Contested Dreams

MechWarrior 5 Origins, Installment 4

Randall N. Bills

Contested Dreams

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

17 JUNE 3005

“Are we really striking out on our own?”

Nikolai Mason’s voice fell amongst the room’s occupants like a stink bomb at a summer cotillion, while his hands reached out carefully to touch the stack of documents on the table as though they were a viper coiled to strike. Sitting across from him, Chloe’s face closed up until her thin lips nearly disappeared. His stomach did a slow flip-flop of distaste. I’m sorry, my love, but someone has to ask one last time. For us. For our child.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” an acerbic voice struck from the right-hand side of the small room. “Haven’t we discussed this to death? We all made the choice. We’re here to follow her. Stop second-guessing it all.”

Nikolai glanced over to the window of the small second-floor apartment they currently rented. A warm spring breeze wafted into the room, bringing Galatea City’s scents, including a heavy dose of lilacs that rode the front of the apartment building like some mad clown who’d run riot with their personal love of purple.

The tall, muscular woman that owned the harping tone leaned against the window case, the wind ruffling her brunette topknot and showing off her close-shaven head. He met her deep brown eyes and matched her distaste with his own. He and Ryana Campbell didn’t exactly dislike each other. That was too strong a word, especially after all the years spent together under the Eridani Light Horse banner. But they didn’t exactly like each other. He’d never been able to put his finger on the cause, but it was a point of distress for Chloe, who loved them both. Perhaps it was simply a lack of respect. He could never quite shake the feeling she didn’t respect what he brought to the table, much less their current wild endeavor. Despite his desire for a stinging rebuke, he glanced back at Chloe and the hurt he’d already placed there, and let it go.

“Sorry, Nikolai, gotta agree with Campbell, here.” Dawson Clarmont leaned against the wall opposite Ryana, shuffling a deck of cards with a hustler’s expertise. “We’ve talked it to death. We’ve all agreed to roll the dice, fate be damned.”

Nikolai tried to be annoyed, but Clarmont had been fast friends with him and Chloe from the moment they’d stepped onto the world of Bone-Norman as they’d joined the Grave Walkers ten years ago. He’d cemented that friendship when he left the Walkers with them to join the Light Horse for the last several years, and he’d following them here as well. Despite nearing thirty, his boyish looks made him appear as though barely past his teenage years. Along with good skills and quick wit, he used his suite of physical accoutrements to devastating effect when dealing personally with anyone. It was incredibly difficult to stay mad at Dawson.

Nikolai leaned back, closed his eyes, and stretched his back against the hard, wooden chair until vertebrae cracked, then he slumped forward, running hands through his hair vigorously. He was exhausted and wrung out. He’d not slept a solid night in the half year since they’d left the Light Horse’s employ. After the years spent raiding House Liao and House Kurita worlds with the ELH, and the substantial bonuses for such extravagantly hazardous deployments, they’d decided the time was right. But was it really?

“Okay. Okay. I just…this is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken. I think I’ve a right to be a little nervous.” And that’s saying something, considering things I’ve never told you, Chloe. Yet. He always had another ‘yet’ whenever the time to open up came close.

“Worse than when you left your billet on that Lyran Free Traders Association JumpShip to follow me into the mercenary life?” Chloe finally spoke up, her eyes brightening, lips twitching with the humor she tried projecting into the tense moment.

Despite nervousness and exhaustion, he couldn’t help but respond to the needling, and quirked a smile in return. “Something like that. Really though, now that I think on it, that was way worse. Do you know how long it took me to get used to downside all the time?”

Ryana groaned in the corner. “Please, not those stories again.”

“Hate to sound like a broken holovid, but gotta agree with Campbell,” Dawson said, walking toward the table while he smoothly made his deck of cards disappear as easily as breathing. “We’ve all heard that story way too often.” He reached the table, flashed his famous grin, and rapped his knuckles on the old, worn wood. “We’ve all signed here,” he said, pointing at the pile of documents on the table. “Let’s go file and be done with it. Got a heap of work ahead of us. Let’s not delay any longer.”

Nikolai’s chest slowly tightened, as though starving for oxygen. A memory, kept at bay by the loving embrace of his wife for long years, slipped into visceral existence: a youth in a spacesuit with a tank almost out of air, strapped to the outside of a JumpShip’s hull—the bandits’ torture had always been…very effective. As he fought it down, another memory surged. This one a warm companion he kept as a burr under his foot to spur him on. Nearly fifteen years ago he’d underestimated one of his crewmates, and in return, Jules Vonic had nearly destroyed him, just because she could. He’d spent all that time since striving to ensure he never underestimated any situation again. And despite all their careful planning, they were now reaching into fields of exceptional uncertainty that summoned those memories like dark, spectral warning signs.

He breathed deeply, focused on Chloe, and held her bright green eyes with his own. Took another deep breath to shunt the echoes away, another to focus. And another to breathe in her scent, her very presence. He slowly nodded, accepting the plunge into their deepest waters yet as they embraced a new step in their dream together.

You’ve told us we have to keep all of this on the up-and-up. And I’ll try your way, Chloe. I’ll try. But I’ll do whatever it takes to make your dream a reality.

