate, that it did not let me die before facing this dishonor... well, hmmmm...

I have a mission... I must focus on that. Purpose can steady a man adrift in an uncertainty of experience... and I focus for now on what I need to keep my aim on.

...

I sit, half resting, half collapsed, surveying the familiar command controls. The programmed scent of conifers and moss in a cool morning mist pervades my sense of relaxation and for a time I am at ease. Eventually, exhaustion gets the better of me and I sleep. it is the restless sleep of one pursued but never caught... where shadows hide familiar faces masking watchers with ill intent. Finally, I wake to the alarms and am aware that I have the vise grip on the control and would be firing were the safeties not in place.

"Another dream, sir?" Alexis asks in that curious tone that seems all the more unique since the ai can not herself dream... well, at least I do not think she can...
My grip loosens and the alarm goes off. I do not remember what I have been dreaming, but there is little doubt of the intensity as I am soaked with sweat and loaded up with adrenalin.
"I guess so, Alexis."
"Perhaps a run at the target range to help loosen you up?"
"Perhaps."
I am again thankful for the protocols I have with Alexis on when to clear and fire my weapons.

In the last fortnight we have been in three battles on this remorseless world, all under the auspices of the Arena Authority and the local governments. There is a familiarity and respect the participants in these matches have developed over time, they are almost a clan unto themselves. Being the outsider is challenging, but I am not alone as others too vie for recognition and perhaps sponsorship. I am still not doing well, but have at least not been the first to leave a match under ejection power since the painful KitFox debacle.

The horrible time in the hospital served as a wakeup of sorts, though my blood still boils when I think about the evil nurse. I imagine the pleasure of having her in an opposing mech and shearing her freebirth head clean off...

Hmmm, not the best way to spend my waking time... I am restless at best and need to get away for a while.

I sit in a somewhat familiar form, a rebuilt shadow cat. When I picked it up it still had Falcon markings, but it is now a nondescript cammo with only the white and green croes gaeltaid on a patch of blue field to mark it having any association with me. It is serviced and ready, might be a good chance to take a little trip.
"Alexis, where is Tom?"
"Checking, sir." she says smartly, then after a brief pause she continues, "looks like he is over in Lights Haven working the Raven."

Lights Haven, been a few days since I was over there. I am getting comfortable in a Shadowcat again, hard to imagine going back there and living in a Rav... but Tom has had some good ideas for it and I am loathe to make it easier for my opponents to know what I am thinking. Likewise, I am trying out some of his ideas even in this Shadow, it will be interesting to see if it works in the arenas.

All around me is bustle and quake. Mechs of every size and description race and trundle about... crews large and small converge on any biped with myomer for muscle, and the sheer weight of ordinance here could probably supply the conquest of a dozen worlds. Unlike Lights Haven with its focus on the light pilot and mech, MechPorte Grande caters to everyone with a walking weapons platform, from a few of the tiny Protos "liberated" from Wolf stock to the Atlas, Fafnir, Dire Wolf and Kodiak behemoths that rattle anything loose when they thump by.

Here my Shadow and the newly fitted armaments are not even noticeable in MechSect's second largest "free" mech compound. Run by the arena authority and several private developers, the sprawling complex is only part of the picture, with vast underground bunkers and storage facilities. My current space in the cavernous hangar #7 is set off by vast movable partitions, railed curtains of reinforced and armored concrete and steel set with elevators and gantries, catwalks and equipment. A Thanatos thumps its way towards the yawning cavity that leads to open air, and then I see her... standing there across the open mechway... watching me.

...

I continue to have this ill ease at seeing Sam this morning. She was gone before I had a chance to do or say anything... she must have known that I saw her, as soon as I turned my head she was gone. Again, I feel there is a lot more here than meets the eye... I just do not have a clue what it is.

This afternoon I hope to take this Shadow for a spin into the Jungle Arena, Solaris Open Division. Interesting group, one of the leading candidates today has been reportedly training in both a Dire Wolf and an Osiris... others will be in the recently arrived Ares, a 60 ton omni with speed and reasonable firepower that I was recently introduced to. Like all heavies, I was not exactly in my element when I fielded one on a lark entry into a heavy division match, but the mech was available and the owner offered it... after my showing with the valuable new mech, I expect that others will get the chance to pilot one before I do again.

In all honesty, I am a bit annoyed that Tom is still working on my Raven... the mids drop coming up tomorrow is still a day away but I need every last bit of skill to set this mech's equipment at its best. In the mean time I am doing the tweaking myself, leaning through the aft gyro hatchway to adjust a less than dependable connection; the coupling looks ok, but I am not getting good signal.
"How about now?" I ask into the open air.
The hushed vibration of the gyro spinning up tells me of activity I would otherwise not note.
"Neg, sir, still have the voltage dropout into the main array."
"Hmmm, ok, down again."
What is up with this thing? The gyro connections into the system help keep the mech on its feet when hit or even while walking. Their links with the neuro helmet help make the mech an extension of my body, just as the myomer muscles become a robotic extension of my arms and legs. Even the weapons are not as crucial to survival as the gyros.

In fact, it is the advanced gyros that the Raven carries that makes it one of my favorite non-clan mechs. they have enough mass and size that the speedy little mech can take a full alpha and yet not stumble or fall.

"Sir, we have company."
"Can it wait?"
"She seems rather insistent."
In the cramped quarters I start to sit up in a hurry, but manage to violently encounter a rib spar with my temple and decide that perhaps I will need to ask a question of two first.
"Is it whom I think it is, Alexis?"
"If you mean Samantha, sir, then yes."
Just great, I need to get this done. I am trying to be mad, but having a seriously hard time doing it.
"Well, just let her in. Secure anything that she might see, and record what she does while in the cockpit vicinity."
I hear the dome seal release and the pneudralic armatures hiss as they push the heavy portal up.

"Patrick?"
"I am over here."
I hear her slide over the side and into the cockpit.
"Where?"
For a moment I wonder if she is daft, but realize that she probably can not see my legs and that sound in a mech often seems distorted.
"Aft gyro hole, mam."
"I thought you were going to work on calling me 'Sam.'" I hear and note that she has just kicked my foot in a less than violent manner... playfully, perhaps, but I am not too sure right now.

"What do you need, Sam?" I am not sure why I am being short, but I do not feel free to do what I want right now.
She does notice, "well, I had figured that you have been planet-side long enough to want a night out..."

Her words hang in the air.

I am entirely uncertain of what to say or do other than continue working... must continue working... what was I doing? I feel entirely blanked out and I just lay here, pretzeled into my tiny access-way trying to recover some amount of focus.

"What are you doing down there?" I hear her words, but am instead intensely aware that she has just put her hand on my knee. There is a horrific rush of hormones in my system and I am at a loss for words... to the point that she leans into the hatchway and asks, "Are you ok, Patrick?"
Instead of this prompting a clear response, I manage to intelligently respond, "i... um... it... um... well," before stopping the charade that I am thinking clearly at all to just gaze at her face in the glow of the servicelights. She smiles, and I am aware of nothing else for at least an everlasting ten seconds.
She offers no mercy for my discomfiture, "are you always so eloquent to visitors?"

I sigh and let my head set back on the cold metal framework for a minute, only when my eyes are off of her can I recover enough to remember what I was about. "I have a gyro here that is not quite right, and a match tomorrow that I need it for."
"Really? Why doesn't your chief handle that stuff?"

It takes the contraction to break the spell... "No, I have serviced my own mech for years, I can handle this when I need to."
"I am a warrior," her tone is flat but subtly edged, "techs have value, but I would resent being made to act like one without good cause."
It is a sharp statement, one that I once would have echoed... now I am not so inclined.
"What do you need, Samantha?"
From her look, she knows the moment is past. "Just checking up on you, Patrick."
"Thank you mam, but I need to finish this and take a test run before the match... hope you understand."
Her face becomes a mask and she nods slightly. "of course, commander, I hope you do well."

She is gone far more quickly that she arrived and Alexis seals the cockpit back up. It is only as the air begins to cool again that I realize that she addressed me by my old rank... one I have not worn in many cycles...

...

"You yourself have said that you are best in a light cav function."
Tom has an interesting point and I have to stop and think. His proposition is to take a fast raven with a scout-like config and run in the open match as a hit and run pilot.
"Well, have we got time to configure one?"
"You actually have two in the bay... one all ready configed just the way I think would serve ya best."

I have returned to Lights Haven for what I thought was going to be a quick stop to pick up a spare gyro from my storage. Tom, however, has seriously distracted me and is making what I consider a well thought out proposal.

"I know you're not big on rockets, but these have a high rof and reasonable heat, in a pinch they will get you free of a pursuer long enough to turn the corner."
The Rav has my basic old config with the huge ERLL on the right shoulder and a full rack of electronic goodies, but instead of CLRMs, he has mounted a modified rocket launcher in the right torso and an inferno launcher on the left wing. The xl engine is tweaked to top output and all the service points and connections are cleaned like they have been individually gone through. He might have left me to face Sam alone, but he has been working hard to make sure his best is in this mech when I need it... under fire.
"You are full of surprises, chief." I can't help but smile.
"Of course, ya clanner, been suprisen you folks for a while now... guess its bout time we're on tha same side."
I nod, all the while wondering at the possible undertones in his comment.

...

The huge array of horns rings even into the sealed cockpit.

I don't hear the crowd, but can see faces on occasion through the occasionally shimmering forcewall. Fans seated or up, cheering or jeering, waving signs for their favorites and abused effigies of those they despise.

I am still running, this time from an Ares with a pilot tagged Tsunami from Warrior House Hirutsu. I have hit him once or twice with the big ERLL and missed a volley of rockets, now it is a matter of not getting too close while leading him on into harm's way... but it is I who am running into harm. I see the gauss concussion trail of vapor just before me, then spin back to find a different way out.

A pair of walls awaits me and I know that I have momentary shelter from two of the three who now remain. We dart around the barriers to gain advantage, and he makes the first strike. yet again, my raven withstands the urge to go sprawling into the dirt. The next shot is mine and I make a dent in the heavier armor.

Again we dance the concrete abutments, and I look for any way to draw him out into fire from one of the others... without similarly exposing myself. Unfortunately, Tsunami is not easily led and we trade shots... ballistics rock me and I pour rockets into him while the ERLL recharges.

My torso armor is all but gone, I can not keep this up... and my last spread of rockets has now left an empty silo and useless launcher. To break away, I run towards the center, dodging and weaving... then there is another contact and I see laser pulses over my head... Tsunami falls back and I have escaped for the moment.

I know that the sniper that saved me will most likely be equally dangerous, but have to try to get him off his perch and down onto the field to weaken both he and the now damaged Ares behind me... but IceMan is not nearly so damaged and he has been watching me; I open fire with the laser, but he is barely scratched and his beams lash back out at me shearing away much of my bucking torso. The concentrated light rips through, something explodes, and my gyros disengage.
"Alexis, eject!"

It is a weird sensation, I hear the clamps blow their bolts and the whump of the hydrazine ignition but seem only to have started out of the now dying hulk when my escape pod is instead catapulted forward onto the turf. My angle of attack is flat enough that I neither burrow into the soft terrain or head airborne into the forcewalls... instead I begin a bounding roll, the capsule first spinning end-
over-end, then twisting right to vertigo a sense of barrel rolling; the earth sky, sky earth, earth sky repeating over and over in those eternal moments while the centrifugal force binds me helpless to the depth of my command throne.

A scant five or six seconds later I endure the rude interruption of my hapless wanderings as the pod spins merrily into the reinforced concrete wall, hops up into the air as if to climb, then falls to play top spinning about an axis for a few more moments. Finally, it settles into a depression of its own making, angled around the right chute flare and I sit disoriented to await the end. Mercifully, when I close my eyes for a moment, an unexpected exhaustion overtakes me and I remember no more.

...

On the edge of a dream I look into her eyes... the deep darkness of interstellar space surrounded by azure rings...

"Patrick?"

Her hair falls around her face, framing and accenting it in the afternoon sun...

"Patrick, are you hurt?"

I blink and the dream fades but her face does not. I am laying on the damp grass and moss at the edge of the arena, a medic stands to one side checking a piece of equipment, and a recovery crew is loading my escape pod onto an older carryall. There is noise and commotion all about, but I am suddenly unsure about anything...

"Who are you?"
"Sam, silly. I..."
"No, I mean, who are you... really."
Her face hardens a bit... she becomes distant though still close enough to touch.
"Does that matter?" she asks while casually brushing turf from my cooling suit. "What if I ask you that?"
I feel suddenly like I am face to face with an opposing knight... safe on adjoining squares, but opposing each other's movement.
"You know my old rank... but I do not even know your Bloodname."
"Old?"
Now it is my turn to harden... it is difficult to accomplish while studying her so close. Then I get an insight, she was chosen for just this reason... another movement on the chessboard. I need to refocus; I need to close my eyes so I can see.

"Medic, my neck is hurting."
I hear movement and, "Excuse me, maam."
I know she is moving back, far enough that I can not touch her, nor be immersed in the power of her smile. My eyes open and I look at the rough medic.
In tones only he can hear I say, "A thousand c-bills if you get me out of here now."
He evaluates me for a moment, glances at Sam and smiles, "make it two and you have a deal."
"Done."

...

The sad part of the afternoon is that I really do hurt and my neck is indeed the center of the agony... but now the medics figure it was all a game to get clear of "her" and will have nothing to do with me.

It is a real relief when Tom comes strolling in...
"Jest whatn the haill were ya figgurin on doin?"
"Excuse me?"
"Less see, she come to me asking about ya, an I send her down to watch... she manages to get past security and runs with a medic team as soon azz d all clear sawnds and haow do ya greet herr boay? Ya don't got da juevos I tawht ya did if yer not even gonna talk wit a woman after she hangs herself awt lak that."
Tom is somewhere between inebriated and royally annoyed, and makes no attempt to disguise his disgust with me. he stands a few feet away and shakes his finger, then his fist, and finally his head before breaking the temporary speechlessness with a vile sneer before he turns away spitting out, "ignnerant wiledog clanner..."

I feel even more like I have been slapped.

There is no room now for me to sit in the triage, another group of pilots are coming in from a different arena and I now have to make room for the "really" injured. The polished stone floor chills the heel as my left foot touches it first... but there is no time to play around with hesitation, and I step on down and walk to where my gear lays on a nearby chair. I feel a bit odd about putting
on the suit here, but others are coming in with the same, mostly still in one piece... though one lad does seem to have a lot less of both the suit and his own body than he likely started out his morning with.

A nurse hands me a small bag and walks briskly to the gurney bearing the badly mangled youth. I head into the hallway, barely clear of a young pilot who stumbles from the room behind me to throw-up on a chair before collapsing on the floor in a sobbing mass. I look back from whence I have just come and realize that even the doctors seem a bit stricken at the sight of that which remains with the semblance of life now that the wounded's suit has been opened. I see not the details, but then again, I have "recovered" and buried many from my own sibko and units... the field allows no real undertaker but your brothers in arms.

The child on the floor has begun to glimpse horror of combat, results are cruel teachers... but he will learn...

...

I am so tired. I guess it is just too easy to get spoiled by a good crew chief, two weeks without Tom has left me with an embarrassing series of missteps. Three days ago I could not get my Raven ready in time and had to fall back on buying an overpriced Owens at the last minute to keep from missing the light drop and being suspended from competition. To say I did poorly would be kindly, though at least I was not first out.

Far worse, my attempt in the mediums today had me plowing the rock walls of Ishiyama as my Shadowcat was shot right out from under me in the first two minutes. The kid I had found less than an hour before the drop is bright enough, but doesn't have the experience yet to know how to buy me three tons quickly and I had to drop without my CUAC10.

Erin is perhaps 23, plus or minus, and quite able to focus... she just lacks the time honed sense of what will work in a limited amount of time. Right now she is standing at the right footpad looking up at the lower ECM flare. The heavy cowling looks like it could brush her away with even a bit of wind, but she shows no sign of even noticing. The pad she holds is little more than an electronic manual with easy parts selection, it seems rather obvious that she has not seen that unit before and I can imagine little that would really improve her study more than letting her do it and then checking the result myself. I found her waiting to submit her application to one of the local public mech service and repair bays at MechPorte Grande, "Raven" something or other.

I actually liked the fact that her first response to my showing interest in her resume was a curt response that said in not so many words that she wasn't interested in older men; I found that especially appropriate since it was not what would likely come from someone who had an agenda that included watching me. When she realized that I was actually interested in her credentials and not her body, her tone and manner changed; she proved at least well trained by the Inner Sphere's rather less than flawless standards, and talented enough to be a good risk in my opinion. She has been at least a bit cautious and preferred to meet me here, but I actually didn't have a problem with that and now am rather glad that I let that be... I think her being able to locate the old compound now shared by three pilots and myself was enough to help put her at ease that I was not some lecherous liar looking to seduce her.

I took care of quarters here early yesterday; it is a former Wolf's Dragoons private compound located on the southern edge of MechSect. indeed the great wall forms the rear limit of the compound and is what the main maintenance bays back against. there are two older hangars, but the equipment is pretty current and the buildings are in exceptional shape with plenty of room for a good sized stable of mechs. It is actually a good arrangement, with several members of the pilot's brotherhood known as CMO as my hangar-mates again, and reports of more likely to come in from off world. My mission remains unchanged, but right now the support of friends might help me get past the frustration of the past few weeks and into a less frantic approach to the next actual Solaris season just over a week away.

Erin turns and walks in my general direction, lost a bit in thought, then sees me and comes right up.
"I have looked through each of the Capellan manuals and found nothing that looks like what you have in there right now, can you take a minute to help me?"
"Sure, show me what you don't recognize."

As we walk to the raven I consider that while I miss both Samantha and Tom right now, I do not have the feeling that I am being scrutinized up close. Perhaps there are still things all around that I will discover are still observant, but right now I feel more at ease than I have for the last half dozen weeks.

Edited by cmopatrick, 26 October 2012 - 09:25 PM.

[cmopatrick]

Dawn has found me loping across the empty desert in my old repaired and repainted Raven. I feel like the weight of the worlds has been lifted, I finally get to do what I do best for a while and break the monotony of waiting the week out for the season to start. The MRBC office at the corner of StarLeague and Artemis was actually posting a contract from mercnet for an independent scout in the Arrad region just as I was walking in... the price was right and I now speed to rendezvous with a couple of big-rig lances.

