System Name: Galatea Coordinates: -54.25, 34.43 Star Type: F8II Position in System: 6 Time to Jump Point: 12.01 days Recharging Station: Zenith ComStar Facility Class: A Population: 556,976,000 Percentage and Level of Native Life: Mammals
OVERVIEW:
Until the 3030's the principal hiring hall for mercenary troops within the Inner Sphere was the so-called Mercenary's Star of Galatea. When Wolf's Dragoons took over the planet of Outreach in 3030, the governments of the Inner Sphere shifted their mercenary recruiting efforts to that world. This caused Galatea's economy to nearly collapse. The mercenary trade had been the basis of its economy, but the only units who came there now were those too inferior to compete on outreach, or those who would not or could not go through legal channels to be hired. Where Galatea had once been the Mercenary's Star, it is now a virtual den of desperate men and women who don't care whether or not they live within the law.
Unlike Outreach, those who come here recruiting do not want their presence advertised. Most of their contracts were for jobs well beyond the law of any Inner Sphere government, so as piracy, assassination, subversion or kidnapping. Galatea also runs a series of 'Mech games, from which many of the recruiters pick and chose their warriors. Unlike the duels of Solaris VII, these battles are down and dirty, and usually to the death.
Galaport is the capital of Galatea, as well as being home to its major starport.
[3057] Since the formation of the Chaos March and the increased difficulty in travelling to Outreach, Galatea has seen a renaissance in legitimate mercenary dealings, a process encouraged by the LAAF and supported by Mercenary Liaison Corps operations to police the deals.
[3062] In early 3062, the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission recognized Galatea's position by establishing a satellite office on the world to help maintain standards.
[3067] Following the obliteration of Outreach at the hands of the Word of Blake, Galtatea becomes the primary recruiting hub for mercenary companies throughout the Inner Sphere.
Like many, bile rose in my throat as the jump completed, but not enough to warrant more than a quick cough to clear the discomfort. Minutes later I found myself no longer in a perpetual freefall, but instead firmly grounded on the decking, a solid one gravitational force carrying me towards ‘The Mercenary’s Star.’ Though the world had recently seen a few rough decades, I was still enamored by its rich history, where units like the Grey Death Legion made something of themselves. Twelve days later, as our Overlord planted its metal feet upon the surface of Galaport, I had already made contact with several planet-side entities, including a small contingent of Legionnaires who had traveled from our now defunct base on Sheratan to rendezvous with our main force. With them they brought our entire Battlemech force, a single lance of light Battlemechs consisting of a Stinger, a Wasp, and two Locusts. The ‘Mechs had somehow been smuggled off-world from the training base in the Cameron Mountains by the technicians and infantry accompanying them; I did not know of any MechWarriors making it off Sheratan.
Incredibly, one of the entities I had managed to contact with the help of Charles Maxwell was a House Davion operative on the world, who would ‘trade’ our Overlord class vessel for a Fortress class vessel and the small compliment of aged vehicles on board, provided that our ship’s datacore was intact. Apparently House Davion thought the information upon the core was quite valuable. As part of the agreement, we were forbidden to further access the ship’s databanks or make copies—I was certain that the Feds were not bluffing when they said they could detect any tampering.
The tarmac had hardly cooled as our Overlord‘s landing ramp deployed, but we had no Battlemechs to step proudly forth. Instead, I merely waited alongside Charles as a Savannah Master pulled up; its powerful turbine fans a whisper in comparison to what they could be as the craft idled. “So, this is our man then?” Charles merely nodded in reply. At last, the Savannah Master’s hatch opened, revealing a quintet of lightly armed men. A man with dark hair and a well trimmed red beard led the group up the ramp—a fifth man stayed behind in the machine.
“I presume you are Captain Garland?” said the bearded man as he reached the top of the ramp.“That’s correct.” Quite the assumption I thought considering that I was wearing a simple crew jumpsuit—we would need uniforms manufactured here. “Very good. If you don’t mind, I would like to begin examining the data immediately. I would ask that your men begin to transfer to the Verdun immediately.”
The Verdun… A Fortress Class ship named after an ancient French Fortress… how clever. “Of course, Corporal Tetsuhara will escort you and your men to the bridge.”
Intimidated by the Corporal’s size, the men declined.“And Captain, the Verdun is all yours, as you know she’s moored right next to us. I see that the Blakists didn’t leave you much in the way of vehicles so my man will take you and a compliment of men to the Verdun to retrieve the vehicles to help facilitate the transfer of personal and supplies between the ships. I must ask that you do this quickly as we will be moving the ship to a more secure zone this evening.” With that the men left the mechless Mech-bay. Turning to the Legionnaires, I began to give out orders. Four light Battlemechs wasn’t going to cut it, we would need to secure two more lances so that we could call ourselves a company at the very least. We also didn’t have twelve Mechwarriors—some recruitment would be in order. Fortunately, I knew we had enough personal to drive whatever combat vehicles were onboard the Verdun—I just hoped one could provide a very steady ride—we still had some grievously injured men. With that I ordered several men to board the Savannah Master and return with whatever transport vehicles they found aboard the Verdun. Satisfied that everything was underway, I began to head to the bridge to see what supplies we needed to transfer when I remembered another something I had forgotten—we needed a job.
"Very well. I'm headed into town. Taking Norrington with me, if you don't mind."
Garland balked.
"Now? But we need every available man to help facilitate this transfer!"
"That's why I'm only taking one with me."
Garland's shoulders sagged.
"I don't suppose I can convince you to wait until a few more bodies are available to watch your back...so be careful. Do you know where you're going?"
I allowed myself a slight grin.
"Oh yes."
###
The Duff Modem pub was a rowdy pit of chaos and calamity that made the venerable Cantina - may it rest in peace - look like a monestary in comparison to the sheer amount of frenetic energy that existed here. As James Norrington and I made our way into the smoke-filled tavern, our boots creaking and thunking across the ragged floorboards, the rough-and-tumble atmosphere wrapped itself around us in a bear hug of sights and sounds. The din of a roaring fight - or possibly fights - it was difficult to discern one rowdy outburst from another in the Duff Modem - elicited a variety of catcalls and cheers from all manner of riffraff jamming the ancient, plaster-and-clapboard bar, which had withstood centuries of abuse and neglect in a mind-boggling display of architectural acumen. I glanced at the aging building's sweeping, open rafters, which disappeared into a thick veil of smoke and haze as the former Crayven Lieutenant and I made our way through the dining hall, where a colorful variety of ale-sloshing characters played games of chance, arm-wrestled, and threw darts at a paper representation of Jerome Blake, and stepped carefully down a brief flight of misshapen stairs, onto the main floor of the establishment.
"Sir, begging your pardon, but what are we looking for?"Norrington inquired, his voice barely audible above the ambient din, made even more deafening by the blaring techno music being pumped out at an ear-splitting level by a number of jury-rigged PA speakers over the bar.
"Don't call me 'sir!'" I replied, screaming my words directly into Norrington's ear so as to be heard. "And I don't know why we're here! That's the point! In due course, something will present itself!"
The pair whirled around bearing astonished faces, I caught them off gaurd. Charles Maxwell started at me harshly.
Shouldn't you be helping with the transferr process to the Verdun?
I smiled at him sheepishly, placing a cigar at one corner of my mouth.
I'm on medical leave remember? The trail of blood all the way to the infirmary when we launched from Kittery?
He was not impressed. His stance changed to one with a less active agression. He begrudged my right to be away from various other duties, but at a price. He snatched the cigar out of my mouth and placed in in his own, cutting the ends with a small knife from his pocket.
Medical leave huh? This is not the place for you then, there could be danger anywhere.
Unknown to Charles Maxwell were the datails of my injuries. A simple blood transfusion, a few dozen stitches and plenty of bed rest and food of a higher caliber than WoB prison rations brough me back to full strength in no time. Truth be told, the beds in the infirmary were comfier on any ship than they were in any barracks or tiny spartan crew's quarters. And without an official doctor on the Astrid or the Star of Terra, who was to say other wise? I let my ailment come in to play when it was convient for me.
Don't worry about me Maxwell.
I lit the cigar at his lips and fetched another from my jacket.
I'm a big boy, I'll manage.
Norrington looked quizzically at me and began to ask
Then why are you here?
Just scouting for some talent. We're still a few men shy of a company.
Charles Maxwell frowned at me, between thoughtful puffs on the cigar with the unfamiliar brand.
If you haven't noticed we're a few mechs short of a company also.
I'm workin on it.
I patted him on the shoulder as I pushed past, heading for the bar near the back of the room. Maybe I could scare up a contact or two, or even an old connection through Iron Hammer. The only way to know was to start talking to people. I took a seat at the bar between two men. One wore dirty overalls and had a difficult time staying on his stool, the other sat before a deck of cards scattered in an organized fashion on the beaten old counter. It was some game, but not one I recognized. He was in deep thought, sipping on one of the many variaties of beer before him. The bartender was a large man with several tattoos and several peices of body jewelry, his hair was a midnight blue color, permadyed from simple DNA mods available in select dark alleyways. The man was nonetheless attentive to the needs of the hardworking (or theiving, whichever the case may be) thirsty people at the bar. There was also a waitress helping him prepare drinks, she looked like she could hold her own in a fight and jugding by nicks the ornamental gauntlets she wore, she probably had to very recently. The barkeeper spoke with a thick Lyran accent and asked me what I wanted.
Two shots of the driest Gin you have and a glass of Dark Rum on the rocks.
I lit my cigar and tryed listening in on the conversations around me as I awaited my drinks.
"Staring at the ale only makes it go flat faster."
I raised my head slightly, rolling my eyes away from the tankard of vile moonshine and toward the speaker, only bothering to stare at the speaker's jawline.
"And you would be...?"
The sound of a chair being dragged across floorboards flooded my ears in response. A middle-aged, wild-haired man, bedecked with all manner of technical apparatii, descended into view, his appearence looking for all the world like a mad scientist gone horribly wrong.
"Is identity...really all that important?"the older man quipped in an overly-philosophical tone, a large, yellowed, crocodile grin spreading across his face.