He picked up the paperwork and stood as Chloe joined them, and Ryana moved closer. All four looked at the announcement letterhead that would be transmitted via hyperpulse generator around the Inner Sphere. The paperwork they were about to file with the Mercenary Review Board on Galatea, also known far and wide as the Mercenary’s Star:

Notice is hereby given that articles of incorporation establishing the Cavaliers as a mercenary combat command have been delivered to the Mercenary Review Board in accordance with the laws and codes of ComStar, the Great Houses, and the mercenary guilds. The Cavaliers, currently in good standing with the MRB, is available for immediate hire.

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

7 OCTOBER 3005

Chloe Reed stalked down the street thronged with bodies in the late afternoon. The sunlight slanted as it neared the horizon, sparkling off a hundred mirrored surfaces, making her squint painfully every few steps. Why did I forget my sunglasses?

She stepped to the side as a line of grade-school kids made their way in a chain down the busy sidewalk, holding hands to keep from being lost. Wheeled and hovercars jockeyed for positions in the nearby heavy traffic like thoroughbreds at the races. School’s out, already? Wonder which school?

Twin rumbles bounced around the canyon of metal and glass as two new stars reached over the edge of a building to the northwest. Despite long months on-world, she couldn’t help but glance in that direction. Two DropShips clawed their way into the sky, their hundred-meter-long drive plumes painfully bright, the cone of their launch hitting Galatea City proper with a roar. It’d been over half a year since she’d first arrived at Galaport, the massive sea of ferrocrete that was the most sophisticated and largest spaceport in the entire sector. Huh. A Union and a Leopard. A reinforced company? She squinted harder against both the sunlight and those drive plumes, despite the long kilometers of distance, to see if she could make out the insignias. Why are we not on those DropShips?

She shook herself like a dog with an itch it couldn’t scratch. Bowed her head, shoulder-length, dark-brown hair falling across her face, and closed her eyes as her thin lips stretched into a grimace. Blake’s Blood. Stop being stupid, Chloe. The going gets tough for a few months and you’re as distracted as a greenhorn rubbernecking at every BattleMech that marches past.

She started walking abruptly, as though she’d slammed her own throttle full forward, ignoring the curse of some poor civilian she shouldered aside—despite her diminutive stature others moved for her—and stalked toward her waiting meeting. Others come hunting for my tech skill. I’ve hungered to be a MechWarrior for more than a decade, and I’ve now lived through years of heavy fighting with one of the finest mercenary commands in the entire Inner Sphere. Get a hold of yourself, Chloe. Dig in. Get it done.

Before she knew it, she was entering the campus of the hiring halls at the north end of Galatea City, making her way around a massive BFFL “Buffalo” hover vehicle in the process of unloading tons of supplies for the entire complex. The large series of buildings were the very heart of the Mercenary’s Star and its trade of hiring merc outfits to every type of employer under the sun, be they one of the great star empires, single world nobility, transnational corporations, or even the dredges of humanity at the Periphery of known space. Pairing such employers with the best and brightest multi-regiment combat commands, some with legacies that date back to the Star League and beyond. Eridani Light Horse. Blue Star Irregulars. Twenty-first Centauri Lancers. All the way down to the newest commands, of just a lance of BattleMechs, trying to scratch out a living amongst such giants. Us…

She swept into the largest building, past the huge, rotating doors and the massive rotunda with three long hallways that marched off into the distance. Screens filled almost every available surface on walls, while a massive holo of the Inner Sphere slowly rotated above the heads of those in the reception area: blinking pinpricks of light, showcasing worlds, grouped into various shapes, sizes and colors of conflict zones, along with corresponding agencies seeking contracts. The wallscreens—along with any authorized noteputer—could access such data at a moment’s notice, bringing up the particulars of any contract. From there, digital or face-to-face negotiations—depending on the employer, reputation of the mercenary command, the size of the contract, and so on—could begin.

A cornucopia of people of every size, gender, and ethnicity filling uniforms of all stripe and color, moved up and down the halls. Some exuded as much energy as her own stride—pride in their posture, arrow-straight creases down pant legs—as they moved with confidence to a negotiation they believed would lead to a healthy contract and future work. Others leaned disconsolately against walls—a wide berth of no one else near—forlorn eyes reviewing screens of recent hirings that didn’t display their outfit’s insignia; their desperation for a contract that might never come emitted a stink others avoided like a plague. Her belly ached each time she saw one of these: the contractless. A sourness of conflict between sympathy and revulsion stained her tongue. She shuddered. In another six to twelve months, she might find herself there. No contract. No money. Selling off her dream one piece at a time; here a hire, there a BattleMech, desperate to stay solvent just long enough to land. A. Contract.

Chloe neared the door of her afternoon meeting and saw Sergeant Brooklynn Jales standing nervously, her ever-present clipboard in hand. While older than Chloe, her mannerisms made everyone assume she was much younger. Not to mention, even though she had the same height as Ryana, she lacked that muscular frame. And she hunched all too often, her right hand always absentmindedly pulling on the long, brunette braid of hair looping over her shoulder. Though even in that mannerism Chloe caught a hint of something in Brooklynn she couldn’t put her finger on… Stop it, Chloe. You’re just getting to know her. You don’t need to critique everything about her. Well, at least not everything.