There is a certain warmth in the colors; they are not the barren overheated reds, browns, yellows or purples of the midday landscape. Instead, the sky holds a hint of vermilion and that reflects in the orange and rust of exposed rock faces and the muted crimson of normally tan sands. I spin the torso around and watch the dust settle behind me, my Raven's turbulence designed to help disguise the traces of footfalls as much as a mech can. The receding expanse gives no great hint of the 90 kilometers per hour pace since it holds no really distinct nearby landmarks.

I turn back to my course and note that the mountains and hillocks ahead do seem to have grown in the intervening minutes. There are hints of green barely visible further back and maybe even a spot of white in the greater distance.

"Alexis, any communications from the main body?"
"Neg, comms still clean. Range to expected contact 33km."
"Aff."

Something toys with the edge of my attention and I notice a lump in my jacket where I am not expecting any. leaving the throttle static, I rediscover the chip that Tamra had given me a few weeks back... forgotten in the activity since, I now wonder if this is a good time to discover its contents.

"Alexis, I have a chip that Tamra Jorgenson gave me... I think we may want to sandbox it first to make sure it is not hostile, but I would like to find out if it has anything of interest."
"Aff, sir. Preparing containment algorithms, please stand by."
"Aff..."
The hum of the xl and the quieted thmp thmp thmp thmp of footfalls continues undisturbed for a minute.
"Ready for connection, Patrick."
"Thank you, Alexis."

The small crystaline structure is designed to attach on a small interface pad; Alexis clears the appropriate area cover and I lay it onto the exposed data surface.
As the cover slides into place, Alexis is already interested, "this is very peculiar, sir, the interface is quite different from the norm and actually shows great age. Initial contact points number over 4 trillion and I am not even sure that this pad can detect all of them. Initial estimate is that it is probably a research prototype of original StarLeague fabrication."
"Hmmmm..."
"Data in what appears the primary access structure is mostly encoded, but the intro section looks modern and bears warden clan signposts."
"Seems consistent, considering that Tamra claims Bloodname from Ghost Bear."
"Aff. There are at least 17 programs in the initial contact matrix that need to be contained, standard protocols?"
"Neg, I still am not sure that I can trust it and I don't want you compromised, go intense lock and assess only within a highsec environment."
"As you wish, sir."
"Also, I want anything we find locked at primary mission level."
"Aff. Only you and the Khan will have access, destroy on hostile."
"Very good, mam. Please continue to analyze."

Star League research tech, wow... I find myself discovering that playing with the real thing is very sobering. More connections than Alexis can be sure she can make on a Wolf interface... this is serious material. Still, I wonder that something that old would not be a bit better guarded than...

"Friendly contact, 1200 on 20 degrees."
Back to the business at hand, I adjust our course and bring the throttle back a touch.
"Rav39 contract six-eight-delta-four-foxtrot-one-seven... please confirm."
"Stand by Rav39."
Ahead are two full lances of heavy and assault mechs; I see only one Clan chassis (a Summoner), but there is an Atlas and a Victor, two Thanatos, a Dragon, a Tenchi, and an Argus... at 400 meters, the Thannies and the Dragon turn menacingly towards me, then return to their positions as...
"Rav39 clear to finish approach. This is unit lead in Vic17, call sign on this operation is 17a. Your callsign for this op is 39c"
"39c, affirmative and thank you sir."

"Briefing by sat in 21 min, sending telem now."
Alexis confirms off coms that she has the information before I respond, "telemetry received; I am standing by."
I pull the throttle to a clean zero and leave both the local and sat comms open, outgoing muted.
"Sir, fyi, the sat link is from a nonstandard orbit, no id broadcast at this point."
"Aff, thanks for the heads up, mam. Identify it if you get a chance."
"Rotation should clear it about four minutes before transmission time."
"Keep me posted."

The main engine has lost some of the throatiness and now seems content to run the coolant system and electronics with only a purr. This is one of those times when a pilot gets restless to be on about his or her business, and I am no exception. The waiting may not last long, but in the relative still it seems like it has been forever since the last minute started.

From my position on the flank of the lances, I see only two unit insignia, both Grey Death Legion and both in the group of four that includes the Atlas, Victor, and both Thannies. judging by their fairly tight positioning, I suspect that the primary lance is all hired GDL, while the looser secondary may be other freelancers like me or simply a smaller outfit.

"Sir, I have discovered that one of the programs is an encoding and keying device and it appears that at least one and a half terabytes have its flags. Further, it appears able to add more data... to record and encode an unexpectedly large amount of available space."
"You mean there is unused space on that?"
"Aff, sir. As stated before, the tech is well beyond anything I have interfaced with or have records of."

Six more minutes, bummer.

"Safeties on, control recheck."
"Aff, locks on, controls clear."
I walk through my mental checklist of tests on my fire controls, throttle, electronics, and spatial equipment. The diagnostics only show that the empty torso slot double heatsink addon is not quite at 100 percent, but then again, it is the least used unless I am generating heat...

"Sat rotation is cleared, I have an id on the link: FedCom..."

This is unexpected, to say the least...

...

"Your target is a small but well armed detachment of Katrina's loyalists," the disembodied voice over the comms continues. He has been rambling for almost two minutes, mostly without saying much, but now the meat is finally on the table. "Anticipated strength is two lances of medium or heavy mechs and several traditional armored ground units, four or so choppers and some static defenses. The compound is walled and may be more extensive below the surface. An unreported dropship slipped in there two nights ago and has not left, we believe it has brought a person of interest. Do not allow it to depart; we want the other assets to be as intact as possible, but do not allow the dropship to leave at any cost. Salvage rights on any mechs or mounted weaponry is at your own discretion, do not further investigate the complex itself beyond basic security, everything left in the buildings is off limits. any questions?"
The unit lead replies short and to the point, "Agreed. Coordinates?"
"Transmitting now."
The comms fall dead for the moment. Sounds like some form of capture mixed with a tech raid.
"Received and confirmed. GDL848 out."

"Ok, crews, here's the drill. 39c, call contact and best target until I am engaged and can take over. Comms off until contact, minimum after. Give no unit callsigns. Cripple mechs when you can, kill everything else. We have full salvage rights on anything we capture or take down. Now remember this, grab anything from the buildings not attached to a mech and I will vaporize you myself. First call on salvage goes to the killer, equal shares thereafter. The more we leave usable, the better. Questions?"

The comms are silent.

"Good. 39c, you will have recon, transferring route now." My map screen now displays a route that meanders deep into the mountains to a small valley that appears to only have one entrance."
"Affirmative. Question..."
"Yes?"
"Flexibility on route for search?"
"Ty to keep the road in contact, but use your discretion beyond that. You're the eyes out front, don't die."
"As you wish, sir."
"GDL, we are van, standard battle formation, roll on me."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, sir."
The replies are all crisp and professional. They might relax later, but for the minute they are acting the part of the tight unit.
"The rest of you, skirmish line just behind us, be ready to move forward into a fireline at my command.
"Ok, boss."
"Aff."
I find the Clan reply interesting, and wonder if she pilots the Summoner.
"Sure thing."
"Yes, sirrr."
The last sounds more like a teenager. The independence of this foursome is a bit refreshing, but I have to wonder about its discipline.

"39c, lead out at your pace."
"Aff," I reply, as much for the possible clanner in the group as anyone, then, "Alexis, close outbound links, all electronics on."
"Aff, sir. ECM on, active probe is at full range."
"Well, let us rock and roll, mam." With that I push the throttle open and begin my climb to the first pass.

...

There is a thin forest, trees and light brush near all but a creekbed and the road that seems to follow it; there the brush is almost verdant and the trees dense enough to actually provide shading cover. there is a lot of ground to cover, but I do not want to lead us into trouble before we are ready to face it. Still, trouble does not materialize and I continue the sweep, staying just above the road on the opposite side from the creek.

The first trouble is an automated checkpoint, about fifteen kilometers from the start of our climb. Here there is a natural defile and the road crosses a narrow canyon bridge perhaps thirty meters over the rambunctious splashings. we are still at least 50 kilometers out, attacking here would be the same as announcing our presence.
"Alexis, open for one send, then close."
"Ready, sir." She says no more, but a light on the console tells me the unit has gone hot.
"39c stop," I say quietly into the mic and the console light goes off a moment later.
About twenty seconds later, the soft "17a ack" follows.

"Alexis, do I have a navsat of this area?"
"neg, sir, should I connect?"
"Neg. How about the routesat?
The route plan map and the satellite scan underlying it display in my hud.
I am pretty sure of where we are, "zoom 4 on 3.5."
The sector instantly becomes four times larger and more detailed. I was right, but need far more detail still.
"Four more, please and recenter down point two, Alexis." Still no sign on this checkpoint in the briefing map, but I do see the bridge location now.
"2 more and center on bridge in 6." I look at the virtual view of the world before me, then back at the image. If I know what I am looking for I can spot the crossing's beautiful old bridge, but either the checkpoint was put here just for us or it does not show on the map. I study it for a few minutes, then I discover that there is an inconspicuous ledge that shields the equipment from all but a sidescan. How many others are there along the route?

I throttle up and swing my leggy Raven back the way I came. This decision is not mine, but I have to make sure that any transmissions are not heard while providing the details. I round a bend after three kilometers and shelter behind a rust stained granite. I quickly scan the sat for any other way in... there is a low pass just north of this bend, at least two kilometers before we ever reach the bridge; downside is that sat shows rough country and we would not be able to get back into the valley until... hmmm, might work.
"39c to 17a."
"17a."
"Crossing covered, automated only, grid 7.445 by 3.120."
"Don't see."
"Outcrop covers."
"Water?"
"Covered, also boulders."
"Alt?"

alternatives...

"7.473 by 3.008"
"Rough."
"Back door."
The comms go silent, he is considering his options, looking like any good commander would for a way to achieve his mission without undue loss.

"Original, all b, clear watcher."
He has made his decision, we need to get in there as quickly as possible and may be able to take the whole group still getting into position. I turn and run up the throttle...
"17a to 39c"
"39c"
"Hold for b"
Throttle back down.
"On clear, B run for ctc, C call, at best pace."

It is a good two minutes before the "b" lance comes into sight, scrambling as quickly as a mech can along the road. There is no beauty to it right now, they are just blips on the sensors for another 10 seconds, and the morning sun has not reached into this notch in Solaris' hide to show what otherwise might be dramatic in the scenery. The Dragon seems to be leading with the Tenchi at wing, the Summoner a bit to the side and the Argus bringing up the rear.

Deep down I am starting to get a sense of unease... then the adrenalin rush of battle overtakes me again and I am ready for anything. At just under 800m we stop to look the quiet scene over. There is a light fog in the small canyon, threatening to spill over into ground mist at the slightest provocation.

Best bet is to let the rock protection do the actual kill.
"Outcrop over it. Lasers only." The mechs shift slightly during my pause, "Fire."
Emerald lances appear and hit within a dozen meters of each other in the basalt face above the sentinel... in short order the entire face gives way and tons of semimolten stone buries the appliance like so much scrap.

Throttle forward, the best I can do now is get out front to be the eyes for these mechs. The Raven sprints for the dust and debris shrouded bridge, and only at the last moment do I pull up short.
"Alexis, scan the bridge for explosives."
The Dragon pilot smells blood and runs full bore right past me...

BBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB!!!!!!!!!!!!

For a moment it all seems so clear, as if frozen in time or at least my vision of it. More than just a mine or two, the entire plating of the bridge deck turns to shrapnel fired free-form in a hundred million different directions. The Dragon, sprinting past the midway point seems to rise on an unrecognized wave only to come apart starting at the footpads and going up. The next eon moment finds our view of his last existence somewhat obscured by the boiling expanse of flame and smoke pouring from the former bridge.
Then the blast hits and all four of our remaining mechs are laid flat. I am aware of the peppering sound of metal fragments in a myriad sizes hitting the armor that is now beneath my feet... for a few seconds it reminds me of the sound of rain on a cabin roof. There are a torturous few moments where I start second guessing myself. It is my friendly ai that provides some relief.
"Explosives detected and cleared, sir."
The irony of the words Alexis speaks actually strike me as funny. A pilot has just been obliterated, his life snuffed out completely, and yet I am suddenly guffawing at the irony of Alexis' comment.

"Alexis," I still am chuckling, trying to be serious, "damage report." I take a minute to regain my composure, then get on the comms, "39c to b report.'
"13b minor plate, weapons ok."
"Um, 22b shaken..." there is a pregnant pause, "but not stirred."
"77b scraped nose and arm, ok otherwise."
Strangely enough, though I have gotten some dirt on the Raven, the gyros must have made the tumble smoother and protected me when I didn't have the sense or the reflexes to protect myself.

"39c, 17a"
"17a"
"61b gone."
"Gone? Stat."
"Powder." How else do I sum up the final state of the pulverized dragon or its overconfident pilot?
"Ok, almost there."

Our four mechs stand amid the litter of the bridge and the occasional bit of endo steel or ferrofibrous armor. In front of me the small canyon mouth seems all the wider, and oddly enough it actually now has a far more gradual slope down to the water and back up on the other side. There is still smoke and the occasional flame of a burning root, but the way is smoothed by the overkill of explosives used.

I hear the thumping even as I feel the first three of "a" lance run up. I wonder how 17a will take it; short a pilot already and still a long ways off. I don't have to wonder long...

"17a to 39c, tunneling secure."
I pivot the Raven and see the aligning beam paint a momentary dot on the windscreen in front of me.
"Alexis, autolink the direct connection please."
"Stand by sir."
I can see the small red dot of my Rav's matching beam on the big Victor cockpit. Our two mechs line up faces as two ai computers dance to lock the beams into each other's. This is the most secure way to communicate, micro-tunnell uv-pulse, but both receivers have to be in perfect alignment or the tight focus on deliberatly weak signal can not maintain a connection.
"Link established, Patrick.

"Ok, I think you know the fix we are in. Looks like your idea about crossing the ridge might have been the best way to go, but they know someone is coming now. I can secure sat a bonus equal to the price of that mech if you are willing to take a risk with it."
"What do you have in mind sir?"
"Do you think they know yet the size or comp of our strike?"
"Neg, most likely they are calling on assets to check. I would expect them to be here soon."
"Agreed. I want you to take your Raven on up the valley along this road..."
"Appear to be a generic recon?"
"Or an adventurer out for whatever comes."
"You take the others over the hill, I run up the valley, flee like crazy at the first sign of trouble, and I catch up if I can?"
I hear a bit of a laugh on the other side. "You aren't a GDL assessor, are you?" His jest is appreciated, but unnecessary. "Yeah, I suspected that you know what you're doing. Deal then?"
"Aff. We had all better get moving."
"Agreed. Transmitting now. See you on the other side."

The stick swings easily and my Raven turns to the task of climbing down the freshly blasted bank where only minutes ago a bridge stood. The neuro helmet transmits enough information that I realize my toes are instinctively curling to grasp at the rocks and gravel my brain thinks are underfoot. My imagination even adds a chill around my legs as I start to wade the Rav across the brook.

"Alexis, I need you to do an analysis for me."
"Another one, sir? The chip you gave me earlier is using a lot of resource, performance could be degraded."
"Hmmm, I can not afford that... stop the chip study with all data research frozen for now. I want to pull the chip just in case."
"I have backed up everything I can, sir." The little cover slides open; I lift the crystaline device off of her scanner, and place it in an inner pocket of my coolant suit.
"Ready for analysis, sir."
"Alexis, scan the sats for this valley for any other possible trouble spots... use the highest possible paranoia settings."
"Aff, Patrick."

I start up the other bank, one careful foot placement and then another. I barely notice when one boulder slips and would pull the mech's weight with it, the advanced gyros hold the mech steady for the moments needed while the next firm ground is found. Only after I crest the spot to look at fresh rubble and splattered mech remains that I notice that I am now alone. A faint dust trail is all that remains of the retreating lances... they are likely passive already too, and will soon make the pass. Now, to buy us time to still catch that dropship on the ground.

"Sir, analysis complete. Some possibles identified."
I get the feeling that I should take a very careful look at these and pull the throttle to zero.
"Please proceed, mam."
"Yes, sir. First..."

Alexis projects a detailed sat of the route marked with 72 different flags for the next 45 kilometers, of the markers, most are a bright blue... but 4 are blood red. The high paranoia setting is intended to produce anything possible, no matter how likely, and Alexis shows me one location after another that tactically don't make a lot of sense to me. Some might be simple hidden observation points, and I should be very careful around them, but most so far are not likely to shoot back. Then we reach the first red flag.
"Next, this area appears to be a normal stretch of roadway, but there are disturbance indications all around it and no fresh tracks through it. I suspect a minefield with a greater than 75% likelihood."
"Agreed, mark it so and select one of the disturbed routes. as we approach , give me a 300 meter lead on approach, please."
"Aff, sir. Next we have..."
Again, there are more with varying degrees of likely danger until we reach the second red flag.

"This looks like the first real problem sir, and likely the turnaround point if not before."
The scene from the basic satellite view is pastoral enough, just a few spots with deeper shadows that just happen to be all around the road and on the cliffs above it. It is only when she shows an edge from a different area's scan that the features of what hides in at least some of the shadows becomes clear... there are at least two ppc cannon and three large laser muzzles exposed and what looks like a camouflaged control tower in the granite wall above them. If the near side has the same issues, I will walk into a withering crossfire.
"Very good, mam. Better to know going in. Possible disposition of power supply?"
"None at this... CTC, sir.” There is a short pause, then, "no ids, four choppers, nothing serious."
I see the blips at full range and push the throttle out a bit; not a run but a curious "look around" pace of a walk.
"Clear on all safeties, Alexis."
The hum of the big clan laser charging on my shoulder invades my thoughts; the swish-clank of the missile launcher clearing again adds finality to the next moment's decision.
"Clear to fire, sir," she says with that relaxed tone... not one devoid of interest, just totally without fear.
"Generic coms open."
"Aff. Expecting a call?"
"Not yet, first they will try to scare me off."
Hmmm, the thought comes to mind... as I line up the lead, I open coms and say, "Inbound choppers, hold and state you business or expect to be fired upon."
Silence except for static. They have all turned and are heading directly towards me. They do not have LRMs or I would already be feeling them, and they are not holding so they can be presumed hostile.
"Close outbound coms."