"Evidently not - to some people." I muttered, snatching the mug from the table and taking a long guzzle of the lukewarm brew inside. The flavor was vile, and the alcohol was anything but smooth going down - but it got me drunk, and that was all I cared about at present. After all, I had gone to Equinox for what was supposed to have been a routine checkup, and the next thing I knew, I'd woken up in a biolab six months later with a pounding headache and a face I didn't remember having, and, before I'd had time to ask any questions, I found myself being shoved into an escape pod with a Crayven officer's uniform in one hand and an electronic cryptex - which I couldn't open - in the other.
I was entitled to some self-indulgant pity.
"Exactly my point, good sir! Identity is meaningless,"the mad scientist continued, seemingly oblivious to the irritation in my voice. "You look like a man who's very comfortable with such a concept."
The Duff Modem wasn't the wildest, most outrageous pub I'd ever been to in my storied naval career...no, that honor belonged to a certain swashbuckling tavern on Tortuga... but it came a close second. I watched the crowd with all the intent and focus of a hawk stalking its prey, leaving no detail unnoticed as I scanned the room with narrow eyes. Captain Desparado and Charles Maxwell flanked me on either side, Charles devouring a cigar with repeated long drags and puffs, sending clouds of smoke billowing from pursed lips, while the Captain set about taking the fast train to inebriation. As awkward as the situation felt given our current predicament,, the truth was, the three of us looked no odder than any of the others present - we were all equally misfit.
Charles seemed lost in thought for the moment, and as such, I turned my attention to the Captain.
"Begging your pardon, Captain, but I've been meaning to ask you - "
Before I could finish the question, a tall, blonde man in a striking, royal-blue dress uniform rose from his chair on the far side of the bar and decked a wild-haired man to the floor with a single punch. It took me only a fraction of a second to recognize both the uniform and the fighting style, and I inhaled sharply as the realization hit me.
"Don't look now, Captain," I whispered, "but Crayven's here! Do you think we've been spotted?"
The Verdun was an awesome sight as I traveled towards it, carried by the powerful lifting fans of one of our very own Savannah Masters. My craft, driven by a very excited Yeoman Hobson, was flanked on either side by two other Savannah Masters, also belonging to the Legionnaires. Our small vehicle pool would make an excellent addition to the unit, providing mobility outside of Battlemechs. Still inside the Verdun were several other vehicles including a few missile carriers and a large salvage truck which could carry a downed Battlemech on its back.
“Yeoman, tour us around the ship’s perimeter—I want to get a good look at our new home.”
The ship was an impressive sight at ninety-four meters, several stories higher than the now lost Liberty. While the ship was comparatively small to our current Overlord, it could be managed with a smaller crew and fitted our needs as a mixed battalion. One of the greatest reasons I made the trade was because of a special feature unique to the Fortress Class; it housed a long tom artillery suite within the ship’s nose, above the bridge. Though currently hidden by armor cowling, the weapon would be an excellent strategic option should the need arise for more artillery support than our long range missile equipped Battlemechs and vehicles could provide. Having made a full circle around the ship, Hobson brought us into the vehicle bay, the three craft powering down their fans near synchronously. Walking to the main elevator, I motioned Hobson to enter first. “Shall we?”
Hobson’s excitement nearly manifested itself physically as we approached what would be his bridge. Stepping out from the elevator, we were greeted by the command deck in all of its metallic glory. Walking over to a control console, Hobson input some sequence opening the armor flaps protecting the bridge, letting in sunlight and providing us a view of the spaceport. While I surveyed the view, Hobson quickly went to work on the computer, examining ship systems and whatever those techies did.
“Captain, look at this.” Hobson turned in his chair, providing me a view of his screen. It appeared that this ship’s name had been changed—didn’t they know it was bad luck to change a ship’s name?
"Is identity...really all that important?" I said, taking a seat next to the young man. He wore a Crayven uniform and would be a perfect distraction.
"Evidently not - to some people." He muttered back, obviously uninterested in anything I had to say. I pressed on.
"Exactly my point, good sir! Identity is meaningless. You look like a man who's very comfortable with such a concept." I signalled the bar man for a pint of his best (if you could call it) beer.
“You have no idea…” He muttered, unaware he had actually said anything. As he took another swill of his grog, the bar keeper ran a metallic pint mug down the table. I caught the mug as it began to slow down. I quickly ran a finger from the bottom of the mug to the rim, catching the few droplets of beer that had spilled over it’s side.
“Why don’t you tell me about that?” I idled as I picked up the reflective mug.
“I don’t know you well enough to even begin…” The young man responded, raising his hand to signal the bar lady for another drink.
“Uh-huh…” I half listened, staring deeply into the reflection of the mug. At the table behind me sat two heavy set men in thick trench coats. I had secretly escaped from the Legionnaires point of operation during a quick confusion between switching guards and the docile Techies that wondered around. A quick false truth and I was out of sight. Now I was beginning things had all gone along too smoothly. Perhaps they intended to my escape to go accordingly in the hopes that I would lead them to some secret contact. Perhaps those MRBC agents that had interrogated me earlier intended for this all to happen…
What ever the case was, I needed a distraction if I intended to start a new life over, free of mercenary units and the Word. I wanted a life free of violence and a life that hid my crimes.
“Say, stranger… how drunk would you say you are right now?” I questioned, taking a long swill of my beer. Hopefully the alcohol would numb the pain that would ensue…
“What kind of question is that?” The young man replied. He turned to look at me with a raised eyebrow. Without a moments hesitation, I swung my half filled mug at him, covering his face with beer. With a forceful push, I rammed the mug into his face, sounding a large “clang” noise that silenced the area around me. Instantly behind me, the two heavy set men rose from their chairs and reached into their jackets. As they rose, a small crowd of red noised, alcohol breathing fools clambered to their feet and began to chant and jeer. They cut off the two sober figures that were following me. As I swung around, I was met with a fast jab to the face. The young man, now infuriated by his assumingly fractured noise, had done his part. As soon as he had hit me, the entire bar became infused by the sceptical. As soon as that had happened, another drunk had reached for the punch throwing blonde.
“Aye! Yuh don- punch’a ol’ mahn…” He slurred. Blondie shoved the drunk back. Had it not been for the alcohol, the drunk would have retained his balance. As momentum gained, he fell backwards onto a separate table. The table went flying. The table’s drinks went flying. The drinks owner’s despaired. Before he knew it, the collapsed drunk was being shoved around and interrogated violently.
“Hay! What’s the big idea?!”
Suddenly the bar had fallen into a rough riot.
During the commotion, I secured my exit route. I darted between the different parties of fights and people before I was cut off by a familiar face.
“Doctor Faulkner… what a pleasant surprise…” It was the face of Charles Maxwell…
I stepped off the lift from the bridge. I had just finished helping berth the four light 'Mechs the Legionnaires were able to bring from Sheratan. I was piloting one of the Locusts they had brought with them. While transfering the 'Mech I had taken a liking to the 'Mech. Smooth with its motions it was a quite a deadly little 'Mech. I had decided I would talk to Garrett about volunteering to use the light 'Mech.
I walked up behind the captain who was studying the screen Hobson was showing him.
"Pardon me Captain. The light 'Mechs have been berthed and are ready." Garrett turned around and smiled."Excellent Alex." I nodded and continued. "I would like to volunteer to pilot one of the light 'Mechs, sir. I have...come to a liking for one of them. The Locust to be exact."
I waited for a reply. I knew most of the Legionnaires were used to the fancy technology that we had access to and most of them prefered the heavier 'Mechs. I thought I be the first to volunteer to pilot one of the light 'Mechs, because I knew it would eventually come down to figuring out who piloted them. The ones that were chosen, if not volunteers, would probably not be happy with the decision. I on the other hand was intrigued by the smaller 'Mechs.
I glanced up from the impressive amount of empty containters before me and realized that I was sitting in the middle of bedlam central. All around me raged the bar in a drunker rage, stirred by something unknown, probably nothing at all. I was in a duldrum of the activity, the combatants had left the bar and fought in the central area of the catina. I held up my C-bill card to the barkeeper and he processed my tab immediately. His concern was for losing money on those who might flee in this chaos without paying, he gladly accepted the bit of security I offered him. I asked for another beer, holding up the empty bottle I had enjoyed so much for its honey-like barley taste. He processed that too and handed me my card again. I accepted them both and stood up, surveying the room for exits. I was not involved in this and I didn't need any of the regional law enforcement to arrest me for anything. There was a door near the back of the room, beside the bar and I quietly slipped out, beer in hand.
Evening was setting in on Galatea, the streets were bathed in golden light that made even the most run down of places posess a sense of majesty. Everywhere except the series of alleyways that lie in shadow I now stood in. There were a few people, passing by going one way or another. Each of them walked with a certain degree of haste, whether it was the indimidating ominous atmosphere of the alleyway, paranoia or they had other reasons I couldn't say. These pushed past, keeping their eyes forward and taking swift steps. There were a few others a ways down the alleyway drinking and laughing at a raucous volume. I took note of a few people entering from and disappearing into the side alleys that joined this one. They were all passing through a doorway in a part of the alley that came to a chicane. My interest was peaqued so I decided to investigate. I made my way past the rowdy group, having a harmless good time in the dark alley. I approached the doorway, covered by a dark curtain and pushed it aside. As I held it there, a man and a woman exited. They had their hair in outlandish styles and were dressed like they were aliens or stranger. They clung to one another, eyes unfocused on the world but glazed over. I didn't have a clue what they were on but I went in the door anyway. Inside was a simple storage room with a cellardoor, the room was dusty and held nothing of value, rusted machine parts and a few well worn shelves marked by vandilism. I took hold of the door and pulled it open, shutting it behind me and descending down into one of the largest civilian subterraenean structures I've ever seen.
The door lead to different maintence access tunnels, bomb shelters, storage facilities and utility housing areas, all interconnected with one another. At junctions in the dimly lit tunnels, there were men with merchandise laid out on peices of cloth, peddaling their wares to passersby. Most of the items were weapons or paraphanelia, others were jewlery or other things of value. There were larger rooms, presumably abandoned bomb shelters were filled with stores of weapons and other oddities. It seemed as though the Galatean underground was indeed, underground.