However, in just the month since they’d hired Brooklynn to be administrator of the Cavaliers, Nikolai’s and her relationship had improved immeasurable, as the pencil-pushing details both of them hated were now handled by this immensely capable woman. But you’d never think that looking at her.

“Captain Reed,” Brooklynn said with a salute—one of the only people in the Cavaliers to always formally address her, no matter how many times Chloe tried to ease their relationship into something a tad more comfortable.

“I won’t be needing you for this one.”

“Oh.” Brooklynn tried to hide her disappointment, but her crestfallen features always spoke volumes. In some ways, she reminded Chloe of Tilo; the ache of loss over her dead friend had lessened over the years, but he would never be forgotten. However, while Tilo’s playful use of such dramatic displays was endearing, Brooklynn’s was…not. Then again, before Chloe hired her she’d been flailing on Galatea for awhile, unable to find anyone that would give her a chance. Like us. I’ll get used to her. She’s exactly who we need in that post. But…just can’t handle her now. And the interview. And…everything.

“I’m sure Nikolai will have work for you to do. But I’ve read this candidate’s dossier, and I think it will be better if there’s just one of us in there.

“Oh. Um. Okay. Thank you, Captain Reed,” Brooklynn said, saluting, and walked away down the corridor, shoulders somehow even more hunched.

Chloe watched Brooklynn leave the busy hall. Once again she realized people depended on her, and her frustration and anxiety mounted.

Most commands fail in the first year…

Stop that!

She pounded her thigh to dislodge self-doubt and finally found the door leading to her next appointment. Yanked it open as though she would tear it off its hinges, setting the JumpShip-shaped pendant around her neck swinging violently. I know I’m late. I hate being late. This hunt, with no end in sight, is throwing me off my game!

Inside the small office was a young man. Tall, thin, with dark hair and complexion. His deep brown eyes met her own, and he quirked an eyebrow. He lounged in his chair as though he owned the place, and his posture spoke loudly: you’re late to my meeting.

She instantly disliked the man, and almost turned to leave. But they’d been struggling to find a head tech. Sure, she could handle all of the repairs. But then she’d be a tech, not a pilot. And she’d still be responsible for all the necessary command decisions. Both now, and hopefully soon when they were in the field. Hopefully very soon.

Which meant they needed a new head tech. All of their previous interviewees were either way out of their price range or couldn’t recognize a Motor Control Unit from an auxiliary myomer dampener, and she’d kicked those out of the room before they’d said three words. She took another breath. Let him at least hang himself so I can tell the others I did my due diligence. She slid into the only other chair, pulled out her small noteputer from her satchel, and called up his credentials. Decided to go straight for the throat and see how he responded.

“Fahad Arazad. Originally from the Azami worlds of the Combine. Arkab Legions. Serious soldiers. Long history.” She looked up from the screen. “Says here they kicked you out. I’m not really knowledgeable about the Azami worlds, but pretty tight-knit community there, as far as the rumors go. They toss you out, must’ve been for something pretty spectacular.”

The smiling, insolent look slipped momentarily, a dark, brooding memory sparked deep in his eyes before he masked…something. He shrugged, his devil-may-care half smile sliding back into place. “I remember it differently, mate.”

His accent didn’t seem to match the origin, but Chloe decided she didn’t care; waited expectedly, and when he failed to respond further, she continued swinging hard as she tapped the screen with irritation. “Says here you’ve since worked for the Plague Boys, Tamara’s Black Sword, and Vinson’s Vigilantes. Less than a year each, with long months between contracts. Either you’ve got a silver spoon somewhere, or you’re living on the southside in a flea-bitten flat that makes this office look spacious.” She glanced at the sizes and ratings of each former employer and let out a slow whistle. “Not exactly a sterling record. Some pretty low-rated commands here.” She looked at him directly. “You gonna start repairing tanks next?” She let the sarcasm drip while chuckling at her own joke.

“At least they’re mercenary commands…” He pulled out the last word, like a slow-motion slap.

Her laugh choked off, and she leaned back, heat rising as she flushed with the excellently landed riposte. This interview is done…

His insolent smile quirked up before something changed in his expression, and he leaned forward, almost…earnest. “Look, gov… Sorry about that. Can’t help myself most days.” He swallowed reflexively several times, eyes skittering away from hers before he locked back on to her as though holding a reticule on target in rough terrain. “It’s what got me canned last time. No boss likes to get called down. Much less in the military. Even as lax as some of those outfits are. Plague Boys were practically just a boys’ club. But apparently, this boy didn’t fit in. As always…” His voice trailed off and he looked way, but Chloe still glimpsed an ocean of pain behind those words.

Her own years of never fitting in, of always being told what she could and couldn’t be, bubbled to the surface from her own ocean. Major Jeffers’s stinging rebuke, over a decade gone, echoed in her ears: You are not a MechWarrior.

“I’ve got the skills, mate” he responded, looking at her once more, while leaning back, some of his insolence leaking back through.