The bright green beam reaches out through the clear sky to vaporize the lead flightcrew in their chairs and that chopper heads for the sod below. Now I start to dance the mech, circles and figure eights, changing speeds, head fakes, all to make the next gunners hesitate too long. I get a green on the board and the second shot shears the rotor clean off the number two craft, setting it free to whirlygig its way to the hillside while the unsupported body plummets to the ground. The two remaining choppers give tonelock and drop salvos of SRM that are blandly aimed to make my life difficult... but the ecm coupled with speed means that they have already lost the lock and the missiles plow into the ground where I had been. My ERLL speaks its cry of destruction again and the third helicopter finds the planet welcoming its charred and burst remains. The wreckage of the first chopper explodes a few hundred meters ahead. While I am distracted, the last chopper dumbfires and catches me not thinking... I have been straight stick for 3 seconds and the gunner takes advantage of my carelessness to pummel me with the missiles. The extent of the damage is mostly limited to the unused left arm. As my targeting computer gives me the red acquired reticle, I fire into a lightly armored section below the powerplant and the searing emerald lance blasts clean through to open sky on the other side. It is just a few seconds later that the frail hull's remains smack hard onto the ground, spilling what is left of it into a dusty cloud that does not rise again.

Slowly, I pick my way through the pieces and frames looking for any salvage that might be usable. I don't really need it, but if there are any high altitude watchers out now, it would confirm my being just a wandering opportunist who shoots first then searches the wreckage. There is an unexploded case half full of it's stock of srms, but without the proper launcher, it is useless. In another area are some computer components appear undamaged, but again, I really do not see anything I can use.

I start back towards the road and start a walking sweep, pushing slowly up the widening canyon.

In the back of my consciousness, I know that things are going a bit too easy. Yes, we lost the Dragon, but that was not necessary. Everything else would almost seem intended to make me curious, to urge me on. There is something about this that bugs me... but right now I have not drawn enough interest to be worth chasing away... or have I?

I keep my eye on the sat Alexis had marked up; as I pass each of the first four I try to inconspicuously track the location, but there is nothing. The fifth is different.

The hillside it is a part of is high in iron oxides and registers as heavily metalic; without knowing where to look I would never have seen it. There it sits and as I zoom in on it, I have the eerie sensation of being eye to eye with a powerful optical instrument. It is not a weapon, but could easily target for one. what assessment of me is there? Is there a place Alexis might have missed that has a weapon right now being trained on me?

I have to laugh at myself, the options on the analysis aren't called paranoid for nothing.

At first I decide to ignore it, then I stop the mech and swing the beaked face up directly at it. I have no doubt that they already know I am here, now I want to say “Hi.”
"Alexis, double pol off."
The view outside shines in flooding the cockpit with light that the helmet corrects to be only a minor increase. but I am sure it must be brighter, I can sense the increased light warming my hand as it rides the weapons controller. in fact the cabin seems bent on becoming a greenhouse already.

Up the hill I can see the ledge that overhangs the groove the camera resides in. I try to nonchalantly wave hello... to raise the stakes in this by playing some mind games of my own. They know I am here and now they are not sure they know why... I know they watch and now they know that too.

The Raven moves as I swing the stick to the right and continue a sweep up the valley.

There is a small change in the landscape here, it widens out a little for a relatively level meadow of wild grasses that sway and ripple in the breeze. The trees too are becoming leafier and I see occasional spots of color sprinkled in here and there. Everything seems almost pastoral...

Something seems easy and open... and then my mental alarms go off... throttle to almost zero. Something is a bit, well, wrong with this picture.
"Alexis, anything?"
"About what, sir? No sensor contacts..."
"Something is... odd... not sure what..." I pull the throttle to zero and look out at the greens and yellows of the grasses swaying to the beat of an unseen music. I sense something but seem to see nothing out of the ordinary. see nothing... hmmm.
"Alexis, double pol off," I whisper as I clear the virtual view and raise my helmet's visor.

The hills and valley are more distinct; seems I can see more colors, vibrant with the blush of morning. more distinct now are the pools of drier grass stems chasing their greener neighbors... wait, circles of drier yellows in the otherwise even field of seasonal greens, one of which is just in front of me...

"Alexis, scan for a mine just in front of us, please."
"I do not detec... please stand by, sir."
She rarely interrupts herself, I must be right.
"You may be correct, Patrick, there are least 500kg of a material with the approximate density of gel covered with a plastic casing buried less that 20 centimeters down. It is not standard for a mine... and nothing the usual sensors would have found."
I flip the reverse switch and begin to slowly back away.
"Range?"
"Hard to tell, sir. Not too far, but probably forty meters is safe."
I turn the raven and walk back the way I came for a few moments, then turn and blast the base of the circle with the full erll. I am easily twice the distance that Alexis had suggested, and at first I am not sure that I have done anything greater than vaporize a trail into the grass. I tilt down just a touch and fire again...

For the second time today, I find my mech all but flying through the air with me. The concussion of the blast is nothing like any experience in recent memory, and I honestly hear nothing but a melancholy ringing that seems closer to my brain than my ears. In the moments that I am spinning back half blinded in the Raven, trying to get enough bearings to keep the little mech upright... and I wonder if I might have already passed other mines that I might now be headed for.

Mercifully, when the Raven does fall over a second or so later, it falls on good natured turf... no hidden agendas of destruction lie beneath this grassy surface to welcome me to oblivion. The restraints tighten to hold me secure and only my arms move away from the norm. My momentum is enough, however, that I feel my left arm flung almost at breaking speed against a loosened fire extinguisher that is now looking for a victim.
"..." I say, then realize I must not have said anything. "........"
My vocal chords are producing vibrations, I must be talking, but I still only hear a distinct ring, kind of like the large bell at the old 11th headquarters... after it was struck, it would ring like this, often for quite a while.

It is my recognition of my new vulnerability that gets me refocusing. I stand the raven up and look over my controls. I have to go on instruments only for now. Alexis will have to listen for me.
I make my voice say words I do not hear, "Alexis, I can not hear right now. I need you to run a quick diagnostic on all systems and all visual indicators. I also need my visor down. Please give me the damage report on visor hud only."
My helmet's visor slips over my still somewhat shocked eyes and the virtual world returns. I note that words appear, they start with, "Aff. I will also pulse a tone at one of your least favorite frequencies until you are able to hear it."

First systems we test are BAP and ECM, they clear quickly and are back up. Next I feel the raven crouch and the gyros spin free from my control; I feel momentarily isolated from the world of my machine, but the sensation passes as they also complete the diagnostics and I regain the neurolink. The weapons board blinks out then each comes back on like twinkling beacons.

Edited by cmopatrick, 28 October 2012 - 02:29 PM.

[cmopatrick]

I can see other system indicators doing the off and on again sequence, but now I am busy... what was the point of this size blast? For that matter, who would put so much ordinance out for a minor facility? This large of a charge must have been meant as an assault killer, if the field ahead is littered with them, there must be some reason for it. I look at the sat and realize that this is the first wide area that an assault group coming up the valley would reach... most commanders would at least let their mechs spread out a bit... and they would not be returning to formation. As I study the map, I find something even more interesting: this is the only area outside of the target area itself where a dropship might possibly land. Could the size of the charges indicate the field could serve as a dropship killer without a mech in sight?

The FedCom employer must have known this... is it why we met so far out instead of being dropped closer?

I turn towards the source of the blast and realize that the crater is huge. I am struck again by the sheer size of the blast... who would put so much explosive out in a field still many kilometers from their compound?

Hmmm, for that matter, who would put so much ordinance under a bridge that it could pulverize an entire seventy ton mech?

What have I gotten myself into?

I admit I am shaken... the crater beyond the smoldering grasses and clumps of fused earth is broad and rather shallower than I would expect. The force must have been immense, but to distribute it so well means far more planning in the charge's shape and composition than the normal renegade units would ever come up with. That the field seemed undisturbed at all means it was not a recent creation. I get back to the rim and look across it. There does appear to be more to this than first impressions might imply, and it helps explain some of the blast characteristics. Where the original mine had lain, the hole was perhaps three meters at its deepest; but in a circle about five meters out from it were regularly spaced depressions at least as deep. like a huge web, the intent was to kill any mech that hit the mine, no matter how fast it moved or which direction.

This was also meant as an intimidator... it plays with your mind. A unit that saw a heavy or assault vanish would not only lose a member, but would be psycologically disadvantaged, at least for a while. It writes, as plain as a painted billboard or flashy electro, "TURN BACK!"

I turn towards the road, then kill the throttle again. What would a unit's first response be to the initial blast... after shock... hmmm? They would head to the fallen once they were convinced that there was no attacking unit.
Though my ears do not recognize it, I say, "Alexis, before I move a footpad, I want you to scan the ground in front of us out about five meters. If you detect something that might be a mine, please flash 'mine'; otherwise, flash 'clear' and I will step forward one step. Please repeat the process until we are on the road or stop for a mine."
The word "Aff!" flashes into my view, then is gone again.

Clear.
Throttle, step, wait...
Clear.
Throttle, step, wait...
Clear.
Throttle, step, wait... wait more...
Turn left.
I swing the stick left, throttle, step, wait...
Clear.
Throttle, step, wait...
Clear.
Throttle, step, wait...
Clear.
Throttle, step, wait...
Turn right.
I swing the stick right, throttle, step, wait...
wait...
wait...

Across the visor I read, "Patrick, I have detected a nearly continuous series of mines running parallel to the road about 4 meters out from it."

I suspected as much. The first mine to go is part of a trap for his or her star or lance to follow into the unexpected minefields... and the unit lead who may be on the road would be trashed when he stepped off to check on the fallen. Quite a devious setup, actually, something worthy of a Capellan...

"Visor up, please."
I do not hear them, but the tiny servos smoothly retract the virtual view. I must trust my own senses for a few minutes, but I think it appropriate. I can see how I have come from the trampled trail in the grasses; I retrace my steps and return to the base of the cliff where the electric eye can survey me again. Once again, I raise the torso to see the lens... but now I have no interest in playing.
"Visor back down and clear any weapon's safeties, please."
I click the zoom before the imaged reality can even replace normal sight, and targeting does not take long. As a parting curiosity, I gesture once in salute.
"Double pol, please."
I feel the air cool quickly as the sunlight stops flooding into the confined space of my cockpit. Hand on the control, I bring the reticle up to square with the glassy observer. It sits passively unmoving until just before I fire... then I can see it adjust, just a little, as if it is focused on the muzzle of my ERLL. It has no emotion, that remote control cyclops; I hold no emotion either as I fill the cavern with brilliant green as my weapon discharges... now there is no watcher here, just the thump and rumble of rock and gravel falling.

I want to ruin the trap. To the left side of the vale is an old lava rill, on my approach to the structure, I note that it not only is solid, but it rises above the minefield by tens of meters. Climbing from the near end, I balance my way out along it to where I can see the first yellows along the road. I crouch the raven, making sure to cover the most likely stability issues... or so I think. My ERLL slices through the sedges and this time starts with a direct hit...

I have never seen a nuke deployed, but I wonder if anything else might seem to be so huge. I am an easy 150 meters away, but the blast tosses me off the igneous **** like a child's plaything. the jarring shock of impact probably saves me by knocking me senseless...

...

The first thing I am aware of is a horrible screeching tone, annoying my every fiber. It seems distant but still sets my teeth on edge and makes me want to hit something. All the more annoying, it seems to pervade the air. Stifling as soft deep clay to a running mech, it bogs my thoughts and makes it difficult to think, yet it is hard to place... ethereal and quite unlike any alarm or system sound I know.

I endure this state for the better part of an eternity while trying to get my bearings. The world is pitch dark and I have so sense of anything other than the sound and a pull to my left. Hmmm, the pull seems like gravity., but I am immobilized and only partly responding to it. There is also a feeling of being bound, tied to something unmoving.

It seems like something just short of forever when my mind clears enough to realize where I am... the cockpit of a Raven strapped to the command chair. The tone must be the one Alexis programmed to help me notice any return of hearing. Why the darkness will not clear takes a few minutes to understand; the neuro helmet, while still in place, is powered entirely down... leaving a deep void in the projection screen.

"Alexis," I hear my voice, but it seems distant amid the monotonous drone of the tone from hell, "turn that noise off please."
In the sudden quiet that follows I am suddenly struck by just how loud the sound was; console cooling fans now make up the bulk of the noises I sense.
"Status report please."
"We appear to have several minor issues with the armor on the left torso, 6 plates of ff ablating are loose or damaged severely, the stanchion for the left arm is crushed and the connection struts have lightly twisted the frame within the left torso itself, thought the outer engine mounts are still secure. There appear to be two myomer bundle connections that are unpowered in the left leg. Most severe right now is that all gyros and and other links with the neuro helmet appear to be inoperative. You will be unable to stand the mech in the current condition."

This last bit of information is the most critical and explains the darkness before my eyes and the sense of disorientation.

I make a mental note of the pains I have, but I sense no broken bones or other critical damage of the sort that I can not recover from without medical attention. Worst seems to be my left arm and shoulder, feels like the force of the fall has battered the arm against something loose and the shoulder holding it was wrenched in the process.

...

"How about now?"
"No, not yet, sir."
I have been out of my harness for a while now trying to find the disconnect in the neurohelmet's link to the mech. Half the problem is that I need to keep from stepping on sensitive equipment on the left side of the cockpit... the portion under my feet. There is no real design expectation that you will stay in the cockpit when it is like this. I guess they figure that a scout on the ground like this is dead anyway.

"Wwait, something just happened..."
I am actually not holding any of the lines or couplings, I was just moving a spar out of my way...
"Now it is gone."
Hmmmm...
Time to retrace my motions...
"STOP! You have it!"
Unfortunately, I am balanced precariously and can not maintain the position; but I do note where the spar is making contact. After regaining a stable position, I discover that a piece of armor plating has been blasted through the escape pod shell and gotten wedged into one of the connection panels. I remove it and...
"Power to the helmet is restored, sir. Gyros are powering back on and should be able to work with you when you are back in the chair."

I am so ready to get back into the command chair that I ignore some of the signals on the instrument panels.
Fortunately, Alexis does not..."CTC!"
"Where?" I gasp as I struggle to get seated at right angles to what the chair was designed to accommodate.

"940 meters."
"What?"
"Looks like a ground recon unit... no insignia, all clan gear so far."
This is not good.
"Wait, Exile insignia."
This is even worse.
"Now I have mechs, full star of heavies and mediums... could be a standard Wolf Trinary!"
"Power down."
"Aff, sir."

...

The silence lasts forever... or ten minutes... hard to tell when you are holding your breath straining to hear anything while hanging uncomfortably strapped into the command couch.

Then, I hear them... clatter on the rocks... a barked order... more clatter... they will come around for the kill and I will die. I let myself go limp in the harness I have just managed to get myself into, dangling as if lifeless and hoping that this will be the day they get careless.

And it is.

"Mech appears DOA, sir. Pilot appears hard down, too."
The voice is near at hand, probably look in through my cockpit visor. I hear nothing for a few moments, then...
"Neg, sir. Must be ten tons of rock on that head, we would destroy the salvage to get it open... can just blow the whole thing or wait for the salvage crew to get here with a crane."
There is a silence while orders must be being bandied about, then I hear the voice moving away say, "aff."

Clattering again, moving off...

It must be a good ten minutes before I get the impression that I can breathe again, and another ten before I decide to take the chance.
"Alexis?"
"Aff, Patrick?"
"Power on, enough for just the sensors on a ten second sweep and then kill it."

The xl hums up and I go back to holding my breath... ECM lights up, then BAP, then blank again...
"Nothing shows out there, sir."
"Aff. Ok, power up and prepare to try to stand this... no sensors right now."

The Trinary has to still be fairly near by; I may not be able to escape, but I am going to give it my best shot... with a ruptured eject pod I can not try for orbital recovery, now I have to be as sneaky as possible and outwit those trained by my own clan.

The xl hums again, the familiar coolant sounds and whirling fans all around, and I sense the mech as the helmet comes online.

"Stand the mech, please, Alexis."
I feel the little head struggle against the basalt weighing against it, finally I am able to turn it enough that the rubble begins to move.
Back and forth, back and forth until suddenly it frees itself and I am looking at the sky. The rocks settle in where the head was and a final pivot back down levers the rest of the frame loose. For a moment I ponder again the complexity of getting thrity-five tons to stand upright, but Alexis has already calculated what is needed and has taken over.


Upright is a welcome sensation, and I am very appreciative when I say, "Thank you Alexis!"
"You are most welcome, Patrick."
"Ok, I need full package online... sensors first, then weapons."

ECM and BAP flicker online... instinctively, I turn to head back out of the canyon and run the lithe little mech over the debris before me.

Their salvage crews should be here any time now, what can I do? I have no chance against a trinary or even a binary right now, there has to be a way out, but I need to find it before they find my Raven missing.
The ERLL energizes and I feel just a bit better.

What can I do?

This is not what it was sold to us as... these people are serious and at least appear to be clan... what is up with that? This mission is way outside of what I expect and seems to have literally blown up in my face.

And just where did they go? Are they sweeping for further units? Did they return to base?

"Ground support appears to be arriving, sir, but they are still at max and not expecting us to be up."
I do not have the firepower to kill them all before they can call me in, time to run. I open the throttle full and race back the road to the remembered bridge, hoping I can dance past the combined force of mechs and elementals long enough to escape.

No contacts...

I expect hostile fire at every bend, but there is no one, and I see no indication of passage as I speed along. I cross at Dragon's Bane and keep going until I reach the pass. No contacts. No tracks. Nothing.

...

I have done as instructed, am in a crippled mech, and am unlikely to be much use to the unit, but I suspect that they will need me very soon and will need what I know as well... I sense a trap, but am almost glad for it. Better to die with honor here than in some arena for the masses' entertainment.

I swing the stick and the Raven begins to climb the hillside up to where the rocky peaks have a small gap...

...

The rocks slip a few times, but my ascent is unmarred by unnatural forces. The Raven is still quite agile, even with some leg damage, and I crest the rolling ground with an improving sense of possibility.