Faulkner skidded to a stop, literally colliding with my chest as I stepped directly into his path. At six feet even, I easily towered over the five-foot-something octogenarian, who seemed to shrink even more as I glared imperiously down at him.
"And where are you shuffling off to so quickly?" I mused, blowing a smoke ring in the self-proclaimed 'doctor's' face. Had he been an actual licensed physician, I had little doubt that Faulkner would have been mired in malpractice lawsuits.
"Gen...Gen...General Maxwell - what an unexpected - I'm so glad you're here! That deranged Crayven man over there - he tried to kill me! Look!"Faulkner stammered, gesturing wildly at a beautiful shiner on his wrinkled face.
"Mmmph. You probably deserved it," I retorted. "If it weren't for the fact that you already know our whereabouts, and are therefore a security risk," I began, dropping my cigar on the floor and stomping it into oblivion, "I'd leave you to the wolves. However, since that isn't the case, I'd better go find out how much information you've leaked to the sonofabitch. Watch him," I nodded to Norrington, shoving Faulkner at him. Shoving past a cluster of cheering drunks, I made my way toward the table where the melee was still underway. Several thugs were in the process of duking it out with a tall blonde in a royal-blue Crayven uniform, and the fight was going badly for the hoodlums. The Crayven officer was far-less inebriated than his combatants, and it was working to his advantage. The Galateans were landing more punches on each other than on the young man, and as I waded into the center of the altercation, it required little effort to toss the drunks aside. Drawing up behind the Crayvenite, I clamped a vise-like grip onto his shoulder, and near-instantly found my arm being subjected to an equally-crushing level of pain as the officer's hand twisted onto my wrist and forced the limb up at an angle. As he whirled around to face me, both our grips weakend as shock took hold of both of us.
The quintet of light Battlemechs approaching the ship brought a smile to my lips; most of the Mechwarriors were unavailable to pilot the smaller machines from the warehouse to the ship. A Locust, a Stinger, and a Wasp all moved ungainly towards the ship, the Battlemechs making unsure steps, though not falling. However, the lead ‘mech, and other Locust moved unlike the others, each step made with confidence. It was obvious that the pilot was well attuned to the Battlemech’s neuro-interface as he proceeded towards the ship, the ‘mech walked the walked. Just based on the gait and swing of the ‘mech, I had a feeling the pilot was more used to piloting the heavier ‘mech’s where a pilot had to compensate for the inertial swing in each step more. Nearly one hundred meters from the ground, I couldn’t feel the heavy feet upon our ship’s ramp, but I knew that they were berthing the ‘mechs below. Ten minutes later, the door to the bridge opened with a pleased Alex Thorn stepping forward. "Pardon me Captain. The light 'Mechs have been berthed and are ready."
I turned and smiled, "Excellent Alex."
Nodding, Alex continued."I would like to volunteer to pilot one of the light 'Mechs, sir. I have...come to a liking for one of them. The Locust to be exact."
Very good, I thought. I was worried that some of the Mechwarriors would be unwilling to pilot some of the lighter ‘mechs—from what I could tell most were used to piloting heavy or even assault ‘mechs. I had a personal fondness for the light and fast striking capabilities of the lighter ‘mechs, and when Major Maxwell took command, assuming that he would recover enough to once again take the helm of a Battlemech, I intended to take command of a recon lance.
“A Locust eh? Which one do you prefer… the SRM or machine-gun equipped one?”
I slowly released the bone-crushing grip I had on my father's arm as he did likewise.
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us,"Charles Maxwell whispered, a look of shock and disbelief crossing his face as he slowly backed away from me."They...activated you? Are you...working for them?"
"'Activated?' What are you talking about, dad? It's me - Benjamin!" I began, stepping toward Charles. "And who are 'they?' You're really starting to confuse me. I've had one hell of a morning."
It had all started six months ago. Six months ago - on that damned Friday - when Benjamin reported to Equinox to undergo the series of examinations which led to the damning revelation that my son - and my only child - had Rissikin's Disease, the same godforsaken disorder which had claimed Alyssa, my beloved wife of over thirty years.
In a heart-wrenching meeting with Benjamin, I'd revealed our findings to him. Revealed that he had the disorder - and that his life hung in the balance between the disease's slow, steady forced march of the body toward death - and our ability to find a cure.
Which I had vowed to do.
I'd diverted nearly all of Crayven's research budget away from the development of war machines and the skunkworks projects that sustained the company, and invested it in a massive fusion of science and technology dedicated to finding a cure for the disease which was slowly eating away at Benjamin. The best staff, the best equipment, and the best resources had been employed to support the project, which employed techniques so advanced that they were largely still in the theoretical and experimental phases.
Because of the advanced nature of the project, whose goal was to accomplish what none had managed before, and the fact that time was most definitely a factor, it was decided that a computer model of a human subject - Benjamin, in this case - would be insufficient and unreliable. A live test subject would be required - a position for which no sane person would even consider volunteering for.
We would have to create our own.
A small amount of Benjamin's DNA was harvested during the testing process, and a complete map of his brain was performed. From these, Crayven scientists had hoped to create an identical, functional clone which could be used as both an exact model of Benjamin for research purposes, and as a testbed for the techniques to be applied in the treatment process. The clone would be kept in a drug-induced coma at all times for the duration of its existence, fed through nutrient tubes, and terminated at the end of the project's life cycle.
The only problem was, no one had ever successfully created a full-body clone before. Although doctors had had much success with the battlefield cloning and replacement of minor body parts, such as fingers and toes - a procedue commonplace in M*A*S*H units throughout the Inner Sphere - an entire body was far more costly and complicated, and was an area of medicine in which science repeatedly fell short.
But I didn't care. I'd pushed Crayven technicians to defy the odds and attempt the impossible. In under a month's time, a clone had, in fact, been created, but it was not without its own set of defects. As had been the case in so many full-body cloning projects in the past, the end result wasn't anything like the original model.
The clone neither looked like Benjamin, nor even had the sane blood type, nor hair color. Memory engrams downloaded onto the clone's brain hadn't formed in the same manner as the originals from which they were cultivated, and, most problematic of all, no traces of the Rissikin's disease were present in the clone's system.
Certain parties within the Crayven Corporation wanted the project shut down immediately, but so much money, and so many resources had already been expended on the undertaking that I decided to disregard the demands of the squeaky wheels, and continue the project under modified conditions. Whereas direct testing of a treatment on the clone wouldn't be possible, due to the absence of the disease, it could still be used as a study model. For that reason, it had been kept alive, albeit in suspended animation, to be used as a reference source. When I'd gone off-world to assist the Legionnaires with Operation: Cataclysm, the clone was still in its hibernation tube, awaiting use.
And now, it was standing before me, demanding answers.
I Staggered through the dim tunnels, passing people every once and then. They were mostly hanging around large open areas and I couldn't blame them. A lot of this place was a bit claustrophobic and if you were going to meet in a group down here, you needed a bit more space that a maintinence corridor. Graffiti on the walls indicated that a large part of what I was seeing was once gang territory. The crude images lasered into the concrete were worn well and the heyroglyphics of what was supposed to be language had long since faded with time, it had begun to chip away and crack. Still something told me that there were certain tunnels and areas that I didn't want to be alone in. I patted my Mag 90 with the hand that wasn't occupied holding my beer just to be sure.
There was always a drone of voices to echo of footsteps to be heard from up ahead and far behind me. The calamity of voices was getting louder and louder as I approached one chamber my tunnel ran tangent to. It was a large circular chamber with several valves and plumbing structures. There were men all around the peremeter, shirtless, screaming, cheering. The commotion was for two men in the center of the room, both bare chested and wearing no shoes. These two traded punches, kicks, headbutts, they were locked in a nasty fight. They left sweaty footprints that circled eachotehr on the greasy floor. I stood in the entryway, hypnotized at the whole spectacle. One man landed a punch he had his whole weight behind, the other crumpled to the ground unconcious. The crowd roared at the gladiator's victory, lifting him up and dragging the loser out of the center of the room. One man near me stopped yelling in celebration and looked over his shoulder to see me standing in the doorway. He tapped another shirtless man close to him and he turned as well. The abscence of their voices was noted throughout the room and soon everyone turned towards me. About three or four dozen pair of eyes were on me, they glowed and dimmed as the lone hanging light swayed to and fro, pushed by a ventilator hatch.
They looked at me and I looked right back at them, I had no clue what to make of this or what to expect. One man made his way from the back of the room, slowly the men parted like the Red Sea. He wore sunglasses that were highly reflective. I saw a fun-house mirror reflection of myself wrapped in a long leather coat that was beginning to feel clammy in to stale damp air. The bottle I was holding reflected the light when it swung my direction, gleaming off of the man's glasses. Whether he could see anything or not in such poor conditions I didn't know but just the same he spoke. His voice was not loud, but it rang strong as it bounced off of the concrete surfaces.
Who are you?
I'm Kyle Iscariot, who are you?
The man didn't answer my question. His arms were at his sides, they reached into his pockets. My wrists jearked for my Mag 90 but I stopped them from flying to the grip, the whole process was an imperceptable switch. He pulled out a lighter and cigarette.
What do you want?
I'm looking for some new friends.
It was true, I had taken off of the ship to find some potential recruits. This looked as good a place as any. The man smirked and stuck the cigarette in the corner of his smirk. The flick of the lighter echoed off of every surface, as did his deep breath. He looked at me long and hard with his head to one side before letting out the smoke slowly. It flowed from his mouth thick, mixing with the dirty air.
You should join our club.
I looked at the men behind him, eyes all intent. Not a sinister intent, but full of genuine interest in me. I glint of something caught my eye and I looked up. The swinging light rendered me blind when it came my way but when it went the opposite way my eyes had just long enough to adjust to the darkness again. Up in the labrynth of pipes and conduit, sat two dozen more men. All eyes on me.