But Chloe now had his measure. A façade. Another lost soul, just looking for a chance to be themselves…

“You’ll not regret hiring me. I bring far more than my fabulous tongue to the table. Far more than what you’ll find marked in my previous records. After all, if you don’t leave on good terms, think they’re going to put in all the times I kept their rides intact and marching? Nope. Nothing but glory for the high-’n-mighty MechWarriors, while us real heroes go unlauded.”

She cocked an eyebrow, starting to warm to the man, despite first impressions.

He held up his hands. “Right, I know. You’re a high-’n-mighty MechWarrior yourself. But I do my own research. You’re a tech as well. And one that’s made a name for yourself. You get me, right? I’ll keep your ’Mechs in the field, no matter what comes. Just…well…you’ll have some rough edges to deal with is all.”

The tone remained light, but there was something in his eyes. Some…desperation. The contractless from down the hall arose in her mind’s eye. How long before he loses all hope like that? She suppressed a shiver. How long before I do?

She came to one of her abrupt decisions, knowing Nikolai would hate the man while grousing that they shouldn’t be spending more money; all the more infuriating since she balanced the sheets in her head far better than her husband. But she couldn’t help herself. He was as much an orphan as she. Besides, she had a good feeling about him. As she’d had with Nikolai, and Dawson and Ryana. Good people all. He would fit in.

She typed quickly on her noteputer, then hit enter with an extravagant flourish, stood up and extended her hand. “Welcome to the Cavaliers.”

The look on Fahad’s face was all she needed that day.

PROVING GROUNDS DELTA

GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

14 NOVEMBER 3005

Dawson Clarmont slammed his feet down onto his Griffin’s foot pedals so hard he momentarily lifted himself off his conn chair. In response, electronic beams within his BattleMech’s jump-jet chambers vaporized reaction mass and vented the superheated plasma out vectoring ports that launched the fifty-five-ton war machine into a heavy ballistic arc. He leapt 150 meters—the maximum distance he could squeeze out of his ’Mech before the jets needed to cycle—over a mangled corpse that had been some office complex before the entire area had been turned into a proving ground. As he touched down with ample grace—or as graceful as several dozen tons of BattleMech could be—he pushed the throttle forward, sending his eleven-meter-tall, anthropomorphic avatar arrowing forward with ground-pounding precision.

His targeting reticule flowed across his forward viewscreen in answer to his right-hand joystick, and he lined up a brilliant shot against the back armor of the enemy Jenner. The Griffin raised the particle projector cannon mounted in its right arm, and azure fire lashed out like a bolt from Zeus’s own hand, ready to savage the enemy target.

The low-powered beam painted the Jenner with a killing stroke, and alarms in both cockpits announced a “kill.” Despite the training exercise, Dawson let out a whoop. “That’s how it’s done, ladies and gentlemen!”

The Jenner pilot was a potential candidate. Despite the added costs of these tests and hiring more personnel, they’d all agreed (after much bemoaning by Nikolai) that expanding to two lances might unlock additional contract opportunities. Not to mention it helped Dawson immensely to be back in the cockpit of his BattleMech, where he belonged. Where his best card tricks were always appearing where the enemy least expected.

His grin faltered, and he eased up on the throttle as the enemy Jenner slowly toppled to the ground, right on top of a sensor buoy. Dawson winced at the crunch of armor plating and the additional cost he’d have to pay the proving grounds for lost electronics. Such cheapskate rules were why they called this the “delta” proving grounds. All they could afford. Dawson’s ride came to a complete stop while his jaw dropped.

He finally opened up a commline to the pilot he’d been sparring with. “Um…Jackson. The PPC was powered down. You didn’t really take any damage.”

“I know, I know. You just startled me. I’m sure I’ll do better next time.”

Dawson’s shoulders slumped, his momentary glory gone in an instant. I was a member of the Grave Walkers. And now I’m interviewing kids I wouldn’t have trusted to wash my ’Mech? What are we doing here?

He stayed in the cockpit, hoping he could think of something that would distract him from the despondence he hid so well; of late it seemed he could only quench it in dens found in the darker corners of Galatea City.

He was there a long time.

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

11 DECEMBER 3005

Ryana Campbell sat in her closet of an office, scanning contract listings. She stopped at one and intently reviewed the contents.

Contract FWL 46503-001-1

MRB Rating: C–D

Employer: Baron Geric Keeling

Location: Ruschegg

Type of Action: Pirate Hunt

Length of Contract: 6 mo.

Type of Command: BattleMech

Size of Command: Lance or larger

Pay Rate: Average

Support: Negotiable

Transport: Half the cost to Ruschegg

Salvage Rights: Negotiable

Command Rights: Integrated

She wanted to immediately click past, but forced herself to continue studying. It was within their command type and size, after all, which was a pretty shallow end of the pool, despite Dawson’s attempts to expand their options. Additionally, the Mercenary Review Board Rating fell within their own D category. After all, they were a brand-new mercenary command and hadn’t an ounce of reputation among them. Despite their excellent work history with such renowned outfits as the Northwind Highlanders, Grave Walkers, and Eridani Light Horse, that simply gave them a D rating upon incorporation. But as the Cavaliers, they were an unknown. Plenty of crappy contracts for D-rated commands, and yet here they were, half a year into this slog, and still nothing.