To the east, the rocks are hard and unforgiving, but the valley here is much broader and will be harder to plant a trap in; harder, but not impossible...

I find clear tracks from the seven mechs of "a" and "b" and start after them at a moderate trot.

"Alexis, I need an evaluation of this valley and any obvious route, highest possible paranoia, include anything that seems out of place or suspicious based on what we just learned."
"Aff, sir."
"Any chance of a secure sat from here?"
"Not for at least an hour, sir."
"Thank you, Alexis, please let me know when we might have one."

The command chair sways back and forth as I run confidently along.

"I have detected something odd, sir."
"Yes?"
"Two of the four channels OpCom directed us to use appear to be jammed, the other two are also under heavy noise."

Will the fun never end?

"I have your scan results, Patrick."
"Thank you, please show me sat on any red flags first."

The first is actually now slightly behind me, and I pull the throttle back and swing left to check on it... no sense getting myself into trouble before I am ready for it. It is a tight clump of trees without any reason for the high density and magnetic readings it has...

no, wait, I can see it now... the remains of two ancient assault mechs, locked in what must have been a death embrace. No time to look the rusted remains over for salvage, and judging by the corroded and overgrown state, there probably is nothing there anyway. In the back of my mind, I mentally log this knowledge away for future reference and turn back to the cooling trail my companions took.
"Next please, Alexis."

The next location looks much the same in the sat, as do two more along the path. Spread along the next seven kilometers, perhaps they are remains of some long forgotten Inner Sphere nightmare. Still, I stop at the next one to confirm it's status; again decay and debris, nothing significant.

"That is odd, sir."
"What, Alexis?"
"Well, sir, there has been no salvaging here either."
That is odd, but not unexpected if the engagement were disastrous to all involved, none might have made it back. But still, four assault mechs that were not salvaged at all...
"Are you sure, Alexis?"
"Well, that does appear to be a potentially functional LBX20 still attached to the left arm on that awesome. Inner sphere manufacture, but probably still worth a lot of c-bills to an enterprising scavenger."
"Good catch, mam, keep you sensors open to anything like this."
"Thank you, Patrick, I will.

I stop and look at the rest of the route to the final target and wonder if they are already there... if not, they need to know what I do. I should be running to catch them, but something is bothering me about these dead mech groves, I just need to figure out what it is. Time is crucial, and when I can not figure out the pattern, I choose to head on. The only change I make is to head directly to the next flag and not hold to the trail the other two lances made. It is only about 900 meters off the more direct route they took and I can still see the approximate path as I approach the wooded clump.

"CTC, sir, active powerplant and ECM detected."
I look at the remains and see nothing suspicious... at least at first... there is a dead atlas the has its partly dismembered head resting against a tree... was it just the blast that set it facing the road? The pilot must have died with honor, there is no indication that he ejected. The odd thing is that the grinning skull itself does not appear to be really damaged.

Then I see it... and freeze the throttle... the eye holds an electronic lens like the one I destroyed earlier under the overhang... only now it does not see me.

Now it makes sense, everything about the previous two tree clumps adds up... a unit coming through might investigate one or even two, but would likely just eye this clump from a distance... and they would be spotted.

Around the back of the clump I go, the other two lances are in serious trouble... they had not come here, and wouldn't know they are already under surveillance as they go striding into the waiting jaws of the trap. Now I have to take some risks or they may all be taken down, throttle up and the sprint begins...

The swaying becomes a little choppier, and I guess the damaged muscle bundles in the left leg are hampering me. Still, there is little I can do about them right now and the jarring is not so bad that it can make me slow.

...

I swing behind each of the remaining salvage groves, noting the the fifth and seventh both also have hot power signatures and ECM. I detect no Beagle type active probes, but am not going close enough to let anything else that might be active sense me.

On I run.

The ground fills with more low trees and brush now, all but forcing me back towards the road, yet I have no desire to walk into a trap and find my skills with mech dancing put to the test. I find more open, if more uneven, ground on the slopes to my left, farthest from the valley we started out in. I move in and out of BAP range of the natural route through this part of country, but I dare not go back too soon. All the while, I am looking at the sats for the possible threats and ways to avoid them.

When finally a red flag will block my path, I slow to a walk at max visual and look the spot over... it seems innocuous but it commands wonderful high ground and would be the perfect site to a spotter or worse.

The gauss muzzle is all but perfectly hidden, looking in the distance like a small hole on the shadowed rocks, but it is there none the less... throttle to zero...
"Crouch the mech, please, Alexis."

...


"Secure sat is in marginal position, sir, we will not have full bandwidth, but should be able to connect."
"Thank you, Alexis. Connect please."
Slowly I gain access to our own navsat of this part of the planet, downloading it as fast as the link will allow.

They mined the other route in, and there is at least one gauss covering this route now. It all seems an expensive deterrent if this is a light tech outpost.

...

As never before, now I am glad for the exotic electronics... ECM and IFF may be saving my life right now and as dishonorable as it seems, hiding to assess the situation makes the most sense.

My sat link becomes stronger and I begin the search... what is the goal here? After noting that the basic ten meter navsat and the "official" 3 meter tactical sats have data errors on the very area I want to see, I get access to a slightly less "official" half meter meter tactical one and see what we are going in against.

There are three very large "derelict" buildings that from our briefing looked insignificant... but which show a variety of tracks radiating into the main activity areas. There are also actually three drop ship pads, all well hidden and each quite easily large enough to accommodate the Overlord we are expecting. Still... the complex buildings themselves are not very large, not what I would expect...

"Sir, do you see that?"
On the horizon ahead I notice something bright enough to flash brilliant in the afternoon sunshine. It happens several times and I begin to see the dark billows above them that would indicate battle. I am needed, if only to give a distraction...

...

The cockpit rocks like the little head was dancing crazy, the Rav is sprinting and weaving, finding ways to out guess the targeting on the gauss. A third round screams by as the controller again guesses wrong and I come within range of the ERLL. I don't slow and my shot misses by at least two meters. Forward I dart, closing the distance, but not running head-on at him. As I wait for the recharge, he gets off another shot, and again I bring my weapon to bear. This time I get some damage out of him and get a lock as well... the lrm's do their bit, and the gauss station falls silent.

Wide open now, I am running for the new columns of smoke on the horizon. I have that calm sense that I am too late and yet the urgent need to arrive and help.

"Open the coms, please."
"Aff, sir."
"39c, 17a..."
Nothing but the thump thump thump of little Raven feet pounding the sod.
"39c, 17a..."
Closer come the plumes and I suspect from their increasing size and roiling nature, my last chance to make a difference is running out.

"39c? 13b. Need eyes! Coming, quaff?"
"Enroute 13b. 17a gone?"
"Aff... all of a gone."
No real time to talk, I need to get to where I can visually assess the field.
"Any b left?"
"Aff, 77, crippled and pinned down. 22 unaccounted for."
"Opponents?"
"I believe there is a Wolf supernova out there, plus permanent emplacements."

Not good at all... at least two stars of heavier mechs and two stars of elementals; more than enough combined firepower to have cut down the GDL lance.
But surely they must have taken some...
I crest a low rise and see the field. I am only silhouetted for a few moments, but a gauss round blasts by and a ppc discharge ravages my damaged left shoulder before I can reach cover.
Hidden in a narrow ravine, I wait out the heat and damage while scanning the tacsat. I can see 13b on sensors at 785 meters and want to make sure that I don't misjudge based on my position. 77b is not visible, but the lay of the land would have the most likely position out of my range anyway.
I key the outbound comm momentarily closed and order, "Alexis, please center tacsat on 13b position and zoom to 1300m radius."
The display shifts and zooms so rapidly that the details are just a blur for a moment, then come into clear focus."
"Aff, Patrick."

There are four red flags in a huge arc around a point just 200 meters to 13b's right. further, if some of the blue flags are parts of the ring, the arc is even more solid with another 12 possible positions. Toss in a supernova and it becomes a killing field almost as ugly as our original route... they knew about this and expected company here too.
"77b, 39c."
"Go, 39. Hope you got some bright ideas, just machine guns left... 13 is keepin' me alive."
It suddenly occurs to me that the signal is not being jammed now.
"On my mark, fall back at full speed to regroup, if I don't make it, retreat to morning start with all due haste."
"No honor but wise... aff."
"You call it boss..."
"Go!!!"
Throttle to full, I race out angling towards 13b, but dancing the mech as I go. There is a ppc bolt and another that flash past me and the bright twin ERLL that heat my torso as I fire at the first ppc's hiding place. I can see the Summoner running and firing from a full torso twist, it looks badly beaten up. 77b is in the Argus... and honestly, I have never seen a mech so battered that was not about to go crit.

But...

There is no further fire on me or they as I dance about and then turn to follow them. It is only after I think I am able to breath that...
"Well, Commander, nicely done. I trust you had an interesting day."
The voice is a woman and well used to command, too.
"You will not soon forget this lesson, will you?"
I could swear that I recognize the voice, but the context is wrong.
"Were I actually in command here, I trust we would both remember this day differently."
My confidence is partly bravado, but partly born of the realization that this was a mission so far below cutdown that we not only had had no chance... but that the GDL commander had cornered himself into a trap without a good enough analysis.
"Yes, I trust that when we meet again, you will not have to play the role of dezgra. For now I grant you and your survivors hegira. Take it and go."

"I accept and thank you, Ovkhan. May I have your name, please, Captain?"
"Very astute, Commander. but no, it does not serve my purpose to tell you who I am... you have guessed my rank and that will have to do for today."
Again, I am sure I have heard that voice before, but it remains elusive.

...

The kilometers back to the original jump off point this morning seem to roll by with no incident. The only thing that sets the running time apart from any other run is the nagging sense that there is more to this day's encounter than I have sorted out.

Thump, thump, thump...

SAMANTHA!!!

...

On and on we jog, heavy footfalls making staccato drummings. The argus is having trouble making a lot of speed and we are moving as a unit, so the leggy Raven feels almost stifled. In another place and time, this motion would be about right to make me sleepy, but now it goes unnoticed.

"Alexis, I need a secure sat as soon as I can get it."
"Aff, sir. Actually, as unusual as it seems, I actually have two available right now."
"That is unusual, mam."
"Aff. Very against the odds."
"Is anything odd about either?"
"Actually, yes, there is one almost directly overhead. Very strong signal and in a slow almost synchronous orbit... almost as if it were there just for us..."
"Hmmm..."
"The second one is the same one we used earlier, but it is only available for another 5 minutes."
"Secure on the second sat only, please."
"Aff, linking... established."

For almost five minutes, I ask questions... there is no time to await answers, but I have a stream of queries and the connection dies before I am finished.

The late afternoon light reflects off the Summoner's cooling ports as we finally reach the original jump off point.
"39c to both b."
"Aff."
"Yup!"
"We have obviously not fulfilled the contract, I am not sure we will get any compensation for this... how are you two fixed for resources?"
"I'm kinda washed up with this."
"Rather limited, sir."
"Ok, since we were so badly outgunned, let me try to get through to GDL and see what we can do for the both of you. In the meantime, if you can get to Mechsect, I can see that you have quarters and maybe some spare parts."
"I'm going, ya don't have ta offer twice."
"Alexis, transmit the hangar location and a basic access authorization, please."
"Done, sir."

"May I have a secure link, sir?" It is the lady in the Summoner...
"Yes, mam, align for direct."
The aligning beams dance as the mech heads swing around to the beam connection.
"Link established.”
“What is your concern, mechwarrior?"
"Sir, perhaps I heard things I should not have."
"No, pilot, if you heard what I did, there was nothing that you should be concerned about."
"Why did they cease fire when you approached?"
"I am not sure."
"That captain knew you, sir, quaff?"
"Aff, that does appear to be the case."
"And she thinks you are blooded and ranked."
"Perhaps she was correct."
"May I have your name sir?"
"Patrick will have to do for now, pilot. Meet me in Mechsect and we can consider what more I am willing to say. Fair enough, quaff?"
"Aff."
"Right now, it is probably better that I head out and get a few things taken care of. I will meet you there. 39c out."
"Aff. 13b out."

The raven responds with an almost delight as I push the throttle hot and swing around towards Solaris City and Mechsect. I am still unsettled and have the distinct feeling that the day will have ramifications that I can not even imagine.

Sunset comes and the day flames with a glory that is all too often missed anymore. The leggy run and swaying cockpit remind me of other times and for a moment or two I relax.

Then the moment passes...

[cmopatrick]

And never forget that help may come
From the most unlikely of quarters
And success rest upon the shoulders
Of those kept shadowed until the time of need.
-- The Remembrance of Clan Wolf, Passage 222, Verse 6, Lines 11-14

Sunlight plays off the tiny words etched onto my codex as a reminder of the request that sent me into my place in Khan Vlad's plan. I feel the chess board and wish I were more sure of my role... I sense the motion of an opposing queen and am sure of the danger once again. Yet the Khan was sure that my time will come and my honor and place in the touman be restored when what I do is understood.

....

Jerry has his feet up on the footpad of his shredded Argus, a relaxed look that seems all the more interesting now that I know his history. Natasha appears to be at attention, even sitting in an old sway back chair that seems both overstuffed and related to a quicksand pit. I am sitting on the shattered housing and remains of the lbx20 that had recently been Jerry's main firepower. we must look to be quite the trio to Erin as she labors mightily on the Argus.

"Well, the furthest up the GDL management chain-of-command was an ex-field commander named Scott, and he had no sympathy."
"Well, surprise, surprise..." Jerry has a look of disgust comparable to how I would emote if asked to eat rotten fish.
"Honestly," I continue, "I think we are at a dead end there; we are not GDL and they lost an entire unit... I suspect they just want to forget they ever sponsored the unit that contracted the job. Since I have no intention of filing a complaint with the MRBC, we are kind of out of options to recover directly."
"That said," I continue, "I will make either of you a deal in return for getting your mechs back to working and armed: I want some questions asked without my name attached to them. We each know what happened in Haunted Hollow. I want to know why."
Natasha seems about to ask something, but no words proceed and her lips close... the look remains, however. I give her a moment, then decide to let it be for now.
"Jerry, you have merced with GDL before and you said you have local mercnet contacts... I want to know who called in the contract and what the original mission description was. I can not believe this was a simple case of overconfidence by a small lance commander, especially when GDL looks REALLY bad because of this..."
Jerry interrupts, "Let me get this straight... I ask a bunch of questions and find you some answers and you get Bessie back to combat ready? Not a problem, when can I start?"
We both explode with laughter at his enthusiastic approach... well, his wild hand gestures add to the humor... but poor Natasha has no real clue what we are finding so funny about the situation.
"Ok, Jerry, off you go... just stop and make sure there is nothing in that junker that will fry my crew chief."
"Nothing left to do the deal, boss. Back when ah got you some answers!" He walks away with a bounce that seems expressive of supreme confidence.

Now Natasha and I are alone... and her look gets very serious. Perhaps it is best that I start this off on the proper foot.
"May I scan your codex, miss?"

She is startled and seems a bit shaken. I had not expected the hesitation and am now wondering if there are a few other things what we need to talk about. Her face is almost passive but i see the turmoil as she reaches for a decision...
"May I have your name and clan first, commander?"
Hmmm... sharp move on her part. Now it is my turn to evaluate the situation and measure my response.

"I am Patrick. I earned Bloodname Carnes by Trial. I am from the Tiber sibko of Clan Wolf. Is that enough?"
"That was a Wolf Supernova we were ambushed by..."
"They are Exiles," I nearly spit the word, but not knowing the young lady's leanings, I try not to sound too Crusader.
"Then you are not a warrior of Phelan Ward's?"
"No."
"Good." She smiles, perhaps with regret, "then I will not have to challenge you to combat." She looks at the undamaged twin CUAC10 Shadowcat behind me and might almost seem interested in not encountering the firepower... at least not yet.

She slips back her sleeve and the Smoke Jaguar emblazoned on her codex flashes in the light.

…

It has been two days since I spoke with Jerry; if I did not still have his now mostly repaired Argus in my hangar bay, I would have not expected to hear from him again. Yet even I am surprised by the terse one line message that is relayed to me... "Lights Haven - 1630 today - pilots cantina. Jer"

I had not been back into Lights Haven since I moved all my gear here, but now the road feels familiar as the nimble Raven sways rhythmically there. In the back of my mind there is a shadow of a suspicion that this is more than just a meeting to give me info. With my recent luck, I almost expect Jerry to be an old friend of Tom's and brother of someone I or our touman killed on Tukayyid. On the other hand, no reason to look like I expect trouble... others might misread that and think I am weak or worried.

As the compound walls and guard points fill my view, the comms open, "Raven Three Nine-ar, this is LH control, stop and identify yourself."
I ease the throttle back to stop and key on air, "LH control, Rav Three Nine, Patrick. I am just meeting a friend at the cantina."
"Raven Three Nine-ar, please power down your active scan and stand by."
"Alexis, radar off please."
"Done, sir."
The quiet lasts only a few moments before the mic keys back in, "Raven Three Nine-ar, who are you here to meet?"
"Huh?" slips out before I catch myself... this is an unexpected turn of events... they have never asked before. "Excuse me?"
"I need to know who you are expecting to meet, pilot."
"LH Control, since when has the protocol for your cantina been to interrogate visitors?"
"Since a pilot was murdered there half an hour ago."
Hmmmm, sounds like one of the patrons got a bit too rowdy. Ok, better not to cause trouble, give them what they want. "I am meeting a pilot named Jerry."
"Jerry, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Raven Three Nine-ar, please proceed to the compound control office."
"What?"
"Please do as requested, sir. No offense is intended, we just need to ask a few questions."
I have a very bad feeling about this... "As you wish."
"Thank you, sir. Raven Three Nine-ar clear to enter, proceed through the gate and on to the main complex."
"Thank you, sirs."

I am rather unprepared for the scene as I enter the opened gateways... instead of the overabundance of lights that usually populate the grounds, two Atlases and two Dire Wolves tower over buildings at the center of the complex. The Mechsect militia, or whatever they call themselves, must all be here, and in the biggest mechs they could grab... whatever they have in mind, they are not interested in fooling with a bunch of independent light pilots.