Knuckles on all hands were cracked, some were bandaged loosely, many covered with blood. Nails were short, as were most hair styles. Bruises in a variety of colors, sizes and texture spotted several in the crowd. I could guess what this group was all about.
Whats the prize for winning?
How can you be sure that you've every truly won? If you win anything, its freedom.
Cryptic bullshit it seemed to be at first but as a man of war, I could understand. No one won when you fought, no matter what the reason, no matter what the outcome. You still payed a price in some way or another. It was often I thought I was most free during battle. I was intreguided. The rim of my beer bottle met my lips and didn't pull away until all of the remainder had passed through it. One long breathless drink.
Alright. I think I understand, whats first?
The man in the shades, lifted both of his arms outstretched in a gesture to those behind and above him.
First rule. You don't talk about what happens here. It never leaves this chamber.
The second rule. Don't talk about what happens here.
Third, if someone surrenders or can not continue, its done.
Fourth, two men at a time.
Fifth, only one fight at a time.
Next, fights will last as long as it takes.
Last, if its your first time here, participation is mandatory.
Sounds alright. I'm ready right now.
The man smiled again and took a long drag of his cigarette before tossing it away into the darkness where it hissed in some puddle. He turned back and made his way through the crowd, patting one man on the shoulder as he went. The crowd parted around this man and he made his way to the center of the chamber. Right then the last of the beer I had finished kicked in and away we went.
The Savannah Master glided across the tarmac on a skirt of air, the ferrocrete cooling in the night from the hot sun and the heat-wash of many DropShips. Surprisingly I caught a breeze of a sweet scent in the air, something I wouldn’t imagine in a spaceport, let alone Galatea. Perhaps one of the infantrymen, or women, had already prepared to take some shore leave later in the night—I had granted several days worth to near everyone. Our hovercraft was occupied by myself, Lieutenant Reade, and four infantrymen, one being a woman. As we skimmed out of the spaceport and onto Galatea’s streets, the vestiges of a fresh breeze left us, so I closed the craft’s hatch. Our order was still being processed at a uniform manufacturer’s plant, so we were simply attired in whatever could pass for a loose uniform. Leather jackets or anything else slightly militant hid pistols beneath their fabrics, and booted feet hid the knives carried by all warriors. Since Galatea lacked the formal hiring halls that Outreach once had, most of the mercenary dealings took place at various, often undisclosed, locations. We were not headed to any place nefarious; as far as Galatea went this place was near saintly.
“Alright Private, take a left at that intersection, there should be an underground garage on the side. Drop us off down there, but I want you and Private Sheppard to take the ’master topside, I want you to keep in contact with the Dauntless. Anything hot comes in, relay it to my personal comm, and you know what to do if I don’t respond. Alright, this is it.”
The Savannah Master’s fans wound down as the four of us exited the craft. Reade and I exited from the elevator facing side while Corporals Abraham Tetsuhara and Heather Löfgren, a native from the ill-fated Free Rasalhauge Republic, exited from the other. While I would most definitely place my money on Tetsuhara if a fight were to occur between the two Legionnaires flanking myself and Reade, Löfgren had something the ebony skinned warrior did not, feminine charm. When I read her profile her name made me think of an old Norwegian housewife, shoulders broader than mine, but I was very pleasantly surprised to meet the lithe and tantalizing blonde now accompanying us. She was an excellent infantrywoman, but I also hoped that she would keep our potential employer a little distracted—perhaps it could help turn a contract in our favor.
I expected to be greeted with multi-hued lighting and heavy air as the elevator doors opened, but the scene was very casual. This “club” was, for all intents and purposes, a hiring hall, with the bar serving as a refuge from the negotiations happening at various tables. All I knew was that our contact was from House Davion, and that they seemed to have liked some of the work we had done. Scanning the tables, I saw a man dressed in a black sweater, with a Davion sunburst lapel pinned upon his left breast. The man nodded as my gaze passed over him, indicating that he was our man. The table seated six, and Heather knew exactly how to arrange ourselves. Major Reade slipped in first on the empty side, followed by myself and then Tetsuhara. Heather positioned herself next to the Davion operative, not so close that they were touching, but I knew she’d take some of his mind off of the dealings at the very least. Her Scandinavian heritage lent quite nicely to certain… aspects of her figure which I had already seen the Davion’s eyes glance over. After we had settled in, the Davion extended his hand across the table.
“I’m Michael Desjardins, you must be Captain Garland. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise Michael. So, I’m told that House Davion is seeking mercenaries to hire.”
Desjardins smiled slightly and began his sales pitch—it looked like he had practiced it perhaps a few too many times—perhaps his practice came from giving it to many mercenaries who turned it down. “As you know, the Federated Suns has been hiring many mercenaries to serve as planetary garrison because we’ve been throwing our front-line troops against the Word of Blake.”
The Davion shifted in his seat. “However, I know what the Legionnaires are capable of. I know that you have more experience than many other units in the Inner Sphere. Hell, I wish that you guys were a whole regiment instead of a whittled down company. That data you provided on the Blakists to our operative earlier was invaluable, and we want to give you a chance to strike back at them. Yes, we know that you were held on Kittery, we found that in the files.”
Nodding, I responded, “Alright, let’s hear it.”
“Due to confidentiality and such, I can’t tell you the world, but we need a fast company to make a deep strike on an important installation.” I was about to speak, but Desjardins cut me off. “I know, I know, vague. We just need a group who can do a lightening raid, get in, and get out. And listen, I know how much you guys have been hurt—we’ll fully outfit you. We’ll provide the sort of fast hitting quick fading Battlemechs you need along with a fighter screen inbound on the world. In fact, we’ve already got an ace wing of fighter pilots ready to do a screen. We’ll pay standard rates plus those Battlemechs. I doubt you’ll be able to bring back any salvage due to the timed nature of the mission, but a company of fully outfitted ‘mechs would surely make up for it.”
Standing up, I shook Desjardins’ hand. “Surely it would. It was nice speaking with you Michael. Perhaps if you could provide a second company with MechWarriors to replace the first which would most assuredly be killed on this mission then we’d take it. You and I know very well what world we’re talking about, and I know how many teams you’ve sent, and I know how many have come back. Terra is a fool’s errand Michael—a one way ticket, and we’ll have no place there. Maybe you’ll find some young hotshots to sign on, but I hope you don’t.”
With that, we left the table—looks like our coffers were still going to run dry.
My breathing was ragged and loud. I spat but much of it was a spray that settled over the shoulder I turned to. Its funny how comfortable you were being covered with your own blood, yet a few drops from another person and most people were repulsed. I shook my head violently tossing beads of sweat off of my wet hair. The cheering was deafening but I couldn't here it, I was somewhere else. The man who was tapped on the shoulder lay on the nasty floor face up, gasping for air like a fish. His eyes threatened to roll back into his head at any moment but they fought to stay with rapid bouncing movements. The man in the sunglasses walked out of the crowd and took my hand, raising it high into the air. He motioned to the fallen man and several other men dragged him out of the spotlight and away from the attention. He pointed to two other men and snapped his fingers, jamming a thumb behind him at the middle of the room. The man in the sunglasses led me out of the circle, patting me on the back and saying two words before integrating with the rabble.
Good Fight.
My affects were still bundled up where I had left them. I was too hot to put my shirt back on, I used it as a rag to wipe myself off with and wore my jacket open. My weapon was still loaded, good sign. I figured it was a good time to leave now. I turned from the yelling and hard packing sounds of fist on flesh and doubled back. One man followed me out, calling after.
Hey, good fight.
Yea, I feel a little better but I didn't get what I came for.
Whats that?
I need mechwarriors... and battlemechs. I think I'm looking in the wrong place for mechjocks.
Most people here are on Galatea are criminals looking to blend in with other criminals. The rest are poor merchants, vacationing miners, you know the lot.
I nodded and let an appreciative huff loose. This man was covered in sweat but only bore minor bruising, and the outlines of a hand on his neck. A winner.
Not the right place, I should've tried to hang around mechanics and technichians, try their clientele. Maybe even some smugglers.
Well, I'm a little bit of a techie myself. I specialize in myomer fibers at Gaurdian Angel Armor Works. We get quite a few regulars that compete in Mech duals.
Illegal mech dualing? It must be hard to find a place to fight descreetly without the law interfereing.
The man shrugged.
Not my problem, they've got C-Bills and I've got a job. Here take this, stop by sometime.
He extended me a card with a smile.
Thank you, after I nurse some of these wounds I'll check it out.
I accepted the card and the man excused himself to return to the fighting club. I pocketed it and traced my way back to the surface.
---------------------------------------
No one had claimed quarters yet aboard the Dauntless. Before I left for the evening I had helped myself to one of the cleaner officer's quarters. If there was a problem later, I'd address it or move but for the moment, it was mine. As I opened the door, I quickly noted that Ian's bags and footlocker were at the foot of my modest bed. She sat atop it, eyeing my injuries and exclaiming in surprise.
What did you do?
I smirked and tossed my coat off and onto a nearby chair.
I won.
Nevermind the fact that she was in my quarters and apparently intended to stay, she knew that I was amused at her weak attempt to deflect attention from herself. Of course I didn't mind but she still acted like it was something that would bother me. We were close, that was true. But it was more complicated than that and I doubted any of the Legionnaires guessed. I smiled back at her, noting that her eyes moved over all of my visable injuries.
I can smell your sweat from here. You need a shower.
Well as far as I know, not that much of the personell has made it aboard quite yet. The officer's wash facilities will most likely be empty.
Well then, we should get you cleaned up.
-------------------------------------------------
Two hours later we stepped out of the shower, refreshed and clean. After I had dressed I remembered the card given to me by the man underground. I had an idea forming but it would be very risky. Normally a risk wouldn't phase me but I was now integrated with another unit, it wasn't just the Iron Hammer anymore. I was part of the Legionnares once more and this sort of thing needed to be run by the other ranking officers before I would attempt it. The payoffs could be nice but there was a slim margin of error. I had a good feeling about it, but hopefully the otehrs had made more progress with their exploration than I had. I would rest and wait for Captain Garland to return to the ship.