She had no idea who Baron Keeling was, or where the Ruschegg system was located. She pulled up an astrocartographic program of the Inner Sphere and typed in Ruschegg, which brought up a best-route path immediately from Galatea. She choked to the point she coughed hard and had to take a long drink of water from the glass on the small table of the small, stinking room she sat in.

Eighteen jumps. Eighteen! And yeah, only half the cost of transport covered. Half! Ha! Three months of transit alone, not to mention that’d likely wipe out a tenth of their remaining funds. She noted there was no clarification on returning transport. Contract’s done, and they’d likely strand us there unless we paid a full fee to return.

The pay rate was at least average, though their low rating would eat into that some. They might break even if they were able to hunt the pirates down quickly enough. And at this stage, it was about breaking even and building a reputation for fulfilling contracts. The start of that track record was more precious than C-bills at this point, even as the coffers dwindled each day.

And pirate hunting? We can do that in our sleep. She clicked on the expanded details, reviewed for several minutes, and then slowly leaned back and stared at the ceiling, the cascade of her silky brown topknot whispering against her back.

Support: Negotiable. Salvage Rights: Negotiable. That set off some alarms. Sure, plenty of contracts required negotiations over such valuable stipulations. If they got in trouble, could they call on any local forces for backup? And of course, the all-important salvage rights: how much of what they destroyed would they be able to retain. Many a mercenary command dropped their principal C-bill payments to what might appear embarrassingly low rates, because it allowed them to pump up the total percentage of salvage. And if you had a tech whiz under your belt, that could be far more valuable. And we’ve a Chloe.

But for such a far-flung contract, from an independent world in the armpit of nowhere in the Free Worlds League? They should’ve at least thrown on a 20 percent guarantee for salvage. Something to sweeten the stinking pot a little.

Yet the real stinger sat at the bottom of the info block, a poison pill that could easily destroy any merc outfit: integrated command rights. When things go sideways—and they always go sideways when hunting pirates—we’d be under the direct authority of this Baron what’s-his-name. And he was going to be a moron. They all were. Like General Mouttheim years ago on Hesperus II.

She straightened, stretching her neck. Removed an elastic band off her wrist and leaned over to the side, working her topknot into a tight stand of hair that she bound into place, pulling the skin of her scalp in a painfully pleasurable way. The ritual a calming salve to tired, angry emotions.

Can’t believe I’m even looking at a House Marik contract. But this. No. Just no. Might as well disband here and save the pain. She glanced at the date of publication. Stupid. Should’ve looked there first. It’s been sitting in the database for over a year for a reason.

She tiredly closed down the noteputer, turned off the light, and waited in the darkness, letting it soothe away the…anger, before she marched into the hiring hall. Yeah. Anger. Not desperation. No…not that….

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

2 JANUARY 3006

Snow swirled in eddies down the nearly vacant street on the southside of Galatea City, occluding and then revealing Nikolai to a few others huddled in heavy coats as they made their own solitary ways down the darkened streets. At most times of the year, even here, on the seedy southside, there’d be plenty of people. But during such a cold snap, with unusual snow, and at half past midnight, Nikolai found his way through nearly empty streets, shivering alone. He’d been downside just enough years that he almost enjoyed such weather. Almost.

A smile tried to slide onto his face, until he once again contemplated the lie he’d told Chloe earlier to enable this night’s work. Dammit, he hated lying to her.

Whatever it takes.

He finally turned a corner and spotted the dimly lit sign across the street. Despite the thin outline of neon tubes, the impression of a drunkard on a horse still came through. He’d found the Lazy Lighthorseman, just where his contact said it would be.

Nikolai crossed the street and pushed through the doors into the seedy bar. Despite the late hour, it was crowded, with loud conversations, a karaoke machine in the back—with several people screeching into too-loud microphones—and what appeared to be a well-stocked bar, alcohol flowing freely. Bars loved cold nights.

He stomped his feet to dislodge some of the snow while he unzippered his own heavy coat against the burst of heat from dozens of bodies in the small, well-warmed confines.

Nikolai scanned the thick-packed bodies, trying to spot his target. There. But he didn’t move directly to the man’s table. He was alone, after all. And heading straight there? Nah, way too direct. He instead spent several minutes edging into the bar, waiting as several dozen orders were quickly filled and the patrons rotated out, while others rotated in behind. A seemingly never-ending line feeding at the bartender’s trough of liquid ambrosias.

He finally reached the front and grabbed the bartender’s attention. On the verge of ordering a Marik PPC, he remembered at the last moment this was a bar filled with tech-heads. Not a one of them would order a drink beloved by MechWarriors. Might as well start punching now as order that drink here. “Timbiqui Dark,” he said instead, loud enough to reach over the hubbub, slapping down a 100 C-bill note. The young woman grabbed the bill and flicked it, as though verifying it was real; subtle, but quick—she’d never seen him before, and it was the southside, after all. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted several looking in his direction. Let them think I’m a little foolish to come in here, flashing cash.