I walk the Raven to the main building, a two storied (at least above ground) stone structure with detailed combat-themed friezes carved along the upper level... it is an odd combination that leaves the impression of a bunker with a facelift. I kneel the mech alongside one of the Dire Wolves, noting that the ground is rather chewed up: looks like the behemoth shifted around on rain-soaked ground and blended up enough dusty mud to equate to an annoyance. But I demech without further ado and proceed through the sliding glass portal... there is a long coolness in the hallway and a sense that it is way too quiet. The air is still but not musty, yet the granite-like stone that seems to seamlessly enclose me like some ancient tomb. These dense walls give no hint of awareness or change or impermanence... they just are.

I have walked about 30 paces when I hear a portal slide open and then shut behind me, followed by the sound of footsteps heading the same direction. A quick look over my shoulder confirms my suspicion, a pair of burly guards are following at about my speed. I can stop and challenge them, or continue... today, the sense that I need to address whatever has happened overrides my need to be free of this kind of control.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I say over my shoulder, while I continue to walk.
They do not answer, and their pace continues to match mine.

At the end of the hallway is a rather smallish door set into an ornate but solid railing; it slides easily, but I note that the vibrations from it rolling back travel easily to my feet... it must weigh a ton or more to do that. Inside the room is much brighter and there is some kind of paneling that hides the omnipresent stone. The furnishings are not opulent, but they are not cheap, either.

A young woman rises from what seems a reception desk in front of me and greets me, "Patrick?" and at my nod continues, "Please check your weapon into one of the lockers on the wall, Mr. Hansen will see you when you are disarmed.”

I can feel eyes on me, but I do note that the door behind me closed without the husky pair having entered. I am already committed to this course, time to let follow-though become my controlling choice.

The weapon's lockers seem well sized and often used, a quick hand scan and the hardened hatch opens to receive my sidearm. I close it quickly and turn back to the young lady, who now guides me through a small maze of semi-enclosed office space to a somewhat pretentious solid wood door. The nameplate signifies “Mr. Hansen, Controller” but nothing further. There are a few other doors like this one, but nothing to indicate if this one is more or less important than the others.

The door actually has a manual knob for freeing it to swing inward, a rather quaint addition, and my young guide now turns this to open the portal; it swings easily and silently, revealing a moderately sized room with four men in it. It is obviously meant for one of them to use as a normal office space, and my guess is that the gentleman seated behind a large marble-surfaced desk is the expected resident. The rest of the office is similarly appointed, cold hard surfaces with few personal artifacts to lend it warmth. I recognize that they have chosen this office precisely because its tone is so hard and unforgiving… and not because of the somewhat bemused denizen.

The next two men are both similarly arrayed in what must be uniforms to match the huge mechs outside. They both still carry their side arms, but no other weapons or equipment seem to be in sight. The taller of the two is standing, looks the younger, more junior, but also the more serious… if they play “good officer, bad officer” then my guess is that he will be the bad one. The other looks to be closer in age to myself; his bearing is also that of one used to commanding respect; he is seated on a rather uncomfortable looking stool.

The real surprise in the room is Tom, my old crew chief. He looks out of place and seems rather put out about something. I remember the last time we met and am not sure if he is here to help or be a problem.

Now I have a moment to take control of the situation before the officers speak, it is not one I will waste; to the senior, I directly say, “I am Patrick. I understand you have some information for me.” I say it with authority and leave no question that I see him as an equal. The desk bound man looks stunned to have been bypassed and Tom breaks into a grin… perhaps he is here not as an antagonist.

The officer to whom I spoke stands and takes time to make it obvious he is looking me over… even though I would suspect he has already made up his mind about me. As the sputtering suit-clad Mr. Hansen starts to speak up, he raises his hand at him and the room falls silent… well, except for a chuckle that Tom can’t seem to contain. Hansen glares at both of them, then at me, but says no more.

“I am captain Klein of the Solaris Regulatory Militia. I understand that you know Jeremiah Court.”
“Yes, Captain Klein. May I know the details you have about what happened here?” No real reason to leave him with the idea that I do not know anything… the less he knows about my lack of information, the better.
“We are asking the questions here!” Taller junior pipes in, but Klein waves him off.
“Hmmm, you may yet, but for now, I would like to ask you a few questions if you will allow me.”
“Depending on your questions, I will try to cooperate, sir.”

“May I have your name?”
“I am Patrick.”
“Unit affiliation?”
“CMO”
So far there is no emotion.
“Clan?”
“I am a mercenary… I fight freelance.”
“You wear a codex.”
“Mercenaries may have once been clan, but are no longer accountable to their old clans; we are dezgra.” My answer is accurate if not complete.
“Like those of Wolf’s Dragoons once may have been?”
“Perhaps.”

We look at each other with enough understanding to be certain that the other knows we each know more than we are saying. He appears to think for a long minute, then goes on to his next question, “what is your relationship with a merc named Jeremiah Court?”
“He survived a difficult mission with me recently… one of three of us out of two lances that returned. I have been letting him repair his mech in my compound as a courtesy.”
Tom smiles at this, nodding like it fit me to have done that. Captain Klein notices and nods to himself too before continuing, “So he was not in your employ?”
My turn to smile, “no, Captain Klein, we were both mercing for another employer… the MRBC would be able to determine if that information should be released.”
“So you will not save me the time?”
“No offense, sir, but I suspect you already know it is not good policy to reveal contract sources without MRBCs approval.”

“Well, as it happens, I already know you were both on a contract with the GDL, a contract that went horribly awry. The other surviving pilot is another cannister-born named Natasha.” His use of the freebirth epithet for True Born seems only partially for effect… he may respect me as an opponent and maybe as a warrior, but he barely disguises that he does not like or trust anyone from the clans.
“Your point is?”
He thinks for another long minute, I am beginning to think this is also for effect, before going on, “Ok, are you aware that your fellow survivor was shot to death a half hour ago, in a booth in the cantina here?”
“No, but all the dramatics on the way in had led me to believe something serious was up.”
Tom laughs out loud before responding to the glare that Captain Klein gives him. It occurs to me that I still like and respect Tom.

“Well, the ‘dramatics’ are just precautions, clanner. We like to be cautious here, especially when your type are involved.” He is now becoming more openly hostile, but I suspect he is also convinced he is losing control of the situation and does not like it.
Rather than bait him, I choose to ignore the slur, “So what do you need of me, Captain Klein?”
He seems to settle just a bit, “just a few more questions, Patrick. Do you know why pilot Court was in the cantina?”
“Well, while he would have been very early for it, it is a public place and I was to meet him here this afternoon.”
“What about?”
“We were going to chat about some matters of mutual interest, nothing in particular.”
“So you would not be looking for anything in ‘particular’ that might be in his effects?”
“No, sir, I would not.” Not knowing what he might have had, I could honestly say this.
“Do you know why someone might kill him?”
“Are you sure it was murder and not a brawl?”
“Yes.”
My expression deliberately leaves some doubt that I accept this, and Captain Klein goes through his thinking routine before continuing.
“You will likely know soon enough: Jeremiah Court was shot once in the head with a 10.4mm side arm by an unidentified assailant… his weapon was still in his holster and there were no signs of struggle. Furthermore, he was sitting with this man,” he motions to Tom, “when he was murdered.”

Now I understand why Tom is here.

“Ok, well, is there anything else that I can do for you, Captain Klein?”
Now the junior officer speaks up, “I want to see your sidearm.”
Klein smiles and waits for my reaction.
“It is in a locker in the office,” I say, gesturing behind me. “It has not left my side all day and I am sure you already have a good idea about my movements with the cams all over town.”
Now the captain’s smile grows, he may not like me as a clanner but he knows I understand what is up. “I would prefer that you humor us,” he almost chuckles.
“Please, you are welcome to look at it or even check it for recent firings.”
“Just a minute,” it is finally Mr. Hansen’s time to lose his temper, “I want to know what is going to be done about this mess, you are not just going to walk out of here without paying for the cleanup.”

I look at the man, a smallish weasel-faced accountant type, and decide that now is a good time to prove that I can be just as merciless as my reputation as a clanner would imply. Planting my hands at shoulder’s width on the desktop in front of him, I lean towards him… there is no expression on my face and no threat inherent in my approach, but I note the junior officer shifts his position as if to be placed to defend the hapless controller.
“Mister Hansen, if I was not there, why would you think I am responsible for your expenses?” My tone is even, but hardened… it carries that deadly combination of exact pronunciation and precise cadence that one expects of a wolf officer confronting a nearly insubordinate underling.
Hansen leans slowly back, my eyes never leaving his and my position unchanging even when junior steps to his side.
“Putkin, stay out of this.” Klein does not expect to be immediately obeyed, but leaves little doubt that he means it. I am aware that Putkin looks over at him and shifts slightly back, but I continue the granite face stare at the squirming Mr. Hansen.

“He was your man…” he sputters.
“No, he was not.”
“Well… Tom here is your crew chief…”
“Tom quit of his own volition weeks ago. I had not seen him since.”
“Well… um… he was there to meet you, you said so.”
“Since when has meeting someone made me accountable for damages I was not even present for, much less actually create?”
Hansen slides his chair back, he is not used to being in the inferior position and it obviously discomforts him immensely. I have a moment of pity for those in the office, Hansen is the type to take his frustration out on anyone he has power over once I leave... but that is not my problem. I let him back away, then turn dismissively and refocus on Captain Klein.
“Aside from the sidearm, is there anything else you need, Captain?”
“No, nothing comes to mind right now… you will of course be in town for a while…”
“Unless I have an arena match in another city. You know where my operations and storage are, I will be back if I leave to fight.”
He nods, “fair enough. You are free to go, just allow officer Putkin to check your sidearm on your way out.”
“Thank you, Captain Klein. Will you send someone over for his mech or should I consider it salvage?”
“What is it?”
“An Argus.”
“If I find next of kin, I will send them your way… but I don’t expect to.”
We both know that few mercs as footloose as Jerry would have many family ties.
“I will sell the rig and bank the proceeds… if someone can make a valid claim in the next month, I will turn it over to them.”
“You want his effects?”
“If you want them sold with the mech.”
Klein smiles… it is that wry look of a chess player seeing a draw as inevitable.
“I will keep them for now, then.” He stands and offers a brief casual salute.
I head to the door but turn when I hear Hansen snarl, “Get out of here, Thomas! You are not welcome here anymore.”
Tom is standing shaking his head at the obviously now livid Mr. Hansen.

“Hansen, care to duel in a mech?” I talk down to him, and like a cur he shrinks from the verbal slap. He may be dangerous in his own way, but on Solaris a blooded mech pilot is way out of his league and he knows it.
His eyes are slits but he feigns meekness to whisper, “no…”
“Tom, I’ll get you a drink if you wish.”
Tom nods and steps towards the door. Putkin starts to object, but Klein waves him off. Without further consideration, I turn, open the door, and walk out into the office.
At the weapons lockers, I open mine and offer the holster and weapon to Putkin. He runs a scan and then, disgusted at the apparent lack of result, hands the sidearm back.

The heavy door rolls back into its receptacle and I lead the way into the now empty hall, Tom close behind. I feel rather than hear it rumble closed again, but I am already striding to the door and the open air beyond.

…

Tom sits across the table in a small establishment that I have found to have the hottest spicy food on this side of Solaris 7. Tears are streaming from my eyes and I know I have that “this is REALLY GOOD” grin painted all over my face. Tom seems equally afflicted and at least as pleased.
“Wow, this is as hot as you said… EXCELLENT!”
“Yup, just make sure you don’t rub your eyes, you got some on your hand.”
“That would have hurt.”
“Yes, sir, make you blind almost.”
We both chuckle, and Tom drinks his alcoholic brew.

“Jerry had something for you.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“No, he was playing things very close to the vest… guess he had good reason to.”
“He seemed like a good guy.”
“I do know some things that he had asked me about… interested?”

I look him over and wonder if I should listen…

“Your GDL mission was meant to fail… no survivors…”
“Well… seems that they forgot to tell our target… they let us go.”
“You were not supposed to be there… you saved their lives.”
“Excuse me?”
“The mission was intended to make the GDL back off elsewhere, humble them. The target would have gladly slaughtered all of them except that you were there… you were not expected and the client did not realize you would have enough significance would get you out alive.”

Hmmmm, a lot of information, perhaps if I lay my own information on the table, I might find out more, “Samantha?”
Tom looks at me, evaluating.
“I am sure the captain was Samantha.”
“Yes, that makes sense. Jerry seemed to believe the Wolf officer knew you and let you go because of that.”
“I think there was more to her decision than emotion.”
Tom looks at me for a minute, then nods, “I think you are right, but I’m not sure what all the pieces mean.”
“Give me what you have, perhaps it will make sense to me.”
“Did you ever get a scan of her codex?”
“No, it was never offered.”
Tom laughs hard for a good minute… He finally gives me that condescending look that all but says, “yes, and?” I get the impression that he found no issue with a covert scan.

“So you don’t recognize her?”
“No…”
“Well, according to the version of the Master Codex that I have access to, she is from the exact same eugenic line as Natasha Kerensky… just one generation younger. She served with the Spiders on Tukayyid and in Natasha Kerensky’s Supernova during the Refusal War up until your former ilKhan sent part of your army away with old Phelan.”

Being reminded so of the Widow or the Traitor’s creation of the Exiles almost boils my blood, but Tom is acting as an ally, no reason to assail him for crimes he really does not understand, let alone have part in committing.
“Well, that explains a lot, but not her part now.”
“Well, there is more.”
“Yes?”
“She also appears to have served with a unit that fought in Victor Davion’s Operation Bulldog…”
“Wow…”
“And the part I figured you might find interesting…” he seems to pause a long time.
“Yes?”
“She trained and served in Operation Vanguard… as did you.”

I suspect my surprise shows, then it dawns on me that if Tom had surreptitiously scanned Samantha’s codex, he might have scanned mine too.
Tom seems to have followed my train of thought quite well, he now has an ear to ear grin that has me certain.
“How long ago did you know all this?”
“Well, I got your codex the day after you rescued me. Sam’s came later. But I never put the data together until Jerry started asking some interesting questions.”

I take a bite of my food and the fire momentarily takes my mind off the situation. It is a welcome respite, however short, and I seriously enjoy it. Tom too eats in tears and silence for a few minutes.

“Do you know the other survivor?”
“Yes, her mech is also in my compound while she gets a refit.”
“You’ve become a regular Santa Claus.”
The reference eludes me, it seems like I have heard of this character in a historical context, I wonder if he was an old Star League pilot or some ancient Terran military writer like Sun Tzu.
“Well, ok…”
“She is in danger.”
It does not surprise me, somehow, but I don’t really know everything I need to consider… “Well, what are you doing now?”
Tom grins, “Askin’ for mah job back.”
“Well, you would have to work with the girl I have now. She is bright, but not quite as experienced.”
“Done.”

…

The battered Wolfhound carcass was just this morning a running mech. Amid a stinking haze of still smoldering hydraulic fluid, it sits still warm on a low carryall trailer fresh from the Cathay arena that saw both its demise and my disappointment. I never even saw who fired, or if there were multiples… first out, it was like I got hit all at once. Looking at the seared head structure just outside of the pod shell, I note that the damage is so great that I should consider myself lucky to have ejected and be alive. The pod itself is badly hammered, without the reflective ablading refit Erin had suggested, I might have been a charred corpse strapped into the dead mech.

For a moment I wonder about this, but then I notice Tom and Erin pouring over the remains like a team of bloodhounds. The irony of my two techs strikes me anew. Tom is the old vet, wise to the ways of the mech while Erin is the young brash independent with brilliant insights at the most unexpected times. Most humorous to me is that both of them seem smitten by the other. He is at least a generation older, probably two, but when the two of them are together, he seems to act like a hormone driven teen. For her part, she seems inspired by him, almost in awe, and she is showing more skill and confidence than ever before. They talk mech and war stories every moment of the day and I have not seen them apart since I brought Tom in last week. Right now the two of them are looking over the shattered hulk and laughing about something, probably my record in the light arena competition.

I still really don’t seem to have the knack for the arena. Combat and reconnaissance missions are so very different from the free for all, shoot everything that moves, pace yourself so you don’t get into the thick of battle before your opponents are a lot more damaged than you… well, I understand the mechanics, but sorely I miss my star or lance structure. If I were not here for other reasons and with significant funds being used to my benefit, my dismal record would have already propelled me back to some far-flung battle line.

Jerry’s Argus is no longer a fixture in the hangar; a rather quiet and unassuming broker paid for the lumbering mech yesterday and the bank transfer is already out of escrow and into the savings account. The only thing I found odd about the transaction was the requirement that the mech be “as is” as opposed to fitting it out for something else or stripping it completely. It also seems that the buyer likes Arguses and was willing to pay a small premium to make sure I held it for delivery. Come to think of it, I was contacted almost as soon as I posted it onto the chassis market listing. I did take precautions about where I delivered the mech, but it was just a clearinghouse lot at the corner of AutoCannon Way and Meredith Ave… out in public and nothing unusual.

Captain Klein has dropped by twice in the last week, but his questions seem almost forced; I would guess he is still trying to cat-and-mouse me into expressing interest in whatever he has of Jerry’s, but so far I am not taking the bait. From Tom’s comments, I do suspect there is something of import, but for now I have to be cautious.

From my perch in my Shadowcat’s command chair, I look out at the rather empty building. I have two Ravens and a still intact Wolfhound parked across the main walkway from me, and a nearly new Storm Crow sitting to my immediate left; the hangar is otherwise empty, Natasha’s Summoner has been gone for days.

I wonder about Natasha, I have not seen her in four or five days. The last time she was packing her Summoner as if for a mission. She was even rolling the ammo for her auto cannon into the case storage herself, loading all four tons while offering neither comment nor information. Once the news about Jerry reached her, she had become more secretive, saying little and expressing less. I don’t know everything Tom told her, but she seemed to become exceptionally watchful, always on edge.

From the courtyard I feel the deep vibrating crump, crump of a heavy or small assault coming in and stopping near the hangar. My comrades in CMO often drive the big rigs, so I think nothing of it.

There is a loud clatter from the carryall; Tom and Erin are looking at the upper torso and have dislocated part of the pile. I wonder what might be so interesting that they would clamber onto that mound of shattered endosteel. In fact, now that I think about it, why are they not just stripping anything salvageable and selling off the hulk? They are actually studying the wreckage… do they see something that I missed?