Phoenix glared at me, a look of utter disbelief on his face. Over the last twenty minutes, I'd tried, as best as I could, to explain everything to the bewildered young man - from the project's origins, to the cloning process, to the utter failure of the whole sordid affair. He clearly wasn't buying it, and his rabid mistrust of me served as a burning reminder that, although the clone believed otherwise, this truly wasn't Benjamin - though within him was contained the sum of my son's knowledge, memories, and life experiences. He was a new entity - and would, in due time, need to accept that fact as much as I needed to, ultimately, accept the likely inevitibility of the real Benjamin's failing health.
"What proof do you have of any of this?"
I pointed to the electronic codex shoved haphazardly in Phoenix's jacket pocket.
"That is the Codex Aquarius. It is the master record of the entire Phoenix Project. Only I can open it."
Phoenix glanced down at the cylindrical holoprojector protruding from his royal-blue uniform. Slowly, he withdrew it from its resting place, and set it on the table before him.
"Then do it."
I picked up the tube, and located the biometric scanner inset into its surface. Slowly, I moved my thumb toward it. For several moments, my finger hovered over the translucent optical reader as I hesitated.
"Are you sure you're ready for this?"
Phoenix scowled.
"If what you're saying is true, you owe me this explanation,"he retorted."If anything, you should be asking yourself if you're ready for this."
I nodded, and dropped my finger onto the scanner. A low-intensity laser shot out, tracing the ridges and contours of my thumbprint, while simultaneously checking my DNA against the pattern stored deep within its electronic memory. In less than a second, the device sprung open, a set of tripodial legs bursting from within its chassis. I placed the device before Phoenix, leaving it standing on the table. A holographic projection materialized above the unit - an animated representation of the project logo. Moments later, the logo flashed away, replaced by a massive index - the jumping-off point into the gargantuan repository of knowledge that was the Phoenix Project.
"How much time do I have?"the young man asked dryly.
"As much time as you need,"I replied. Phoenix grunted an acknowledgement, and began to read...
###
Several hours and a generous number of cigars and ale tankards later, Phoenix switched the projector off. Sitting back in his chair with a pronounced 'thump,' the young man sighed, and slouched down, his eyes fixiated on the well-worn surface of the table.
"You piece of shit..."
The words caught me off-guard. I'd anticipated hostility; however, to actually experience it firsthand was unusually difficult.
"I'm so sorry. It was never meant - "
"Shut up."
"I beg your - "
"I said shut up!"Phoenix roared, rising from the table and leaning into my face. Norrington moved to intervene, but I gestured for him to stop."I want to meet him."
"Who?" I asked, in a tone as neutral and as balanced as I could muster. Phoenix was literally breathing down my neck. I didn't want to agitate him further.
"I want to meet me,"Phoenix hissed, his voice nearly a growl."I want you to take me to meet Benjamin Maxwell, the man whose memories you stole and whose body you violated in the name of science!"
"I'm very sorry, but right now isn't a very good time. Benjamin is - "
"No excuses!"Phoenix bellowed, drawing even nearer to me. The young man now stood so close that I could feel the heat radiating from his body."If you want to stand a prayer of redeeming yourself for the crime against nature you've committed, you'll do exactly as I tell you to. Do we have an understanding?"
The brandy swirled gently in the glass as I started into it—its amber hues glowing from the bar light. Strange shadows played over people sitting at the bar considering that their faces were lit from below instead of above—the light bright and white, unlike the natural yellow shades of the sun. I had sent the others back to the Dauntless and had given them leave; I was taking mine here. For the most part, I was disappointed in our future. I expected that if I didn’t have a contract soon, Legionnaires would start jumping ship, signing on with other units that could pay. Right now, no one was getting a single C-bill and while many of us said we fought for a higher calling, the C-bill was why we were really here. I was about to head out, grab a cab back to the spaceport, when I noticed a woman in a similar demeanor to my own. Though much of her beauty was hidden by the hopeless look on her face, it was clear that she was not unattractive. Her dark hair was pulled tight against the back of her neck, and I noticed it was pulled through a small hole in a circle with three colored circles upon the large circle—The Magistry of Canopus. Sliding next to her, I knew that we had it made.
The taxi bumped and trundled down the roughly-paved road, its wheels catching often on sections of tattered pavement as its driver, a deranged-looking man who answered to the name 'Warthog' for reasons unknown, ran it roughshod over the holes and divots in the roadway, seemingly unaware of its perilous condition. Charles Maxwell sat in the front seat, his eyes pointing straight ahead, his posture rigid and tense. I rode in the back seat, seated next to Phoenix, who stared wistfully out of the vehicle, tuning out his surroundings, unconcerned by the rough driving. The silence in the vehicle was deafening. Ultimately, it was I who chose to break the silence.
"So....is 'Phoenix' a callsign? Or something more?"
"So....is 'Phoenix' a callsign? Or something more?"
The question was asinine - and beyond irritating. I gritted my teeth. Small talk was the last thing I wanted to make. Norrington's question was obviously well-intentioned, however, and so I let it slide.
"'Phoenix' is the only name that seems to apply to me - seeing as how I've been informed I am not, in fact, your Major Benjamin Maxwell," I replied, glaring at the back of Charles' head.
A battered yellow taxi lurched to a stop just shy of the towering ferrocrete blast walls that cordoned off the DropShip Dauntless' landing area from the rest of the spaceport's grounds. In short order, several passengers disembarked - Charles Maxwell, James Norrington, and a tall, regal-looking young man bedecked in full Crayven dress uniform. As the trio approached, I nodded cordially - the ranks of the newest members of the Legionnaires had yet to be determined, and as such, a salute would have been inappropriate.
"Gentlemen."
Charles nodded, and approached me.
"Where's Captain Garland?"
"Out in the field," I replied. "Is there something I can help you with?"
The former General nodded.
"We need to see Benjamin. Immediately."
I hesitated.
"I'll have to clear that through the Captain," I began. "He's under a high security detail right now."
When the humvee rolled up in front of the Dauntless, the last thing I expected to see was the lanky Crayven-generated clone clambering out of it. I'd been holed up aboard the new vessel ever since our planetfall on Galatea, although I'd made it a point to be tuned in to everything that was happening around me. When I'd heard that Charles was on his way back to the ship with a passenger in his company, I was certain something unusual was just around the corner. But I had no idea just how unusual that would be.
Hobson wasn't joking. Not onlywas he not going to allow us access to Benjamin, it seemed he was also quite wary of allowing Phoenix on board the Dauntless itself. Eventually, however, he relented, and allowed us into the ship's galley, where a battered Auto Vendor was the only foodservice outlet evident in the room. As we waited for Captain Garland's decision, I ordered a bowl of putrid slime from the machine, and took a seat, staring through the ship's sweeping viewports at the landscape beyond...
While Norrington busied himself with a bowl of the most vile-looking shit I'd seen the AutoVendor dispense to date, I nursed an equally-disgusting cup of high-test coffee in the ship's near-vacant galley. With a skeleton crew manning the ship, the crowded, chaotic atmosphere that had typified previous Legionnaire operations was noticably absent. In many ways, it reminded me of bygone days aboard the late Dreams of Avarice, where I had been afforded a private dining hall and opulent quarters that would have made an AFFS fleet commander jealous. Now, I had a cot in a communal sleeping bay, and a battered vending machine in a cramped foodservice hall that smelled like old socks.
How the mighty have fallen...
I glanced over at Phoenix, who was making a point of watching my every move, an angry glare frozen on his face. The young man was no doubt fraught with not only a deep mistrust and confusion over his current predicament, but also a serious identity crisis as well. I'd done everything I could for him. The rest was up to him.
The rumble of the mess hall's heavy blast door sliding open caught my attention. I turned to identify the new arrival - it was Captain Garland.
“Captain, Charles Maxwell needs to speak to you, he says it’s urgent.”
“I’ll be back to the spaceport in ten.”
“Yes, sir.”
The hover-taxi weaved in and out of traffic on one of Galaport’s many roadways, sometimes nearly colliding with other speeding traffic. With the area around the spaceport free of high-rise buildings I could see the domed shapes of DropShips looming over the tarmac. Stepping out from the taxi, I heard the driver mumble a curse—I had given him kroners instead of C-bills, and no one preferred House Bills over Comstar’s more universally accepted currency.
Waiting for me was one of our Savannah Masters which I piloted to the DropShip, enjoying the feeling of being behind the controls of a machine of the first time since our last Operation. Pulling the master into the cargo hold, I exited the vehicle, taking the lift to the ship’s main deck. Stepping into the mess, I saw a handful of Legionnaires and one I didn’t recognize.
“Maxwell, you needed to speak with me?”
“Yes Garrett, I did.” Said a man who I was certain I had never met. The man was attired in a Crayven uniform with a high-collar, reminding me much of what Norrington wore before our capture. The man’s uniform was a sharp contrast to my own, but hopefully our more formal attire would arrive before we lifted off. Looking at the man, and then at Maxwell, I spoke. “Charles, what is the meaning of this? Who are you?”
“This, Captain, is Phoenix.”
“Alright Phoenix, you seem to know me, but I don’t recall meeting you?”
“Really Garrett? I remember meeting you back on Tau Ceti IV.”
“Alright Charles, your puppet here is funny.” Smirking, and I in disbelief, Charles explained what Phoenix ‘was.’
“What does Ben have to say about all of this?” I couldn’t read either of their expressions—I had no idea what they were going to say. I hoped it was good, because we now had a deadline to meet.
"Hobson refuses us access to...Ben," I replied. My mind was still reeling with the identity crisis that I was faced with - I was Benjamin Maxwell, and yet, I wasn't. "I understand that I...we...he is in critical condition in medical right now. Might I ask what happened?"
Captain Garland gave a brief run-down of the previous Operation. I listened in near-disbelief.
"Well then. By the sounds of it, the last thing he needs is to be confronted with something such as this."
Charles quirked an eyebrow.
"What makes you say that?"
I frowned at the former General. It was difficult to not think of him as my father.
"Why do you suppose?"I replied, tapping the side of my head. Charles grumbled unintelligibly. I turned back toward Captain Garland.