The bartender returned, placing a large glass of beer in front of him, the froth spilling slightly, and moved as though to generate his change. “Keep it,” he said. “I’ll be back. And if not…” He shrugged with a smile and a wink and turned away. He felt her return the smile at his back while additional eyes followed him. Right. Perfect. Time to make a fool of myself.

He walked right past his target, without even a side glance, and moved up to the small stage—more just a raised platform—in the back where two karaoke singers were hard at work peeling paint off the rafters. “What’s the favorite?” he practically shouted to the too-young man sitting at the machine.

“Gotta Ride Some Lightning.”

“Synth-pop, right.”

“Yeah. As pop as it comes.”

“I’m next. Fire it up for me.”

The young man looked him up and down as though he was too old for synth-pop, then shrugged and nodded.

Nikolai immediately proceeded to quickly imbibe the tall glass of dark beer, and he finished it off just as his turn came. He sidled past the two women, nodding his head with an open invitation they shook away, and he grabbed the mic. The synth-pop began with its usual cascade of discordant rhythms, and he tried to mimic a young feminine voice ranting about a too-tough life driving her to alcoholism and abuse. He tried desperately to keep up, knowing he was making an utter fool of himself as the whole bar seemed to turn toward the quickly-getting-drunk, too-free-with-his-money, forty-year-old man.

By the time he was done, most of the bar had moved back to completely ignoring him, leaving one or two he’d need to be careful about. But claiming center stage, and embarrassing yourself spectacularly until others hurt in sympathy, moved you immediately into anonymity, despite none of them ever having seen him in this bar before.

Always works like charm. He handed the mic back to the young man, who nodded to him as though he’d passed some test of idiocy, then moved back to the bar to grab another Timbiqui Dark—flirting outrageously with the bartender the whole time. Then, after drinking down several gulps, he slumped down into the chair next to the man he’d come to see.

“Man, what a rush,” he gushed, finishing off his second drink. Most knew how potent Timbiqui Dark’s particularly high alcohol content could be. Good thing Nikolai almost never got drunk, despite whatever he put in his body. Drove Ryana to distraction that she could never outdrink him.

The other man, around his own age but with a fine scar slashing across a milky right eye, sized him up in a look, and sniffed before contemplating his own cup as though it were scripture.

Nikolai glanced over to the two women a table over, the ones he’d followed at karaoke, and spoke loudly to catch their attention. “Want to try another song together?” They weren’t so young that the whole situation was creepy. But they actually seemed to contemplate, whispering to each other quickly, before saying no with a smile that eased him off the hook. Good. Not sure my voice could keep up with them. Not to mention what happened the last time he’d tried to ease out of someone coming onto him while he was trying to establish a contact. Chloe had not been happy about the knife wound.

He chatted on with the gentlemen across the way, filling the void with inanities while another thirty minutes slipped by and the bar finally lost a steady stream of patrons as the night moved past local one and headed toward two. It was a workday, after all…some of them would be paying with a pounding headache in just a few hours as they strained in showers to get ready for another day.

One last surreptitious look around, then he eased into the real conversation with a much-lowered voice. “I hear you’re the man for contracts not found at the hiring halls.”

Nikolai immediately knew he had the right person when the man didn’t flinch, despite the abruptness of the question after almost an hour of blather. He finished off his fifth drink and contemplated his glass, as though wondering why it was suddenly empty.

“Not sure I know what you’re talking about,” the man mumbled, without giving anyone else an indicator he was talking.

Nikolai palmed the token he’d spent two months tracking down, and slapped it onto the table. “I need another drink,” he announced. After another trip to the bartender, he wobbled carelessly back to the table and sat again, noticing the small token was already gone, even though the man was still a statue.

“There’s a drive under the table,” the contact said. “Several contracts for…discerning employers. No guarantees you’ll find what you’re looking for, or that they’ll accept your offers.”

“Of course,” Nikolai responded softly amid another long gulp. Despite this being his sixth glass, the light, crisp taste of the Timbiqui Dark, with its mellow, smooth aftertaste, really was remarkable. There was a reason it was such a prestigious beer for hundreds of light years around. While drinking, he expertly stuck a chip of electronic C-bills on the bottom of the glass before placing it back on the table. “My thanks,” he said just as softly.

He extravagantly leaned back, yawning as wide and loud as he could, slipping the disk from under the table and into a pocket with an ease that would’ve made even Dawson jealous. “Thanks for the great conversations,” he said loudly, “but work waits for no man. Here, feel free to finish my Dark, my friend.” He pushed the glass across the table and stumbled to his feet, then waved extravagantly to the bartender. “Thanksh for great night!” he stammered, and then stumbled out into the night without even putting his coat on.

He was hardly drunk. But even if he had been, the blast of frigid air by contrast to the cozy warmth inside would’ve shocked his system. He quickly limbered into his coat as he remembered to keep stumbling, and moved back along his previous route of a few hours gone.

Two blocks later, he knew he’d slathered on the drunk middle-aged-man routine too thickly. Blake’s Blood.