Edited by cmopatrick, 03 November 2012 - 07:38 PM.

[cmopatrick]

It is at this moment that the most unexpected thing happens… Samantha walks confidently into my hangar.

Tom freezes and Erin turns to watch… and I am locked in a stunned position that would leave no doubt that she is the last person I expected to walk in my door.
Even Alexis seems surprised when she almost whispers, “Padraig… it appears to be Samantha…”

She looks around, then heads for my Scat. I suddenly know why I have always thought I recognize her… she does indeed look just like the Black Widow did those many years ago. Apprehension governs my response, when I finally get myself to move; but I do my best to hide my uncertainty.
“Alexis, please seal the cockpit when I have demeched.”
“As you wish, sir.”
I clamber out over the torso side and onto the waiting scaffold, dropping to the paving just before she reaches me. Above me the cockpit seals and I wish secretly that Alexis could cover me with the mech’s big guns.

“Patrick, we need to talk. Come with me.” It is a command.
“Excuse me?” I am incredulous and I leave no doubt in my tone. She will have to do better than that.
“You and I must talk now. I do not have a lot of time to waste. Do as I say, Commander.”
“Begging your pardon and with all due respect, Captain, you are not in my chain of command. For that matter, you are also neither in uniform nor even recognized from my touman… you have no right to order me. State your purpose, request a trial, offer a challenge, or ask nicely… those are your options.”

Now it is Samantha’s turn to be surprised. We both know I have been a merc for a long time, now some of my insubordination seems to actually strengthen my position for the Khan I do still serve.
“Now I remember why I like you… you have the Lupus spirit. Lone Wolf or not, you are still one who lives by your pack instincts.”
Her compliments nudge at my sensibility, but I stand my ground.
“Thank you, Samantha. Now do you want to ask nicely?”
She laughs, a dark laugh that is both merriment and potentially murderous. “As you wish, Patrick. Will you accompany me to a safe location to discuss issues dealing with your continued survival?”
“You are an Exile, why should I trust you?”
“You are a Crusader and confidant of Vlad Ward’s… why should I trust you?”
“If you plan to kill me, at least promise to let me die in a mech.”
“If I meant to kill you, you would have died with honor on the field last week.”

It seems like forever since I ran my Raven into Haunted Hollow, but she is right, it has only been ten days. The same mech stands behind her now, refitted and ready.
She looks at me for a minute, smiles, then says, “I will not say ‘please’ to you, Patrick, but this is really in your best interests. I will return you here when we are finished talking.”
“Return me? I would much rather drive myself.”
“You want to talk with her, don’t you?”
Her allusion to Alexis seems rather unexpected, but perhaps not too surprising, “That or to secure sat my last know location.”
She chuckles and shakes her head for a moment, then says, “Very well, Commander. Bring your tired old chariot,“ gesturing at my Shadow, “and follow me.”
“As you wish, Captain.”

She heads for the hangar door and I spring up my Shadow’s leg and side. Alexis already has the visor up and has the xl started before I hit the command seat. I nest the neurohelmet on my head, feel the link establish and say, “Alexis, stand the mech, please.”
“Aff, sir.”
“I take it you heard our exchange.”
I would swear there is a smile in her voice as she says, “yes sir, every word.”
“Good.” I answer. As the mech takes to its feet and the controls feel like a part of me, I continue, “please open the main hangar doors.”
“As you wish, sir.”

The heavy doorways start to trundle along their rails and a lone gantry swings clear. Daylight floods into the cavernous bay and freshens up the otherwise sterile light. Suddenly the “tired old chariot” remark takes on a new meaning; sitting in the open compound is a crouched Linebacker. She looks new and bold, reminding me of the new ones I saw not that many years ago. Nothing is damaged, nothing is out of place, it could be ready for a parade on Strana Mechty.
Then I see the Wolf emblazoned on the side of the massive torso and I just want to open fire. It is the corrupt grayed version the Exiles have chosen, not the natural red one Kerensky himself adopted as his own. The urge to clear my safeties and blast away at that mockery has to be tempered, and today I regain control.
As if in response to my thoughts, Samantha stands her mech and turns all its weaponry menacingly at me. It is for just a moment, but looking into her muzzles it is clear she wants to leave no doubt that she would respond in kind if the need arose.
Then the moment passes and the glorious mech wheels and tromps out of the compound. I follow, not too close, not too far, my Shadowcat matching the Linebacker stride for stride with no real effort.

“Sir, Samantha is trying to contact you on comms.”
“Please open the channel, mam.”
“Patrick, are you there?”
“Yes, mam.”
“You are to power off any active scans when you arrive at the compound. I know you will not like coming here, but it is the only place I am sure we can talk securely. I think I sensed your response to the Gray Wolf on my mech; know that others will take serious offense if you respond the same. I know your record, while you would likely do well for a while, you would not survive all the challenges once they started.”
“Where are you taking me that I should be so concerned?”
“The Wolf compound.”

To hear her say that so matter-of-factly is like a slap. She never had to endure the attempts at assimilation, the ignominy of being a “Jade Wolf” or the continuing struggle to rebuild the touman after they walked away from us. My old wound from Borealtowne seems to burn again. It is all I can do to not blast her legs out from under her.

The sarcasm almost drips as I finally respond, “oh, I did not know you were welcome at the Wolf compound… Exile.”
Now it seems to be her turn to seethe and the Linebacker turns as quickly as it can. I am in a fairly narrow street, I have no real way to dance, but I move the mech anyway, training my reticule on the huge cockpit.
“Alexis, power the weapons, but keep the safeties on.”
“Aff, sir.”
I can only go so far, and Samantha finally brings all her weaponry to bear.
“DO NOT TEMPT ME, COMMANDER!”
Now it is my turn to reflect a calm I do not feel. “If you know my record, you also know that in my hands the twins eat even assaults driven by my enemies. Is this a dance you want?” There seems to be no response, so I continue, “That looks like reflective plate, Captain.”
“Yes, I know your record, and I was there when you learned how to deploy those ultra autocannons so well.”

It was a Vanguard tactic, rapidly deploy massive firepower quickly to trouble spots, change the control and flow of the battle, then let the our own battle line move forward and past allowing units to repair, rearm, and redeploy. I was in one of the first of the stars to train in Operation Vanguard. In fact, until my crusader brothers and I were moved to the Eleventh for the Refusal War, I had commanded an Operation Vanguard light cavalry star from a trophy twin CUAC10 Shadowcat much like this one.

She continues, “I even had the pleasure of being deployed with the same supernova at one time.”
“I honestly do not remember you.”
“You commanded the striker star, I was still only a mechwarrior in the lancet star. You were a terror in briefings, merciless on less than stellar performance from anyone. Rest assured, no one wanted to meet your twins for trials. I still remember the first training holovid I saw of you dancing your mech around a hapless falcon dire wolf… it left no doubt that you were a master.”
There seems a softening in her tone.
“Those holos made it look easier than it is. And less than stellar performance is not acceptable for a Wolf.”
“Correct.” There was a short pause, then, “Let us call a truce today, Commander. We both know we can get our blood up and make this into a Trial, but neither of us will benefit our packs if we do.”
“Aff, Captain. Truce for now.”
“Good. I would have hated having to kill you today.”
“I agree, it would have been a shame for me to have to destroy such a fine mech while you tried to hit my ‘tired old chariot’…”
I hear her laugh, but she says no more and the Linebacker turns and resumes its march down the street.

…

The Wolf in Exile compound is another one of those types that seems smaller on the outside than it really is. There is no comm link or any other interaction, but I power off the sensors before entering and simply follow the unwavering step of Samantha’s rig. A fully equipped point of elementals comes to attention as her mech tromps by, then seems to eye me coldly as I follow. Into the open hangar I step, only to realize it is actually a covert accessway into the bowels of the planet. By the time we halt in what appears to be a security area, I have already counted four levels and at least six full stars of medium and heavy mechs. While they are likely here for arena competition, I also recognize that the supernova I faced just last week could be here right now. In fact, with enough elementals, and the possibility that I have not seen half the Exiles' presence, this place could represent a full Galaxy.

An old Ice Ferret guards the current level, and I realize it has been a long time since I saw one of them. The pilot is properly vigilant and seems to keep his weapons at least marginally pointed in my direction. I am accompanying the captain, but I am sure he thinks he can never be too careful.

Samantha comes over the comm, “I can not get you further in your mech, Patrick. You will have to demech here.”
“As you wish, mam. Where should I park?”
“Please crouch the mech where it stands.”
My shadow kneels and I kill the outbound comm.
“Alexis, I know I do not have to tell you to secure the cockpit when I leave, but you are to self-destruct this mech on any prolonged attempt to break in. Do you understand?”
“Aff, sir. Self-destruct protocol engaged. I will be vigilant.”
“Thank you, I know I can count on you.”
“Be careful, Padraig. I do not trust her.”
“Neither do I, Alexis, neither do I.”

A stone-faced tech greets me as my feet touch the ground. I have already heard the visor seal and know that only I will get into the mech now.
“Do you require any service, sir?”
“Neg, please do not touch the mech. Safeties are in place.”
“Expected, sir.”
Samantha walks up and the tech salutes. She returns his gesture and then dismisses him with hardly more than a nod. Her behavior now is more like a Clan mechwarrior, superiority written in her every nuance. I find it mentally challenging to reconcile this in my thinking with the fact that she was one of those who left the touman taking our very legacy with us. If this were another clan, say the warden Nova Cats, I might have had no trouble accepting them, but these all act like pack mates I grew up with and it troubles me.
“Follow me, Commander.” It sounds like an order, but this is her lair and a Wolf of any color is in charge in her own den.
“As you wish, Captain.”

She leads into a long hall, and is met part way down by an adjutant who hands her a Captains coat and seems to quickly brief her on matters of serious import. I stand a respectful distance away until she motions me over.
“Get an old touman Commander’s jacket.”
The attendant hurries off, I hear a distant locker close and see the young attendant return with a thick leather jacket… full commanders rank and the bright red Wolf veritably jumping off the front. It is in immaculate condition and I am at least a little shocked when the young man hands it to me.
“Here you should be what you are.” Samantha says with a matter of fact tone that leaves no doubt.
I don the jacket and the lad gives an automatic salute. It is Wolf and years of training have me respond before I realize that I have saluted an Exile.

Samantha turns and resumes her walk down the long hall.

Why did she do this? What is she up to?

…

The room reverberates with her questions, but, like the solid rock the chamber is carved from, I say nothing.
“Commander, I need to know why you were there last week!” She is shouting in her frustration but it does not help the situation.
I am being interrogated, what else can I consider this? Her Exile promises meant nothing, she is without honor, truly dezgra.
“I need to know if you were ordered to join that mission. Patrick, you must tell me!”
“So it is ‘Patrick’ now, is it? Sounds a lot like when you were acting physically attracted to me.”
She is stunned by my rebuke. It may be my imagination, but as her expression fades I have to think she was hurt by it too.
“I never pretend, Commander,” she finally snarls, that deadly look rising in her face.

It is at this moment that the chamber’s only door opens behind her and a man in nondescript clothing motions her over. While he whispers with her for a minute or so, I take the chance to lean forward and rest my arms on the long table. The room is neither cold nor warm, but I know I am sweating. Casually reaching under the tabletop, I feel for the sidearm holster and try to quietly clear the retaining clasp. I have no doubt that I will not make it out alive if I have to shoot my way to the Shadowcat, but I will not accept torture as an alternative.
At this moment, the man moves from the door to a chair and sits down. He appears to be my age, perhaps a few years my senior. Gray plays in his hair and beard like wisps of morning fog play with a forest of trees. His face is lined with cares and now carries a serious expression that fits well. Yet under all that, I sense a sparkle in the eye that reflects at least respect.

“Commander Carns, this is…”
He raises his hand sharply and Samantha falls immediately silent. He must outrank her directly or hold some high office like a senior loremaster. Come to think of it, his face is vaguely familiar…
“For now, perhaps it is better if I simply say I am interested in your case and will try to make the questioning a bit less like an assault… is that acceptable, Commander?” His tone is even and very controlled.
“Let me hear what you have to say, then, sir.”
“Well spoken. Now please at least do me the honor of moving your hand away from you weapon.” His smile is quite as unexpected as his words, but I grant that I was still considering my options.

As I settle both my hands on the tabletop, he continues, “your mission up the Thalassen Creek Canyon and in the adjacent Soman Valley last week appears to have been a standard mercenary contract in which a GDL lance on rotation here on Solaris picked up five additional pilots for what must have been described as a simple merc run. My guess from the size and average weights would be that they were either expecting light resistance or making a tech raid of some sort.”
He pauses for about ten seconds and then continues, “I will presume from your posture and expression that I am fairly close so far. What concerns us is that closer examination of the MRBC data on the mission indicates that the original request the GDL commander made was for an additional lance, meaning only four instead of five mechs. You were added on at the last minute, as it were, and in a recon role.”
“You would know that I can not give out any mission data from a contract.”
“Commander, you are not a mercenary in the sense that any of your other companions were. You use the mercenary system and the MRBC to further your own ends…” he pauses for effect, “and those of your Khan.”
“Who are you?” I start, “and why should I trust some Exile with information just because he is playing the “good” interrogator to Samantha’s “bad” one?”
Samantha looks like she is about to get angry, but again the sitting man raises his hand and her response is to swallow her emotions in what appears to be obedience.

Just who is this anyway?

“Commander, I am not here to question you about your service to our relatives in the crusader Wolf touman, or to argue about you having any possible current mission on Solaris. We have been aware of your movements for some time, but have had no concerns until your little raven ran into the lower Thalassen minefield.”
Lower… I hate to think that there may have been an “upper” one to get through as well.
“Now perhaps I can trade you some information. I know who offered the GDL that contract and will trade that for an explanation of what they actually asked for… is that worth a deal?”

“The thought is tempting, but why should I trust you?”
“Because right now, my guess is that it is the same person who is trying to have you killed… just like they did Jerry Molline, also known as Jeremiah Court. The contract for this morning was five million c-bills and will probably go up.”
“Excuse me?”
“There was an anonymous communication with the pilots headed for the arena this morning… it offered five million to whomever killed your mech and you with it. That is why everyone in range head-shot you from the starting horn. Honestly, I saw a vid of it and from my experience, you are fortunate to be alive.”

Well, at least that makes sense. No wonder Tom and Erin seemed so keen on the wreckage, they were looking for evidence to explain the hammering I took. Hmmm, something in the way he commented on his experience would lead me to believe he is a pilot, so just who is he?

“Let me give you a bit more that you do not have to give us: we know that the relaying satellite was a hijacked Fedcom; if you plotted it, it would have shown a non-standard orbit.”
He is correct, and I feel it appropriate to nod at this point.
“Good, now all I will ask is for your word that if I agree to give you what I have that you will then give me what your orders for that mission and that mission alone were.”

I feel partly in control, then realize that is what a good officer will often do for a subordinate to give a greater feeling of responsibility and develop greater loyalty… no matter how much of an illusion any such perceptions really are.
But I decide that I need to know more than I need to address this enigmatic officer.
“Ok, you have my word that I will describe the briefing we received after I know whom I need to thank for my disaster in the Jungle this morning.”
“Good. The man’s name is Howard Kang. He is the local Red Lancer power broker, but he does what Sun-Tzu Liao orders.”
“Capellans?”
“Aff, commander.”
“That is hard to believe and even harder to understand. It makes no sense for the Capellans to get involved with a mission like that, much less to hunt down the survivors after.”
“On the contrary, it would serve Liao’s ends quite well. GDL defeated several of his units on Styk and at the initial contact in the conflict in the St. Ives Compact. Giving them a black eye would serve to humble them, especially if there were a pattern of similar debacles. There is a likely secondary interest, he would be quite happy to create tensions between our touman and the Federated Commonwealth.”

I have to grant that either is possible, though I still think it a bit odd that Sun-Tzu Liao would go out of his way to kill any survivors.
It seems that I must be following a logical reasoning track because he starts up again with, “The biggest problem with you and your fellow survivors is not that you are rubbing this fiasco in the face of the GDL (something Liao would actually like), but that each of the three of you are asking questions about where the mission came from and who originated it. Worse still, you are actually asking the right people to find out. Even the MRBC is starting to ask similar questions quietly; my Dragoon contacts say they are being asked to give assistance. Without survivors to keep the questions going, Kang or Liao probably reason that the episode will go quietly away before the pieces come together and someone retaliates.”
“Part of what we are concerned about is not Liao or Kang, but exactly how the mission was sold to the GDL on the ground. The mission objectives were not listed with the MRBC; in fact, all they actually got was the unit being contacted… the GDL… the amount of the contract… 12 million c-bills plus mech-only salvage rights… and the escrow account that the payment was deposited into.” He is watching me closely as he finishes, “the other matter of concern is if you were under orders from outside to join this mission and if so, what you knew beforehand.”

I have to evaluate the man carefully, he is intelligent and it shows. I am torn between dealing with him as an ally and the reality that he is an Exile. Neither direction seems right, but since I gave my word, I need to at least give what I have promised.
“If you allow me to visit my mech, I can get you the actual broadcast.”
“You can link from here, Commander.”
“No offense, sir, but not with the current protocols in place. Alexis would presume she was under attack and defend her information vigorously.”
The stranger chuckles, then speaks up, “A wise course of action, Commander. Captain, please escort the commander to his mech and then return him here,” and then to me, “You may despise us, but I trust you to honor your word and return with the information.”
He remains seated, but Samantha rises, opens the door, and waits for me to join her. I rise slowly, walk slowly, and watch him.
“Oh, commander, we would appreciate not having you try to establish any communications with the outside until our discussion is complete.”
“Duly noted, sir.”
Again he chuckles, evading the blood-boiling look that Samantha has smeared all over her otherwise pretty face. He is VERY calm, this character. Too calm, even.

The corridors seem alike, the maze is designed to impress and to protect. Three turns and about five hundred paces later I reach my crouched Shadowcat and a few moments later the welcome embrace of my command chair.
“Visor down and double pol, please, Alexis.”
“Aff, sir.”
The heavy dome seals and then uses twin layers of polarizing (energized at right angles) to stop all light transmission… in or out.
“Alexis, I need the transmission from the start of out GDL mission transferred onto a data chip for me to give these people.”
“With the GDL commander included?”
“Hmmm, good question.”
“What happened in there sir? You were gone for almost two hours.”