"Garrett...Captain Garland - I'd like to request asylum with the Legionnaires. You know who Benjamin is - his capabilities, his clearences - you should also therefore know exactly what my abilities are. I know everything there is to know about this unit, and I can assure you, I am quite capable of filling in for Benjamin in his stead. I'm not asking for command privilages - just an opportunity to fight with the unit."
General Maxwell interjected.
"Garrett - we don't really know what Phoenix's abilities are...he hasn't been tested - "
I stared icily at the General as his words trailed off. The decision was ultimately up to the Captain.
[color=#FF0000]This was perhaps the strangest thing I had ever encountered in my life—but if this was Ben—or at least his reincarnation, then what could I do? He deserved something at the very least.
“The light lance is yours, Phoenix.”
Just then Desperado walked into the room.“Light lance? That’s our only lance.”
“True, but I’m told that you have a plan for acquiring some more Battlemechs, and we’re going to need them soon, in two weeks to be specific. Hobson, if you would, please call up all of the Mechwarriors and the senior infantry and support officers.”
Moments later the mess was full of the higher ranking Legionnaires and every single one of our Mechwarriors. “Alright people, listen up. We’ve got a contract, and we dust off in two weeks. Right now, we have our infantry and support sections at full strength, but our ‘mech company is short by seven. Captain Desperado, if you would.”
Joining me, Captain Desperado gave a detailed plan of how the Legionnaires would acquire two more lances of Battlemechs, one ‘mech for each Mechwarrior. We would have under two weeks to play and win in the ‘mech games here on Galatea, much more brutal than the ones on Solaris, but I knew that the Galatean Mechwarriors weren’t of Solaris quality; good because even our best Mechwarriors wouldn’t be able to take on Solaris champions—the rules of war and the rules of a ‘mech game were quite different.
“Any questions then?”
“Captain,” said a voice from the crowd, “could you tell us more about our contract?”
“Certainly, we’ve been contracted for garrison duty in the Periphery.”
I knew there would be an uproar the moments those fatal words left my mouth: Garrison, Periphery. “What?! Garrison duty? The Periphery?” It was said that mercenaries took contracts out in the periphery just as a dying animal sought a stream to take its last drink.
“Captain, I know we’ve had a rough time and that we’ve been hurt, but we’re better than this, we’re more than Garrison quality troops.”
“If you would let me finish.” I said. “We’ve been contracted for garrison duty in the Periphery. Our contractors is the Magistry of Canopus. The world, Vivarais.”
"You promised me the plasma manifold in two weeks' time! Where is it?" I demanded, leaning menacingly across the counter toward Nadid Hashoush, the proprietor of the massive, hardware-strewn warehouse which served as one of many hole-in-the-wall repositories for MechWarriors seeking replacement parts, unsavory characters looking to carry out untraceable transactions for illicit purposes, and the odd rogue Colonel with a rebuilt K-F drive to adapt to an ancient battlecruiser.
"Did I give you that promise in writing? Quoted times are estimates only! Your actual results may vary!"
I rubbed my eyes in exasparation. I'd been surviving off of intermittent cat naps and replimat rations for over a week, pulling as many shifts as I could in order to ensure the installation and adaptation of the Astrid's replacement drive happened as quickly as possible. The neglect was beginning to take its toll.
"This conversation is not over."
I wandered away from the counter, my eyes tracing across the debris laid out in the bay. In short order, I located my salvage companion.
"Just one? I was under the impression that we had more than that Colonel."
The Colonel furrowed her brow briefly and crossed her arms.
"Now isn't the time for wise cracks Harris. According to Nadid, the drive replacement is behind schedule. It's only a matter of time before Caswell acts on the intel you sent him. He isn't exaclty one to sit and formulate a detailed plan of attack, but he's by no means stupid. Without the drives, we are going to be sitting ducks."
"I'm fully aware of the situation Colonel. After all, I am still technically employed by Crayven under the direction of Caswell."
I frowned at the statement. I liked Caswell about as much as a dog enjoys fleas, but I had no intention of allowing him to run Crayven. It was something that belonged to me when it was due time, after General Maxwell chose to retire. Unfortunately, he didn't retire quite as planned, but I fully intended to follow the General's wishes to take over.
The Colonel's expression changed little as she knew all too well that I was still working with Caswell to some extent. She knew little beyond that I intended to topple Caswell and take his place, for few knew what things General Maxwell and I talked about.
"Yes Harris, I do understand that. I just don't see how you can be so relaxed with the clock ticking."
"I'm by no means relaxed Colonel. Years of experience in the Intelligence Division has simply taught me to keep the same demeanor under stress."
My PDA flashed with a new message from Caswell. Scanning over it, I frowned as I was not hearing exceptionally good news, but not the worst by a long shot.
A feeling of impending doom began to wash over me as I watched Harris' expression become intensely grim. I wasn't certain that I even wanted to know the reason why.
I turned the PDA towards the Colonel. Normally, I'd not have even pulled my PDA out, but Caswell was not a rational man, and though he believed I was serving him with my utmost loyalty, I wanted any information about him known at all times.
<START TRANSMISSION> Mr. Harris,
As you are reading this message, I have decided to make a quick strike upon Colonel Reese and whatever supporters that are supporting this little revolt. As of now, I'm bringing a small contingent of forces to Galatea. I've decided against informing the Corporation of this as I'm sure they'd ask too many questions or have stipulations. Instead, I'll solve my own problems. Something I suppose I'd picked up from my predecessor.
As it stands, I've got a full Company enroute being led personally. Since I know you are a very capable leader as well, a single lance is your personal shock infantry is part of this excursion. The rest are Medium to Assault BattleMechs. While I'm sure that the locals aren't going to be thrilled, money I'm sure might make them look the other way. Fish in a barrel.
The direct assault method is subject to change, but unless something else arises I fully intend on stringing Colonel Reese with her own innards as a warning to other would be revolters in the future.
Caswell <END TRANSMISSION>
The Colonel looked up, in a state of mild shock.
"Has he completely gone mad? A direct assault here? They'd never get that kind of permission from the local government to run amok hunting us down."
"Maybe, maybe not. What he doesn't know is that now among his own troops, he's got my own troops that are well aware of what's going on. The soldiers he chose to bring along are pretty much my personal security team. Hand picked for loyalty and some of the best infantry Crayven has to offer. He just made one tactical error. Rushing in is his second."
Sir, are you saying you'll just have him assassinated?
"No, that would cause an investigation which may or may not turn up in our favor."
"Then what exactly does that imply?"
"First, he's rushing to engage your forces before they can be prepared. Knowing that they are enroute, we can be prepared. He's not yet contacted the local government, so we have some give there as he doesn't know that I might have someone that could "sway" the decision in our favor possibly."
"Second, with my own troops onboard, I'll know the mission objectives, the plan of attack and however he chooses to involve the infantry, well that part of the plan will fail as they aren't going to be marching to his tune. A lance of infantry won't do a ton of damage, especially against BattleMechs in combat, but I'm willing to bet that they aren't watching the Mech Bay all that closely either."
I mulled Harris' statement for several long minutes, along with the insane ramblings of General Caswell. It made perfect sense that the new CEO would be attempting a deceptive maneuver - I seriously doubted that he had any faith left in Harris given the current circumstances - Harris had effectively cast his lot with rebels wanted for a dozen or more mutinous offenses against the Company - I'd long ago lost count - to say nothing of the fact that, historically, Butch had effectively been Charles' eyes and ears for the decade plus that the deposed Chairman had been with the company...making him an extreme liability under the current administration.
If I were Caswell, I'd want Harris eliminated - swiftly.
"I think you're right to withhold investing any faith in the General's statements, sir. But with all due respect, if he's planning to hit us with a full-on assault, what could we possibly do to stop him? You know as well as I do that we have a lance - maybe two if we can find the parts - aboard the Astrid, but beyond that, we're dead in the water. If they hadn't siezed the Foundation the story would be different, but as it is, without the K-F drive installed, we can't even flee. Yes, an open assault on Galatea is definitely lunacy, but a madman isn't going to have any qualms about that.
I looked at my PDA and then typed out a confirmation E-Mail to General Caswell. I then sent out a message to a cohort that was milling about the Prefecture. The time had come to finally cash in some favors.
"Colonel, we have a meeting to attend. I think we are going to get a fresh outlook on our situation."
She looked at me quizzically, but nodded in agreement. The Colonel had come to trust me over the course of my career as much as I trusted her. While I took a cowboy attitude under certain circumstances, I was a little bit more calculating than Caswell or Maxwell.
We walked some distance before arriving at an out of the way watering hole for various mercenaries and guns for hire. Few people entered without knowing the kind of establishment it was, and fewer still caused a commotion for fear of attracting attention. It was here, that one could blend in and plan anything from a heist to reclaiming a corporation.
We entered and the Colonel was a tad apprehensive about the location, but I was at ease. Being in the Intelligence Division, I'd seen the baddest of the bad and the biggest lunatics around. This place was by far safer than many other places I'd been to. As we entered, a large woman approached. She had a thick Russian accent and was covered from head to toe with various neural links to improve her "connection" with a BattleMech or BattleArmor. Clanners were most notably the users of such devices and it was known to case various mental issues for many users. Either way, this woman wasn't one you wanted to be on the wrong end of a barrel with.
"Mr. Harris, Colonel Reese, I've been expecting you. Please, come this way. We have much to discuss"
"Mr. Harris, Colonel Reese, I've been expecting you. Please, come this way. We have much to discuss"
It had been some time since I last saw "Butch", as I come to know him. Few people were permitted to use his nickname, but for the sake of professionalism, I chose to address him with his real name.
I led them to a small booth and motioned for them to sit down. I looked at "Butch" who was aware of his surroundings, but extremely relaxed as he is normally. The Colonel, was a bit more nervous, but still relaxed which was good as if you looked out of place, people tended to notice.
"Colonel Reese, this is "Yellow Bird", an agent of mine. One of the best and the most loyal of any of my assets in the field."
It was funny considering my code name was "Yellow Bird" as it was a joke of "Butch" to say that a little bird told him. The yellow referred to my blonde hair, and the bird portion also had a reference to my fighting stance in normal infantry hand to hand.