Two men rushed out of the swirling snow, wielding knifes. Luckily. Hard to fight a pistol. Thank heaven for tight gun controls in Galatea City, even here on the southside.

He waited till the last possible second, knowing surprise his best defense in the moment. Just as the leading man moved to stab him in the back—Blake’s Blood, straight up murder without even asking me out first!—he sprang to the left, felt the blade slash across his right side, sending a line of flame on his flank, despite the thick coat. The man, expecting to hit resistance, stumbled heavily forward, taking him momentarily out of the fight. Nikolai continued his leftward gyration and dropped to his knees as the shocked second man came into range. Nikolai planted his right fist into his left palm, and using the full gyration and all his body weight, he hammered the back of his forearm into the side of the man’s left knee. A crunch and scream, and the attacker immediately dropped to the ground, flailing at a broken joint.

Nikolai jumped back to his feet just as the other man returned, and they both crouched, arms out. “Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,” Nikolai said in the calmest, most disarming voice he could muster as the adrenaline cascaded. “What can I say? I like going out and pretending to get drunk with strangers. But as you can see, I’m not drunk at all. And two against one doesn’t seem very sporting. One against one just…well…that seems a bit more fair for this situation, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the blade. He’d been a fair hand-to-hand fighter in his youth. The bandits—and others—had taught him that real quick. But sparring sessions with Ryana had honed that considerably. He’d learned the hard way that she was not just an expert in a ’Mech. That woman could fight off twice this number with just the elastic band from her topknot!

Even in the dark, the scene lit only by a lonely street light many meters away, he saw the nervous flicker of the attacker’s eyes, a quick lick of his lips.

Careful…could go either way.

“Look,” Nikolai continued casually. “I could’ve killed your partner there. But I didn’t. My fault. I get it. I slathered on my performance a little too thick. I get that way sometimes. So, not your fault. I’ll even forgive you trashing this expensive coat and the stiches I’m gonna have to explain to the old lady. Just…let’s leave it at that. I walk away, you both live, we’re good, right?”

The other man’s eyes flickered toward his fallen comrade and the speed he’d been dispatched before glancing back at Nikolai’s utterly calm face. He slowly nodded.

“All right then,” Nikolai said. He carefully stood and backed away, keeping full eye contact at all times until the other man turned away to see to his friend. After another dozen paces backwards, Nikolai moved on into the night, keeping a careful watch.

He had what he’d been trying to find, after all. He winced as he fingered the wound under his shirt, finding it still oozing blood. Ryana would scoff and call it a scratch. And Chloe was not going to be happy, again. For so many reasons.

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

2 JANUARY 3006

“Blake’s Blood, Nikolai. How could you!”

Not happy at all.

Nikolai straddled one of the apartment’s chair, Chloe fuming across the table. Dawson sat on the floor, leaning against the door; he’d just arrived. Brooklynn hunched in a chair near the wall, refusing to look at him (as usual), and Ryana practically lounged on the small couch, a look on her face he’d never seen, her eyes focused on a thousand-meter stare. They’d called Fahad, but he’d not yet shown up.

Nikolai finished putting on a bandage—was not for a moment expecting Chloe to help, in her mood—and pulled on a fresh T-shirt while trying to gain a little advantage with more time. He then pointed at the noteputer on the table, its screen lit up with a logo he’d never seen and details of a sprawling contract for them to review. He’d only seen a small portion of it before Chloe had stormed in, demanding to know what was going on, what with all the blood and such.

“Right there,” Nikolai said. “There could be a contract. A real contract. We’re likely not gonna last much longer, Chloe. We’ve spent years—years—socking away every C-bill we’ve earned. And even when your gambles on some stocks paid off much better than we imagined, it’s still only a nest egg. An egg. And it’s getting smaller every day. Pretty soon we’re going to have to let go all those people we’ve hired. Maybe even someone in this room. Or we’ll have to start sliding on maintenance fees. Or training runs. Any of which will be noticed. And then we might as well slap on contractless signs for all the job offers we’ll get. You wanted this dream, Chloe. This is it. This is where we’re at. We either take one of these, or we admit we couldn’t make it work.” He finished up his rant breathless, realizing his voice had risen to a shout. Dawson looked dumbfounded, as though it were the first time he’d ever seen his parents fighting, Brooklynn shrank into her chair trying to vanish, while Chloe’s look of hurt and the tears edging her eyes cut him deeper than any knife. He expected Ryana to launch at him for crossing Chloe so blatantly—that they were husband and wife often didn’t seem to mean a thing to her—but a side glance showed she was still off contemplating her own world. Strange.

He reined in his anger, realizing he might have woken their child as he glanced at the closed door. Then he took a deep breath. For the both of you. For all of you. “Chloe,” he began, trying to make her see sense, “I hope we can be as legitimate as you want us to be. I hope we can walk those mercenary halls someday with contracts falling at our feet. When we’re known. Respected. But we have to start somewhere. And that means taking contracts that we might not like. Or maybe even ones we hate.”

She refused to look at him—she’d always wielded silence so effectively—but Dawson spoke up at that point. “Um, Nikolai. I get what you’re saying. But we’re not gonna…you know…go killing or anything.”