So long? I really had not noticed that much time pass.

“Alexis, please see if you can get a secure sat track.”
“Aff, sir.”
Outside of the mech, I hear alarms sound; Alexis comes back on with, “They are ordering us to kill the link beacon. I am getting no signals from the outside, but we are also at least 300 meters underground.”
“Ok, please cancel the track attempt, mam.”
The blare of the sirens dies a moment later.
“So, Padraig, would you like more than just the recording of the FedCom sat link?”
“Aff, give all external contact from initial contact through a and b redirecting into the pass… but give them audio only, no mech or helmet data.”
“Aff, sir,” then about ten seconds later, “your chip is ready, sir.”
“Thank you, Alexis.”
The small cover on her interface pad clears and I remove the thumbnail sized chip.
“While I am out, please evaluate the threats we encountered on our way in… just in case we need to shoot our way back to the surface.”
“Aff, sir. Please take care, Patrick, quiaff?”
“Aff, mam. Please open the visor. Same protocols as before.”
“On guard, sir.”

The seal breaks and the bay reappears, Samantha stands there at the footpad with a battle-ready point of elementals behind her. I also note a summoner and a black dog at either ends of the gallery with all appearances of being running, armed, and quite willing to fire.
“You were ordered not to try to communicate.”
“By whom? I was informed by an unranked stranger that he would ‘appreciate’ my not trying to contact anyone.”
“I ordered you.”
“Captain, you told me to power down SCANS. Further, in spite of my NOT being your underling, I complied completely as a professional courtesy.”

The point commander is staring at my new jacket... I cannot help but wonder what he is thinking about the red wolf that leaps out at him. These kids are young, probably not more than 25, and the point commander is not much older. Yet even now there is confusion in them. Did they once wear the red wolf too? Did they really have a choice when the Exile leaders took them away from us?
I feel a moment of pity for this point of Wolf blood, “At ease, Point Commander; you and your team have nothing to fear, I am not an aggressor here.”
He glances nervously at Samantha and then gazes back at me. He makes a decision and replies, “I will hold you to that sir.” With that, he salutes and backs away.
Again, training takes over and for the second time today I return an Exile’s salute.

This time I am very careful to count my paces. Three hundred twenty-five to the first right turn, seventy to the next left turn, ninety to the next right turn, and twenty to the door on the right that enters the quiet chamber that still has my seated questioner.
“Your chip,” I say as I toss the small storage device onto the polished surface before him.
“I note that you wanted to find something out, perhaps I can help you.”
“I was planning to link to the database and figure out who you are.”
“Perhaps I can help you with that later. For now, I need this info.”
He places the chip on a pad he has pulled from his pocket and placed on the surface in front of him.

For the next half hour or so, he listens to the recordings while I mentally relive them. I can even hear the tinge of emotion in my voice as I check on the survivors from the Dragon’s pulverization.

Finally the recordings end and he says, “well, that answers my questions… you had no clue what you were getting into and you were just there for some adventure and maybe some uncontrolled cash.”
“Aff.”
He looks at me coldly for a moment, then softens again.
“I have a message for your Khan, Commander Carns.”
“I may consider sharing it.”
“Tell him I respect his emissary and await any further communication. Samantha will be able to put you in contact with me once I am back offworld.”
“I can not pass that on without your name, sir.”
With this, the man stands and faces me; he is a leader, it is written all over him. He evaluates for a minute, then walks almost to the portal before turning one last time.
“Phelan Ward… or if that offends you too much and you prefer it, 'Kell'.” He seems to note the stunned shock that has overcome my expression. “Rank of Khan,” he says almost with a smile, then turns and walks out the door.

[cmopatrick]

There is a serious disconnect between arriving on Solaris VII as even a low budget 'Mech pilot and a steerage passenger on a barely glorified cargo boat. It has been a year since I arrived with a Raven, but now I wish for even a KitFox to elevate my status.

The dropship ferrying me planetward is cramped and cold. I must be getting old, I would once have not noticed my breath become a cloud. Here and now, however, I seem to feel each joint and old wound with an unsettling freshness.
The ancient cabin loudspeaker crackles, objecting to another stream of current. For a few moments, I wonder if it will cooperate, then it allows someone to make the final cautionary announcement, “atmosphere in 60 seconds. Persons not properly secured are reminded that they are not covered by transit insurance.”
I look down at the harness securing me into a well worn steerage landing chair. While solidly folded down from the wall brackets, it completely lacks padding to lessen the shocks to come.

Across the aisle from me a couple is strapped in with an infant's vibra-sphere floating just below eye level, outwardly motionless with tethers hooked to stanchions above and below. Odd creation, that; the child seems to turn and float in a gimbaled bubble cushioned somehow within the outer wall, seemingly free of the ship's basic gravity system. The real plus from where I sit is that the child is unlikely to experience uncontrolled jarring or atmospheric pressure. I can hear the little motor in the unit already equalizing it from cabin pressure to the planet's so gradually that the infant will probably not awake to ear pain... and the rest of the passengers will be spared the audio assault that would follow.
The mother is intent on the little one, but her companion nods in my direction. I am not sure if he thinks my interest is on the woman instead of the child, or even if the acknowledgment is friendly or hostile.
While I have a cooling suit on, it is probably indistinguishable from a lot of crew gear, and my old brown merc leather jacket covers the few points that would give the garment's true nature away. Now the boots, well, a careful eye will spot Clan-made combat boots and mine are no exception. To the uninitiated, though, I doubt they mean anything.
An electric chime starts and a number appears on the wall. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

We have slowed enough that we do not need a heat-shield, but not enough to float down. On cue, the craft starts to vibrate, creak, and rattle, making us all aware of her age. She complains about the friction and howls at the onrushing air. The objections become a thunder, only the child seemingly asleep in it's bubble is unaware that a din surrounds it. If the sound were not enough, there is a choppy up and down sensation from turbulence and updrafts. The woman across from me seems startled and frightened, her man only slightly less so.
BAMM!
That hurt, from my rump to my neck
Bam, bam, BAMM! Now the old wound screams to life and I sense a headache lurking at the base of my skull.
A bit choppy today; it has been a few trips since I have felt one this rough.
A passenger down the isle loses an ill advised heavy meal all over the floor and the person next to them. I close my eyes, and do mental drills that help me focus on other things as the social chain reaction ripples through the cabin and the sounds and smell of many vomiting become nearly overpowering.
Bam!
Maybe it will get bett...
BAMM! BAMM! Bam! BAMM!
I guess not.
I use my pain, I focus on the vertebrae that was most damaged, letting the agony of the memory transport me away from this place and time.

…..

“Tighten the… AAHHHHH!”
“Captain?!”
Our StarCaptain’s TimberWolf flames and then explodes before my eyes.
WHHHUMPPP!!!
The cockpit fills with the smoke of burnt paint as the torso below me glows from a direct hit.
“Center torso at fifty percent,” my ai informs me.
“ClusterCOM, StarCaptain is harddown, I repeat, harddown!”
“Confirm harddown, Charlie. Field promo StarCommander, report.”
“Hot overrun. Orders?”
“Recall Four-three. Roll flank 210.”
What? Leave the field to these curs? But, then again, we are engaged, how can I just give them our backs? I flick on the target designator and lock the leftmost Catapult.
“Star swing flank left on the designated Catapult. Delta, alpha left rack; Echo alpha right rack.”
“I am hot, Charlie, need ten.”
“Confirmed Echo, I have it.”
The catapult gets a fresh lock on me. I fire and swing my good side toward the expected barrage, but it never comes.
“I got the Cat!” Delta declares, proud of his first Spheroid kill.
The red indicator is indeed gone from the sensors.
“Confirmed.”
Over the low ridge on our right two odd looking midweights scramble toward us. Echo, closest to them, suddenly shakes as several PPC hit her at once. Both barrage her with rockets and the brass casings from spitting machine guns fly as dust. They have her in a circle...
“Watch you damage, Echo, evade and fade left.”
“Aff!”
“Delta, follow me! Evade and dance to assist.”
“Aff sir!”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Echo suddenly swing towards the nearest oddity and point-blank alpha its head. No eject pods fly as both ‘Mechs collide with a ground shaking impact and find their mutual annihilation. If we can find anything of her later, that will be a very special giftake.
Cluster Command does not sound pleased, “Fourty-three, roll right 210… NOW!”
I hate leaving the field, no honor in it, but ClusterCOM would not order us to if there was not a great reason.
“Aff! Bravo, Delta, roll right 210, follow my lead.”
We plow through light trees and across a small stream.
BAMMM!!!!
The entire ‘Mech rocks from the impact as shattered armor flies past my canopy in an eruption of fragments. My entire right torso was stripped in one shot. Out of the trees a pair of heavies steps.
“Bravo, Delta, GO!” I scream as I swing towards the closest heavy and squeeze the alpha trigger…
BAMMM!
Some part of me is aware that I am injured and I can feel outside air on my face, but I will make this the best giftake since Kerensky himself.
I have the large cockpit of the clumsy heavy in my reticule and fire everything...

…..

It was more than a decade ago, but I can almost smell the blood from those minutes fighting wounded before I passed out. Our StarCaptain had ignored orders and we were all eager to prove ourselves the best star on Tukayyid... Brzo's defenders were tough and the 11th Com Guards was in the process of throwing a counter-assault at the very sector our star ran into. The rest of our supernova arrived just before I would have died, leaving me with more to do and a painful memory to help me be less proud.

We do seem to have passed through the worst of the turbulence. I open my eyes to see that the woman has fared better than her man, she is as least settling down and trying to see the child, he is covered with his breakfast and shows all the rigidity of abject terror.
I have been in worse, but then again, each landing is it's own event... never two the exact same.

…..

I wonder what I will find at my old compound. I understand that I will only need one 'Mech for now, at least that means I won't be competing in the arenas. Otherwise, my orders are very specific on only one rather distasteful detail.

Edited by cmopatrick, 14 March 2013 - 07:42 PM.

[cmopatrick]

Solaris City, the place exists only for the 'Mechs and the crowds who pay to watch them. If there is any government here, I bet Duncan Fisher has more clout. This is going to be an experience, just getting to Mechsect.

A mechanized passenger disembark unit has sealed against the dropship and a tech in a hazmat suit steps onto our deck. He doesn't even seem to glance at the pungent regurgitations sliming large parts of the floor, but announces, “Passengers, please have your transportation credentials and vaccination cards out and ready for scan. You will not be allowed to disembark without them. I will start by taking those traveling with small children, elderly, or disabled.”

Across from me the young mother unhooks the vibrasphere's tethers and opens the outer clamshell. The magnetic gimbals seem to have gently powered down, the inner sphere sinks gently onto the larger. As the second clamshell opens, I am again thankful that the child was so well protected... it is still sleeping soundly. She glances at me and smiles for a moment, then is back about her ministrations to the small one. Her man looks to be exhausted and all the worse for wear, but at least the terror has faded and he seems almost functional; he is standing on his own two feet, but otherwise seems unable or unwilling to assist the young mother.

As the three move towards the tech, I wonder how I seem to have lost so much of who I once was. The arrogance especially seems to have died; I now just see a family there, they are no longer freebirths with their spawn.

When my turn comes, I hold out the documents and the tech scans them, glances at a screen, and in the almost mechanical tone of someone who knows these lines from overuse he offers, “Welcome back, Patrick. We hope you are going to grace the arenas again.”
The woman in front of me turns to look at me, for a moment I think she is trying to decide if I'm a pilot and one who might be interested in some company, but I show no interest and she turns smoothly away.

…..

“Paging Passenger Carns. Paging passenger Patrick Carns. Please come to the white message booth.” the message on the terminal speakers is at least unexpected, but not worrisome.

May I help you, Sir?”
The girl behind the counter has that painted on smile that I bet she has to have every minute of the day. I could ask her to marry me or blow up the terminal and she would still have that painful relative of a grimace plastered on her otherwise intelligent features.
“May I help you, Sir?” she asks justa little more loudly, maybe she also thinks I’m hard of hearing.
“Padraig Carns. I was paged for a hologram?”
Now her face does an even more interesting contortion... below her nose that smile remains, as set as the concrete underfoot, but from her nose up, there is an expression of confusion or puzzlement.
“Padraig Carns. I was paged to the white paging booth.”
“Oh,” the face becomes one whole again, “you don't have a holo, just a note.”
“Oh, would you send it to my...”
She interrupts with, “This kind of note....” in her fingers is a quaint notion of a note: a folded white page.
“Thank you,” I say as she hands me the slip of paper.

Well, if security is an issue, there are sure some rather insecure ideas of how to achieve it. I open it and read, “Your 'Mech is in LightsHaven in the same spot you had last time. There have been some changes there and you are once again welcome.”
There is no indication of where this came from or why, but I accept that it is another move by a greater hand.

…..

The hovercab in front of the terminal is a dirty yellow, like it has flown too low to a pigsty and had only sporadic rainfall to attempt to clean it off. I tap on the window and the driver says through a loudspeaker, “20c for fares to the lesser accommodations, 50c for the Solaris Grand, 100c for private residences, and 250c for the Coliseum.”
“How about Mechsect?” I ask, but there is no answer.
“MECHSECT?” I holler but again there isn't a response.
“Show your credentials,” a voice from behind me says.
“What?” I ask while turning.
“Show the cabbie your credentials.” The man has a militia uniform on, and a familiar face smiling above it. What is it with all the phony smiles here, they make me nervous.
“Thanks,” I reply, turning back and holding a pilot's passport up for the cabbie to see.
Just as predicted, the window rolls down so the lad behind the wheel can see that it is genuine. This time, I suspect the smile is the real thing.
“500C anywhere inside, boss.” the voice offers, though now I have to wonder if it is a lad at all.
“Well bargained and done.” I reply.
The door opens and I settle into the seat beside the cabbie.
Just before the door closes again, the uniformed one says, “Welcome back, Pilot Carns. I hope you enjoy your stay this time.”
The door seals and the cab is in motion before it registers... Captain Klein has just made sure to greet me on my return to the planet. For better or ill, he still has a case he wants to pursue and thinks I’m big enough a fish that welcoming me back actually made his schedule.

…..

The cabbie speaks again and this time there is no mistaking that in spite of the haircut and garments, my driver is a woman. She asks, “Where to, pilot? Sorry I didn't answer your askin' about the 'Sect back there, we get too many damn tourists wantin' special access and then tryin' ta blame us.”
“Understood, Ma'am.”
“Gods. Aren't you polite?”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“Cora.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
She gets a bit of a frown, but it doesn't last long. “You goin' onta tha circuit this year? Big time jock type? I drove Mr. Fisher once and even last year's Light Champion a time or two.” She sighs, “he was too young ta know what he mighta had...” she tosses a sidelong glance my way, evaluating my response. When I allow that worn and tired look to remain almost dripping from my entire posture, she continues, “I got a nice place in the lower Durango Road, might be able to save you some c-bills if you need a place to crash for a few nights.”
I look her way, weariness giving me the perfect impassive reflection. She is probably about my age, but seems bright and cute after a fashion. She seems almost a pilot groupie, but I have to wonder about a woman so free with herself... is she also a plant? Another way to track my movements? I imagine the hand of Captain Kline, but when she looks my way again, I have to wonder.
“Nobody likes ta be lonely, ya know.” her brightness earlier fades to disappointment, then something of a reality returns and she asks, “where to?”
“LightsHaven.”
“Ah. Well, if you gotta. Wasn't tryin' ta be rude, I just get off soon and am so tired of the stuff I find in the bars... gotta take chances some times, ya know?”
While I doubt she would even begin to understand how appropriate that statement is, I nod and agree, “Very true, Ma'am. And I am sure you will find one to appreciate you soon.”
She glances over once more and says quietly, “yeah, thanks.”

Edited by cmopatrick, 23 March 2013 - 09:00 PM.

[cmopatrick]

The hovercab drops me off at the guard shack; I give her a thousand for the ride and see her appreciation. Cora tosses one last invitation my way as the door closes, but she doesn't linger, the cab is gone just moments later.

A burly lad, easily half again my size and weight, stands at the walk-through gate. From his look, he only casually evaluates my approach. Part bouncer and part security, he looks like someone who would actually want me to try to mess with him for the entertainment value he would get out of beating me senseless.
“Credentials,” he doesn't ask, he states.
I offer him mine and he slips the main id into a face scanner and points the pair me. “Yeah, you. What do you want?”
“I have a 'Mech that has been delivered to bay slot 314.”
He checks a pad, then nods and hands back my id.
Through a smile that might curdle fresh milk, he says, “Note here says that dog Kline was askin' round bout you again. Don't get inta trouble unless I get to have some of the action, Ok?”
I am not sure I want to be on the side of anyone he is opposed to... well, unless they are Clan Elementals, then I would take my chances with my own kind. What I actually say while nodding appreciatively is, “You got it. Thanks.”

I make my way across the lot to the main complex buildings. Been a while since I was here, but I still remember my way around. The Cantina seems muted, but there are some patrons talking and a faint undefined music. The annoying horn from the arena recruiter's offices is still... well... annoying, but at least it is down the hall enough that the echoes are not too bad. Down the long halls of cool echoing stone I walk. A turn here. Now another there. A heavy door confronts me but a moment, and I am suddenly into the bay...

I am right behind a Raven.

She is a beauty... must be fresh from some Capellan Factory or stockpile. Painted a night camo of dark grays, charcoals, and deep space black, she looks ready for any night ops and most day ones. From here, I can see she has several electronics packages, and I am not even aboard. The armor looks different, somehow... not standard, ferro fibrous, reflective, reactive, or ablading... it has a texture that almost soaks up light even where the paint job is lighter. I wonder if this is the new stealth stuff I've heard about. If so, it means I have at least ECM, and I can see a BAP sensor housing as well. On the other hand, things look a bit odd... she has what look like Clan weapons systems.