"Pleased to meet you..."
"Faina. Faina Devalis"
The Colonel extended her hand to shake mine. What she may have thought of me at the moment, I could tell little, but I wasn't about to let that interfere with our meeting. After all, I knew what "Butch" thought of me and that was all that mattered.
"Well Faina, It's a pleasure to meet Mr. Harris's "Little Bird"."
I shook the Colonel's hand and went straight to business.
"So, Mr. Harris what have you got for me today?"
"Faina, we want to have a small raiding party run into a friend of mine."
"Let me guess, this friend of yours isn't going to make it out of the raid intact."
"Oh, I just want him slowed down, crippled and not in a condition to finish off a bunch of rebels."
"Caswell?"
"How did you know?"
I smiled and looked at "Butch" with my frost blue eyes. I knew General Caswell to some degree. He was never fond of the Crayven Corporations previous CEO. It was only a matter of time before he led a revolt to claim the Corp. Maxwell had simply provided a much simpler alternative.
What he didn't know was that my contacts liked Maxwell and hated Caswell. What "Butch" didn't know was that he is well liked and would have any support should he make a bid for CEO, which it appeared he was orchestrating. Caswell being offed was just a matter of time, whether it was an internal problem or an external assassination at my hands.
"You know as well as I do that General Caswell has issues. For all the work that your friend Charles put into Crayven, you of all people should know that Caswell will undo it without much thought. My contacts want Caswell dead, so I assume that you are making a power play. So tell me, what can Clan Nova Cat do for you?"
The shock of the words quite literally made my head spin. I looked fervently from side to side, trying to reassure myself that no one within earshot had picked up on the trailing end of the sentence - or cared, if they had. My voice dropped to a husky whisper as I addressed Ms. Devalis.
"You're... - ...but... - what happened to 'plausible deniability?' The mere fact that we're having this conversation - let alone the fact that you're offering to assist in what amounts to an internal revolt - goes against the very terms and conditions that you as a Clan set down when you started doing business with - "
"Times change. People change, Colonel,"Faina replied, interrupting my corporate-speak."Clan Nova Cat has come to view their relationship with Crayven as being not as inconsequential as it once was. We recognize the implications of Ryan Caswell's rise to power within your company. It must be corrected. Immediately. Another Clan sympathizer must be appointed - particularly since Crayven is a major Inner Sphere corporation - one that wields much influence in the underground, no less - and posesses the finances and resources to assist us with our long-term objectives. As Mister Maxwell is either dead or deposed, it would appear that the next logical choice is now sitting here at this table."
"You didn't answer my question. Why? If this goes public - "
"It will not go public, Colonel. And our reasons are our own. As I recall, it is not your policy to question the motives or loyalties of your customers,"Devalis retorted, leaning forward on forearms the thickness of BattleMech pistons,"and Clan Nova Cat is a paying customer."
A data pad containing an authorization for a funds transfer clattered onto the table before me.
"You're paying us...to help us."
"And we expect the confidentiality you've afforded us for the last fifteen years."
I looked toward Harris for a reply. Ultimately, it would be his decision.
After the Dauntless landed Captain Garland gave us the chance to find our own BattleMechs. I was not one to be attached to a BattleMech. Especially after the ones I had wrecked. The quatermaster and me had a history of getting into arguments about how I treated my 'Mechs. Thing was I hadnt found the right one yet.
As I walked the streets trying to think of what 'Mech I would want to pilot, my thoughts were drawn to an old 'Mech that I had; one that I had when I first joined the Legionnaires. The 'Mech was a Uziel. The only thing was the PPCs were replaced with Gauss Rifles and the machine guns were replaced with medium lasers. The SRM launcher was taken out in place of more armor.
I decided then that I would try and find a Uziel and the equipment to refit it. I must have been thinking outloud because a man walked up to me and offered his hand.
"Names O'Callahan. Pleased to meet you..." I took his hand."Thorn. Sergeant Thorn. What can I do for you Mr. O'Callahan?" The man nodded. "Well Sergeant Thorn I think I am the man you are looking for. I just got a shipment of 'Mechs in and there was a nice Uziel in that bunch. You want to take a look?"
At first I was warry of the man's proposal, but it was hard to find a dealer that was willing to offer a Uziel that had just come in and not looked at by someone else. I sighed and then agreed.
"Excellent. Follow me."
I followed the man to a car in which we entered. After about a thirty minute drive we reached a large warehouse. After entering I found the warehouse had been altered into a 'Mechbay of sorts. As I walked in there sitting in the second berth on the right was the Uziel. To my amazement the dealer wasnt joking. The Uziel looked fresh off the production line. I walked up to the 'Mech and examined the lower half closely. There were some scratches and some small pock marks, probably from machine gun fire. The dealer walked up to me.
"It was used by a local police force. The pilot didnt see much action. The only reason I have it was because the pilot found a Vulture that he wanted and so he sold the Uziel to me."
I didnt reply but walked around the 'Mech inspecting it. After making a full circle I looked at O'Callahan. "Do you have two Gauss Rifles, two medium lasers, and some extra armor I could refit it with?"
The man smiled."What exactly do you need this 'Mech for?"
I kept a stern look on my face. "There are some questions that are better left unanswered. Yours is one of them. Mine on the other hand is not."
O'Callahan nodded."I can respect that. Hold on let me go check the inventory list."After a few minutes he returned."Yes we do have those in. Do we have a sale."
I looked back at the Uziel and nodded. "I think we do." I then pulled out the comm unit I had brought with me and called up Garland."Captain I have a 'Mech and some equipment here that I need to get. Can I get the transfer of C-bills?"I then waited for the captain's reply.
Forester and I were meandering throughout Galaport, looking for leads on military hardware when my comm chirped."Captain I have a 'Mech and some equipment here that I need to get. Can I get the transfer of C-bills?"
Damn, that was fast…
I activated the mic.“Certainly, what have you found?”
“An Uziel and some gauss rifles and lasers to go with it.”
“A fair price?”
“Yes sir.”
“Alright, we’ll get that BattleMech on a transport out to the Dauntless asap. I’ll send in a tech just to make sure it’s truly in working order.”
"And we expect the confidentiality you've afforded us for the last fifteen years."
The Colonel looked to me as I knew the weight of my decision fell squarely on my shoulders. It wouldn't be a difficult choice, as I understood the rammifications, but I always admired the Clans to some extent. They were very straightforward more often than not. They had their own flaws, but no worse than the Houses did.
"Of course. The past 15 years has been a mutally beneficial arrangement and I don't intend on putting the kabosh on a good thing. There's no need to worry about maintaining the level of confidentiality you have come to know and expect from us."
The Colonel nodded in agreement. Partially because it wasn't her choice, but I could tell she understood the gravity of such an agreement and the fact that the advantage had just swung heavily back in our favor.
"So, it is settled then? Our offer is acceptable?"
"Yes. Assuming we will get some combat assets to deal with Mr. Caswell."
"I cannot promise you more than one Star, maybe two considering we need to be discreet. However, a few BattleMechs and some Fighter-Bombers could be overlooked I should suppose."
"If you're implying that there are to be no survivors, then so be it. I'm sure none of Mr. Caswell's entourage is gonna be sympathetic to the, quote unquote rebellion. I just want Mr. Caswell to myself if at all possible. I've got something in mind for his... retirement."
Despite the dull roar of the room, a short veil of silence fell over the table. Colonel Taylor Reese still seemed slightly nervous about the Clanner and the people around us. Although she had legitimate reason to worry, Faina Devalis had the best credentials you could get, authentic papers and contacts, but all faked thanks to some easy bribes and blackmail.
Faina Devalis remained silent as she generally did so when she was not required to be speaking. The ball was in my court and all that remained was signing off on the transfer, thus signing the agreement. After this, trapping Caswell and beating him at his own game was the next thing on our agenda.
I read the transfer order over once more and then accepted the deal.
Faina looked over at the Colonel, then me and then back at her.
"Now Colonel I understand you have a ship that is out of commission. What do you need to get her at least mobile and combat effective at best?"
"Now Colonel I understand you have a ship that is out of commission. What do you need to get her at least mobile and combat effective at best?"
I tilted my head toward Faina Devalis. It seemed odd to be on the receiving end of such a question. Usually, representatives of the Crayven Corporation found themselves catering to the needs of their clients, not the other way around.
"The Astrid is fully combat capable...Miss Devalis," I began, uncertain as to the proper title to use when addressing the agent. "Naturally, the weapons and defensive systems were the first priority of the corporate repair crews. We took a beating at Kittery, but the few embarked technicians we have with us were able to patch things up well enough. With tat being said, any...enhancements...you may wish to make are certainly welcome."
"Noted,"Devalis replied, her unblinking eyes locked with mine."And your astrogation systems?"
"Shot completely to hell," I deadpanned. "The quantum singularity drive suffered a complete and catastrophic failure when we jumped to Galatea, and we simply haven't the technology nor the manpower to repair it. We've put in an order for a K-F drive, but we don't know when we can expect to receive it, let alone how long it'll take us to adapt it to the Astrid's systems and install it. The best we have right now are maneuvering thrusters only, and we're using those to keep us in orbit. The plasma manifolds to our fusion drives are cooked, and the bloody junk dealer can't even - "
"I get the picture," Devalis interjected calmly."Is there anything else you need?"
"Then I will see to it that we get you some propulsion as soon as possible. In the same note we will provide some serious firepower. How you choose to deploy them is not my concern."
I paused before moving on.
"Obviously, this act of goodwill will not be forgotten, but I was instructed to ensure that a trusted CEO be put into place. They will be more than pleased to know it will be you "Butch". So I'm sure that this act is simply a means to ensure your loyalties."
"Butch" seemed unfazed by the comment. In all of my time dealing with him and reading his personal dossier, this was the reaction I had not only come to know, but expected. He could play a mean game of poker with that face of his, but I knew as well as he did that my superiors underestimated the man's loyalties. He may have a cowboy bravado in some situations, but he was loyal to those he trusted and Clan Nova Cat was no exception.