“Good grief, Dawson. Of course not. I’m not a killer. We’re not assassins. But some contracts are just flat illegal. By any stretch of any law. Which means we’re illegal for taking them. But if we do it right, it’ll be fine. It’ll be a contract. Nicely sealed behind such wonderful euphemisms as ‘state secrets.’ It’ll give us the start we simply cannot find any other way.”

Dawson still looked troubled, and glanced at Chloe. Nikolai’s eyes wandered for a moment, and he found Brooklynn, who had not yet said a word—with him there, she might not—and her entire body was oriented away from him. They all knew who they followed. Chloe. If I can’t win her over….

“We should take it,” Ryana said.

He’d been waiting for the haranguing, biting reply, and her abrupt support for his outrageous move shocked him to his core. The others in the room swiveled toward her as though she’d grown an extra head.

Nikolai finally recognized a hint of her expression as she locked eyes with him momentarily before turning to Chloe. Respect. He was thunderstruck, never for a moment believing he’d ever see that expression from the tall, amazing warrior.

“We cannot go on, Chloe.” Ryana smoothly rose from the couch and crossed the short distance to rest her hand on Chloe’s shoulder, forcing her to look at her directly. “We really to give up on our dream? Or are we going to make it happen, even if we have to go down some dark alleys to get there?”

Nikolai held his breath and the tableau stretched, the near-sisters facing each other.

Finally, Chloe slowly nodded, reaching up to take Ryana’s hand. “No,” she whispered. “I’m not ready to give up on this dream.” She heaved a huge sigh that practically rattled her body, before she nodded at Nikolai and the noteputer. “Fine…fine. What’s so secret about this contract that it’s not listed in any MRB database?”

Nikolai reached over and slid the noteputer closer. “It’s an extraction. Though not a raid, with a protection element. The description is…odd…to say the least. From a Sebastian Spears. Some organization called Interstellar Expeditions. Never heard of them.” He glanced up to find a pair of shocked faces. “What?”

Chloe and Ryana slowly shared a glance before shaking their heads, Ryana holding hers while Chloe laughed softly.

He glanced at Dawson and Brooklynn, and found his own incredulousness staring back from both. “Um, ladies? Mind letting us in on the joke?”

“We know him,” Chloe finally responded.

“How?”

“Many years ago. Back on Hesperus. He visited the Light Horse base.”

“What? In the middle of that fight? That’s not possible. Wait, why didn’t you tell me?”

She held up her hand to stave off his avalanche of questions. “Because I signed a pretty scary nondisclosure agreement. And, well, I still can’t tell you about it. I still really don’t know anything about him. Didn’t think I’d ever seem him again. But…his contacts are…crazy, as far as we can tell.”

“Crazy. And likely rich, rich, rich,” Ryana mumbled, still holding her head as though unable to believe the situation.

His previous anger rekindled. “Wait, so you’re telling me the two of you had this contact we could’ve approached at any time for a contract?”

“Seriously, do you believe that?!” Chloe shot back, her bemused expression shifting back to match his anger. “Of course we had no idea. Didn’t know who he was, or how to contact him. Or even if he or his organization hired mercenaries. It was an…unusual consult. As it is, whatever they’re doing, they don’t want ComStar or anyone else to know about it.”

That dropped a sobering curtain of silence, and they stared at one other. Then Dawson finally broke the ice with his quick smile and flourish of cards he always managed to extract from somewhere. “I bet, ladies and gentlemen, that we don’t really care. We take the contract, we do the job, and move on to the next contract. And the next. And the next. We get it done.”

They all took a last moment to size each other up. Nikolai took an extra second staring at Ryana, and her nod to him contained a volume of unspoken words far beyond most of what they’d shared over the years. I finally did something she respected. Did it for Chloe. For all us.

“We take the contract,” they all said in solemn unison.

“So,” Dawson piped up, his cards flashing once more, his grin a meter wide, “Fifty C-bills says this is just some rich guy wanting some help to sneak into a Canopian pleasure circus.”

For the first time in what seemed like months, Nikolai heartedly joined in the burst of laughter.

About the Author

Randall N. Bills began his writing career in the adventure-gaming industry, where he has worked full-time for over two decades. He’s led the publication of literally hundreds of sourcebooks, rulebooks, boxed games, and more. This includes instrumental work on the seminal BattleTech and Shadowrun game lines; he was lore advisor on Harebrained Schemes’s BattleTech computer game, and is a co-story developer for Piranha Games’s forthcoming MechWarrior 5 computer game. His most recent game publications include the Dungeons & Dragons Dragonfire deckbuilder.

His hobbies include music, gaming, reading (fantasy to history, theology to science), and spending time with his family. He currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he continues to work full-time (and then some) in the adventure-gaming industry while pursuing his fiction writing—Randall has published eight novels, two Star Trek novellas, and a host of short stories.

He lives with his wife, Tara, and children—Bryn Kevin, Ryana Nikol and Kenyon Aleksandr—as well as a neurotic German Shepherd named Ecko.

Cover by David Kerber

Edited by Philip A. Lee

Additional Continuity Review by Chris Wheeler

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