“Good afternoon, Patrick.”
I feel tension at the sound of her voice, part wary and part the killing instinct. Samantha walks into my sight from behind, she has apparently followed me out the door.
“Captain.”
For a moment she looks away. I imagine the briefest hint that she would rather be on latrine duty than dealing with me right now, but that instant is past... now she looks me in the eye and replies, “no rank, at least for now. My orders are simple; if you are under similar ones, we are not ranked and will have to learn to get along.” Her eyes flash as she adds, “we can have our Trial over whatever excuse after we have accomplished what our respective Khans ask of us. Agreed?”
I chafe at having to agree with anything an Exile proposes, but Khan Vlad was unequivocal: “Do what you must to get our heritage. I'm counting on you, Patrick.”
In the here and now, I answer, “Agreed.”
“Samantha.”
I can not tell if she is reminding me or beating me over the head with what she certainly knows I remember.
Icily, I oblige, “Samantha.”
I pull off my jacket, the oiled leather provides my senses with the needed familiarity, restoring a impression of normalcy I barely trust, giving me that subtle combination of aromas and tactile suppleness that somehow helps me focus.

Samantha gasps unexpectedly, her eyes on my hip in front of my laser pistol... oh, yes... the dagger hangs there: Kerensky's Dagger. The blade is ornamented in Terran Lapis Lazuli with interwoven gold filigree. It was presented to General Kerensky by the five House Lords after Amaris was defeated. There is only one, nothing else even imitates it. Further, it belongs to the Wolf Khan, and has since Nicolas Kerensky himself gave it to us. She was a Wolf... she knows exactly what this most potent symbol means: I have my Khan's blessing at whatever I am doing and his permission to do whatever I need to in order to accomplish it.

I am looking again at the Raven.
“You have chosen well,” she observes, dispelling the need to ask her if this is somehow one of theirs.
I nod and say nothing. It troubles me that once again, I have an unidentified sponsor giving me a piece to move... or to be moved in.
All the more curious, I nod to her and say, “excuse me, but I have some things I need to do.”
She nods back, “Of course, Patrick. May we have dinner together tonight?”
I look at her like she is offering me a scorpion.
“To discuss what we both know and don't about what is coming up. Or I could just leave you in the dark as much as possible.”
I realize that this is going to be even more difficult than I imagined. I have to cooperate with this... Exile. Even the term would boil my blood if I let it.
“Yes.”
“Samantha.”
Oh how I want to slap her from here to the outer ring moon.

I mount the gantry and walk to the open cockpit. Once inside, I pull a smallish blue box from a cargo pocket and crawl under the command couch to a fiber optic wire and two connectors. It is no accident that the connectors match the box and slip cleanly on. I tighten down retaining hardware, double check the connections, and say into the open air, “Alexis? Are you online?”

“Yes, Patrick. New ride, quiaff?”

Edited by cmopatrick, 30 March 2013 - 04:57 PM.

[ThunderHorse]

Very well done! I've read a bit of fiction my time, fan-written or not, and I have to say yours is some of the most well-written non professional work I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Not perfect, but with an editor's help this reads as close to professional as I have ever had the honor of enjoying. I hate to post this here & spoil the flow of your posts, but I had to get the word out that more people need to read this great work. The best compliment I can think of at this time is that it reads like Stackpole without the Stackpole-isms. (No Armor melting off from Mechs & no miniature sun-like explosions from cored fusion reactors.) It is a gripping read inside AND outside the stompy robot action!

In short, MOAR! (Please)

Edited by ThunderHorse, 01 April 2013 - 01:07 PM.

[cmopatrick]

There is something new about Alexis. First, most of her processing and all her main memory reside completely on the experimental chip Tamar Jorgensson gave me last year, and the little blue box is her residence.
While she interacted before in ways few if any other ai could, now there is a new depth. Not only have her routines for learning been upgraded, but our scientists have given me as close to a sentient ai as our technology will allow... Alexis has our most exotic experimental software to give me an assistant who will reside in the 'Mech itself. In a way, I am never alone now.

The Raven itself has been completely overhauled. The only systems that are original are the myomer, power distribution, hydraulics, and stealth armor. The 280xl is at least still of IS manufacture, but the ECM and Active Probe are both Clan, as are the double heat sinks, Endosteel frame, all the weapons and the upgraded communications gear. I smile to myself... it even has the full head ejection system that will rip a largish pod clear instead of the Capellan stock seat eject; hope I never need that.

…..

Samantha is enjoying herself, digging in with a huge steak in a manner the average large carnivore would envy. If I were to imagine I know enough to guess what she thinks, this is as much to show that she isn't uncomfortable with our working together as it is to eat. I however, am nominally playing with my food; my appetite seems to have stayed in the Raven.
“Eat something,” she jibes. “We have a lot of transit food to eat all too soon.”
“I'm not hungry.”
She studies my face for a minute, then, “You are really that offended with me, with what I represent to you?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
She shakes her head, disappointment seemingly obvious, “No, I guess not. I miss being friends with you... the way it was when you first landed and didn't know my Clan.”
That was a forever ago... a long confusing forever ago.
“I actually liked you then,” she continues, “Before your little contract with the GDL made things more obvious.”
How honest am I about my feelings before that fateful day? I do remember that I was worried about her perhaps having desires I did not want to deal with... the kind with emotional baggage that could put my mission at risk.
She is watching me, sitting silent as if she is listening in on my thoughts. Perhaps she wants me to say something.
She is an Exile.
I can feel my expression go blank and harden into the mask again.
Samantha looks down and sighs, then the moment is gone and she inhales more of her steak as if she had not taken the time to speak at all.

…..

“I have been told we will be in a well equipped two lance mercenary unit. We will be nominally attached to the Wolf's Dragoons. I do not know which command it will be, but have been told to assure you that it will not be any form of the Black Widow Company.”
That at least is good, I was about to have something along the lines of a heart attack at the very possibility of serving in the Widow's shadow. I nod and she returns a wan smile.
She stops waiting for me to respond and finishes, “Once you have run your 'Mech through whatever shakedown you want, we can report to the unit. You have no more than this week to accomplish whatever you need, however.”
Without emotion, I quietly reply, “I will be done and ready.”
She nods again, finishes her last bite of the meat, and rises. “Then I will leave you to your plans and musings, Patrick.”
I do at least offer her the courtesy of standing also and reply, “Have a good evening, Samantha.”
She has just a hint of hurt in her expression as she nods, turns, and strides away.

In the quiet, I realize that though my steak is cold, it is still very appealing. I add some hot sauce and dig in after all.

Edited by cmopatrick, 16 April 2013 - 04:18 AM.

[cmopatrick]

I have a tech's harness on and have just finished dangling the Raven's belly when someone behind me clears his throat. Looking over my shoulder, I see a welcome grin: Tom is there, his arms folded across his chest looking for all the world like he wants to be offended.
“Jus' wht the heck du ya thing yu're doin'?”
“What does it look like, Tom?”
“Bein' too cheap ta offer me mah job back.”
I laugh and for the first time since I have landed, I think I may have relaxed... albeit for just a few seconds.
“I am surprised you and Erin are not off running a major repair facility,” I joke back at him, but his face falls and I instantly wish I hadn't said that.
Shaking his head, he replies, “Yeah, well, she had better offers.”
I suspect I should just leave it at that, he can say more if he wishes.
“So,” he resumes, “You gonna get down outta there an' left a pro do whatever?”
I finish my climb down and turn to face him. “Well, if you see a pro, let him know I am looking.”
He blows a noisy raspberry my way and his hands fall to his hips with that exasperated teenager look... despite the fact that he is probably older than I am.
“We would need to talk first, Tom. I am not going to be sticking around for very long this time.”
He looks thoughtful, then nods and agrees, “Yeah, then we should probably talk.”

…..

In the early morning light, I stand with Tom a few kilometers out into the wastes north of Solaris city. There is just enough color in the sky to promise a fiery sunrise and still enough night left to hold the cool close to the ground.
A really odd vehicle rolls towards us, looking for all the world like a building on wheels. Really, really, BIG wheels. Six of them, to be precise. It turns a little broadside about twenty meters from us and in so doing reveals more details. The wheels hold the entire vehicle at least a meter off the ground, and the entire contraption must be at least seven meters tall and maybe seventeen or so long. At it's very top line there is a large crane boom, obviously designed to take a lot of weight, and there is no sound of an ICE, so I have to guess she is fusion powered. Finally, unless my eyes and the light conspire against me, it appears to mount a forward facing minigun or two above what must be the cab.

Tom is already walking over to the front of the contraption as the dust starts to settle to mix dew into mud.
A window opens and a voice calls out, “That you?”
“Hell no!” Tom yells back.
“That's a **** poor attitude.”
Tom retorts, “Don't you know it!”
A door-like hatch opens on the side and I see a long metal plate slip backwards, exposing a ladder reaching nearly to the ground. From the opening first one and then a second person clamber out onto the ladder and down to the ground. Tom warmly greets the taller of the two but seems to almost ignore the much smaller son. Turning, the old goat waves me over to meet the newcomers.
It is only when I am less than three meters away that I realize the smaller man is likely the older of the two; he also appears to be very shy, backing a little away from me as I approach. There must be something about these two, they are like a team; without even looking back to see the smaller person's reaction, the bigger man is moving just enough to interpose himself between short man and myself.
Tom introduces me, “This is Patrick Carns. I've worked for him a bit in the last year or so. He's an adz,” he says with a big grin, “But at least he's fair about it.”
I offer my hand as most Spheroids prefer, and the taller man responds in kind.
“This is Duggie,” he gestures with his head towards the smaller man behind him, “And I'm Shaw. We are salvage and crew chief support at it's finest.”
I wonder how the inclusion of such a large rig would work, or whether the mercs we will be “joining” would even have space for them.
Tom looks back and forth between us and nods. “Hey Duggie, Patrick has that Raven you built.”
Duggie seems to look around Shaw with an odd quizzical expression and responds, “the 4L with all the Clan tech?”
“Thats the one.”
Duggie looks fascinated, almost childlike as he considers this. “Do you like it?” he finally asks.
“Yes, very much. You do good work.”
Shaw smiles and nods. Behind him, Duggie seems to relax... well, at least a little... and smiles as well.

…..

Shaw, Tom, and I are sitting around a little work table in the vehicle. I have learned that this is a fabled Land Train, or at least the tractor part that goes in front. Some kind of construction oriented version of the vehicle, with a 50 ton crane, six independently driven wheels with power provided by a fusion engine. They even have a trailer that hangs off the side designed to handle almost any 'Mech, at least by weight.

“So, what is the deal with this Land Train?” I ask.
Shaw seems poised to answer when Duggie speaks up, “This is a 3016 Land Train Construction Special, the one they came out with just before the model year changed, so it has a lot of the 3017 tech in the direct drives and suspension. The boom arm is only rated to fifty tons, but with care, she can handle seventy. Given some creativity and a little good prepositioning, we can move an assault onto the lowboy in under fifteen minutes, including wingtip wheels. It's 16.34 meters long right now and weighs in at 54.327 tons, has a 98.5 centimeter ground clearance, stands 7.2 meters at the highest point of the bedded crane , and is powered by a 225 Vlar fusion engine I took out of a trashed Von Luckner.
“Don't forget the...”
“Yeah, the 3150rpm miniguns I salvaged off of a pair of pirate technicals. Both had damaged barrel cylinders so I machined new ones and matched the two onto one fire controlled turret on the roof. It fires 13mm rounds that I cut from old depleted uranium armor plates.” He pulls out an odd looking ballistic sidearm and clears a round. “I use the same shells in my pistol,” he says while handing it to Shaw, who in turn passes the large heavy round to me.
The casing looks interesting, but the actual bullet itself shows ingenuity: the mushroom-like tip is indeed that powdery silver metal that I recognize as bare depleted uranium, but behind it is a duller silver metal that I can only presume is lead.
I scratch it and am about to comment when Duggie resumes, “It has a full DU core, so it can work on battle armors and some APCs. The lead allows it to expand rapidly on soft body penetration, leaving a massive plug hole...”
I think he intended to go on, but at that moment, Shaw almost imperceptibly raises his right hand and Duggie instantly quiets.

Duggie is an enigma. The few times he has gotten interested in the conversation have all been about equipment, and when focused on these topics, he seems almost Alexis' equal in knowledge. On the other hand, he seems shy to the point of total retreat when anything other than equipment is the topic. I do notice that to hear him tell of it, everything seems to be his doing; maybe Shaw is just his driver.
Shaw, on the other hand, seems very like Tom, except that he is a bit rougher and seems not to have any of the latter's more stereotypical Comstar quirks... the kind of eccentricities that could become problematic in close quarters with one or more other Clan warriors. Further, in spite of Duggie's claims, I have to believe that Shaw is indeed an intelligent and capable crew chief.
So, what do I make of these two?

Edited by cmopatrick, 18 April 2013 - 03:35 PM.

[cmopatrick]

Tom sits across from me with Shaw beside him. Duggie is somewhere with the Land Train, though I get a sense Shaw is a little nervous about the fact. We are talking over a lunch of very spicy barbecued beef piled high on fresh French rolls. Shaw has been asking a lot of questions I don't have the answers to.
“Again, I do not know what to tell you; it is not my dropship and will not be my call on whether they can fit the Land Train into it. I do not even know what class dropship it will be.”
“How can I commit to working with you when even the most basic details seem to elude you?”
“Well, you could just leave the Land Train with Duggie.”
“No. We are a team; you hire us as a team or you find someone else.”
“Loyalty. I appreciate that. What about leaving the LT in storage here?”
“Not happening. We are a value with it, increasing a hiring unit's salvage capability in ways that no other unit on any but the largest dropships can possibly manage. Others want our services, even if you don't.”
“No, I like the idea of having you along, but I will not have answers for a few days on whether or not I can even hire you for this.”
“You honestly mean to tell me you have no clue about what you are about to go out on?”
“Not a clue. All I know is they will reward me by helping me accomplish something I have always wanted to do afterwards.”
The two of them look at each other and Tom shrugs, “He never lied to me, if that means anything.”
Shaw looks back at me and says rather dryly, “Look, I can't give you any promises. If we are still uncommitted when you have answers, I'll listen. Until then, I can't agree.”
I nod, “That is likely wise, sir.”

…..

Tom and I are alone up high on the isolated platform above the LightsHaven target range. I kind of wish he were available for this, I'm afraid that the whole thing with Shaw and his partner won't work if we are just in a small two lance dropship. I remember the last time we stood up here, back before the GDL contract. Like then, now there is a fragrance wafting up the hill from flowering trees somewhere nearby below us.
There is just a breath of breeze, but it is enough to keep the late afternoon heat from being too stifling.
“You need a crew chief, don't you?”
“I can do my own work if I need to.”
“Yeah, I've seen what you do, you need a chief who can get it done yesterday when you need it now.”
I nod, “Yes. You are correct, Tom.”
“If they can't do it, I'll go.”
“You need to take care of yourself. You know what it is like, I do not want you to be looking at me like I have murdered your best friend before we make it back.”
He nods. “You know, you should get whatever Jerry had before you jet off to wherever. I think your source who said it was the Red Lancers might have been right, but I don't know that for certain. Jerry was certain he knew something big.”
“I am not sure I want to test my luck dealing with Kline again.”
Tom laughs, we both remember our time in the office with he, his lackey, and old... whatever his name was. Then a somber look descends and he comments, “Well, just remember that Jerry died trying to get you that info, the least you could do is appreciate his sacrifice.”
“Good point.”

…..

I am standing at a long counter, waiting in line like any normal civilian and feeling rather like this is a waste of time. This is the Solaris Regulatory Militia office, and I'd bet a weeks stay at the Solaris Grande that Kline not only already knows I'm here, but will make getting to see him into an ordeal.
The burly lad behind the counter could probably bench a hundred and fifty kilos, but looks completely neutered doing this. “Next,” he intones dryly.
“I am Patrick Carns. Captain Kline asked to see me.”
He gaces up, a rather disbelieving look paints his features. “Reason?”
“His investigation into the murder of Jeremiah Court.”
My mammoth counterperson types onto a pad, looks at me and back down, types something short, and finally replies, “Captain Kline is in a meeting. He asks that you wait in one of the interview rooms and says he will be with you shortly.”
Yup, just what I expected. “Nope, it isn't that important. He knows where to find me,” I say while turning away.
I am almost to the door when an officer steps in front of me and with a scowl says, “The Captain wants you to stay in one of the interview rooms.” He points while finishing, “They are over there.”
“Are you threatening me?” I ask coldly.
“Telling you.”
“Neither Captain Kline nor you are in my chain of command. Are you attempting to detain me illegally?”
“You do know where you are?” he asks with mock surprise.
“Yes, I do. You do know who I am, right?” I say with as evil a smirk as I can manage and as ugly a tone as I can create.
Of course, he is a militia officer in their offices and barracks; my implied importance is meaningless and he continues to bar my way. If anything, he is almost daring me to run him over or otherwise start trouble. I however am equally unmoving, offering neither threat nor provocation, but not acquiescence either.
From behind him, someone loudly says, “EXCUSE ME!” and he turns to see several people lead by a very angry old woman.
“Please come in, I say loudly and as they all pile forward I deftly move to the side opposite their entry. One sizable officer steps through with them and as he passes my opponent, I slip behind the group and out the door.
The street won't help me, but there are now witnesses and I am clear of the steps onto the sidewalk before he reaches the door and shouts, “Halt!”
Like everyone around me, I turn to look at him. “Oh, is the Captain ready to visit with me now?” I ask.
“Get in here!”
“Is there a problem? Do you treat witnesses like this now? I come to help and you want to treat me like a criminal?” I give my best performance of the injured party being harassed by the mean cop... and fortunately for me, there are those around me nodding like he is out of bounds.
I am not sure what he is thinking about doing, but at this moment, Captain Kline steps through the door and smiles. He puts a hand on the officer's shoulder and whispers something, then looks at me like he considers me a fair challenge.
“Pilot Carns,” he says with just a hint of false injury himself, “I am distressed that you were unable to wait for my presence. May I assist you now?”
“You had asked me to come if I had any ideas that might help your investigation into a murder. This officer sought to have me held as if I were the criminal. Is that how you want me treated? Is that how you hope to gain my assistance?”
He gets a wry smile and says calmly, “Why don't we step across the street and have some coffee in the cafe? Will that right the wrong?”
I smile, he too is playing the crowd. “Yes, that would be most agreeable, thank you for the courtesy.”

Edited by cmopatrick, 29 May 2013 - 05:06 PM.