"Of course Faina, I know to not burn bridges that are sturdy and useful to both sides. Besides, either way you look at it, the universe has enough fanatics running amok without Caswell. We're simply doing everyone a favor. How we benefit of course is none of anyone's business."
"Well then, Colonel Reese, you should expect a manifest from an unnamed source in 12-18 hours and delivery from said source in 36-48 hours. If you find any...I paused. ...Issues that need to be resolved, "Butch" knows how to contact me."
""Butch", I will expect to hear from you with more details about Caswell's location within the next 8 hours. We will need to begin planning the engagement ASAP."
"No need to wait. Here's his last transmission."
He slid over his PDA with the message from the self proclaimed CEO of Crayven. I looked it over and saw that we'd be cutting it close with getting my combat assets in order and the Colonel's ship in order in the amount of time that I think we have left.
"Looks like we won't have to wait long. Colonel, "Butch", I look forward to seeing you soon. I need to fulfill my end of the bargain, and you two have work to do."
I slid the PDA back to "Butch" and excused myself from the table. I put on my overcoat and zipped it up. I fixed my crimson beret and strolled briskly out the door. I knew something wasn't right about Caswell's message, not only because "Butch" thought so, but nobody mobilized that fast and that quickly without a plan long in advance. I had a gut feeling that we just bit off more than we could chew, even for a Clanner.
"Looks like we won't have to wait long. Colonel, "Butch", I look forward to seeing you soon. I need to fulfill my end of the bargain, and you two have work to do."
I watched as Faina exited the establishment and I motioned for the Colonel and I to do the same. The bill was paid long in advance in the case of a need for a hasty exit. As we left, we made our way out into the semi-crowded streets where should anyone be trailing us, they'd lose us quickly.
"Colonel, judging by the timeframe the Little Yellow Bird wants us to be on, I think someone knows something that we don't. My best guess is that Caswell is closer than we think or he's got a lot more troops and equipment than he says he does enroute."
Some of the color drained from the Colonel's face as the words sunk in.
"Wouldn't the Little Yellow Bird have told us directly?"
"No, if the Little Yellow Bird didn't know, then it would not have said so. We deal in facts, not speculations and here say. However, subtle clues in Caswell's message as well as from the Little Yellow Bird tells me that we have reason to worry."
"Then what is the plan?"
"Colonel, find us somewhere to appear wounded, but is tactically sound in our favor. It can't be far from here, but we need it to look bad for us, but the reality will be far worse for them. I don't care where, but you need to find it fast. I've got some more favors to call in."
To: Harris, Ron 'Butch' (rbharris@secureserver.excelsiorcorp.avtp) cc: Harris, Ron 'Butch' (inbox@cypher.csvastridnx01.ves) From: Maxwell, Charles E. (cemaxwell@cypher.mvdauntlessxv6700.ves) Subject: Eyes Only
Mister Harris -
I certainly hope this message finds you alive and well. When last we spoke, you and Colonel Reese were embarked on the Astrid at Galatea. You spoke of a movement to remove General Caswell from his position within the company, although at the time, there was no concrete action plan. At the time, I advised you that I would not be participating in this operation. This has changed. I've come into posession of some information concerning Caswell's business activities that might be enough to incapacitate the company on the Sheratan end. Sam Grisham and I are planning to approach the Sheratan government with this and hopefully get the company's operations suspended temporarily while an investigation is launched. That will take care of the homeworld side of things. However, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Caswell is hunting for you, and I have a feeling he's not too far off - he's going to want that ship back. And the intel I've sent you will do little to assist you with the military action I'm certain is coming your way. Fortunately, the Legionnaires have as much to gain from this as you and I do. We can help you raise a defense, but we're not going to be able to go at it alone.
The Broken Spitoon The Slums Galaport, Galatea - April 12, 3071 _____________________________________
We had returned to the place of where we initially met one of my personal assets when it came to intelligence work. As usual, it was a little dark, smokey and somewhat crowded. The dull roar of the occupants combined with the old jukebox blaring easily prevented any eavesdroppers from listening in to the conversations around them.
I savored the warm sensation of the whiskey as it slid down my throat. It was not the best whiskey in the universe, but it certainly beat none at all.
The Colonel was more relaxed this time around, though no less apprehensive about the place. The situation was not exactly one every commander craved, but slowly over the course of the past 48 hours, we tipped the scales back to at least even.
My old friend and former General, had given me some interesting intel that even I had somehow not come across. It wasn't long to confirm through my sources, which meant that now I had even more reason to dislike Caswell.
I had also struck a deal with the Legionnaires, both as a favor to Charles, but as a means to futher develop a working relationship with a mercenary group I actually liked. I had hoped they were a bit stronger than what I was told, but on such notice and with much of their resources locked away by what would soon be my Corporation, it was not all bad.
"It's been 48 hours Colonel, are you ready for this?"
"I don't see having much choice now if we are or we are not, am I correct?"
"Colonel Reese, I understand we do not have a choice in the matter, but I am asking you directly. Are you ready for what we have committed ourselves to?"
"Mister Harris, while I am not convinced we are fully prepared to engage Caswell's forces, I am ready and I think the rest of the troops are in good spirits. What about you sir?"
"Good. I am ready myself Colonel. Whatever may come of this, know that we did not simply try to bring down Caswell. We did our best, and whether or not that is sufficient enough to complete the mission, time can only tell. However, we did our best and that is all history can say.
Now, back to business."
"Right. We are going to put the Astrid down on Tau Ceti IV. The strategic importance is that we will blend in with a lot of the fighting already taking place. We should avoid being engaged by any other forces as we will be sufficient distance from other combatants."
"Okay, and the Tactical situation?"
"It's not far from a small settlement that is long abandoned. There are a few small one and two story buildings somewhat intact, maybe enough for infantry or small BattleMechs to mount an ambush or whatnot, but nothing notable. There are a few small hills around the town, hence how it survived, but it's highly irradiated and not habitable. We can come into one of the saddles, and use some natural defences, but larger Mechs, artillery, and LRMs could still hit us. Again, nothing spectacular, but it's better than an open field.
There are other sites in mind, but that is the one I like the best, all things considered."
I hid a slight grimace. The fact is that we were on the defensive, on someone else's turf and on an equally hostile environment. Not only did we have other armies rampaging about, but we had to worry about not getting killed simply by being exposed to the battlefield without proper gear.
"Noted. Maxwell is doing what he can to give us some breathing room, and I'm sure our friends are also busy giving us a helping hand. I'm just hoping that the Legionnaires have enough assets to give us at least equal footing against Caswell and whatever he's got planned."
"Sir, with all do respect, since when does equal footing matter to you?"
"It doesn't, but I may not be a betting man, but even with a rigged deck, the house always wins. The question is simply going to come down to whose house it is."
"It was Maxwell's, but how Mister Harris. This is your house."
"Then let's get underway. Signal the Little Yellow Bird to begin our little operation. We have some cleaning to do for our little party."
With that we quietly exited the small out of the way pub and headed off to dig in and hope to all hell that everything else was going according to plan. I secretly winced because with any complex machine, the more parts involved, the bigger the chance something was going to break. Maybe it was the choice of our final stand, maybe the Clanners would not come through, maybe the Legionnaires don't have the manpower to tip the scales, maybe Charles won't gain favor or maybe Caswell will get a second brain cell and realize he's walking to a trap built by his own doing.
I chuckled at the thought that Caswell was marching gloriously to his own ignoble demise. Then wondered why I had a taste for Custard.
Piling through different and isolated inventory systems for battlemechs in decent enough condition was hard enough. I banged my head against the console in my quarters for the better part of five hours in search of better mechs. We had been paid well but our mechs were all blasted into scrap and very few still usable items. Trade didn't quite yeild our investment but the additional funding from the Vivaris fiasco helped. I had almost finished up with the new lineup for Kodiak lance. It would be a chance at a proper assault lance. For Jason, I scouted for a Mauler. He was used to Lyran engineering and had always favored the Mauler for heavy hitting. Ian's combat style was dynamic. She was a much better pilot than me, always in total control of her mech, espescially during the high-risk manuvers she frequently executed. I needed to keep her mobile but still but me light enough to become a liability in an assault lance so the Kuritan made Dragon was an inspired choice. While still classified as a heavy, it hit harder than any mech lighter than a Templar while still being able to keep pace with a Summoner. All three of us were totally capable of defending ourselves in an even match up and teaming up and cooperation seamlessly when we were not. Since this lance lost Fajhad, the forth has been somewhat of a bit of baggage. I pulled a list of fire support mechs that would let the rest of us do our business with out letting us worry about the other member of our lance that hadn't trained with us so extensively getting caught alone.
I surfed through this network and that network in search of a mech for myself. I needed something heavier than the pile of scrap that was my Maurader but wanted less bulk than a Fafnir. Nothing seemed interesting to me. I was far too aggressive to use something like an Awesome without overheating. Thick skin was a must but I hated the dragging pace of a loaded Hauptmann. There was a promising Executioner offer on the market but I never could find a configuration that I felt wasn't unweildy. There were a few other Clan Omni Mechs but their prices were as intimidating as their destructive potential. Several Atlases caught my eye but they were just too run down to consider without lots of work put into them. I couldn't quite find something that gave me the total package in at assault mech without having the manuverability of a brick. Sometime in the course of my search I had dozed off, head on my desk resting upon my forearm. The task seemed as cumbersome as a Stone Rhino.
Desparado was slumpped over his desk surrounded scribbled notes, tech datapads and Battlemech magzine subscriptions. There was obviously some indescision as to what the next steed to carry him into battle would be. Judging by the datapad still in his hand, he had slowly grown weary with the frustrating task and fallen asleep. I took a moment to scan the pads and rumpled papers all over the place and made the discovery of a partial roster. Jason and I had already been assigned mechs and there were many mechs drawn for a TBA pilot that would round Kodiak lance off. This meant that he was searching for himself. I studied the scattered information without disturbing it too much before reaching over his shoulder and placing an order on his behalf. I took down the confirmation number and kissed his cheek, leaving him to rest.
