Dissimulate Wanderer

MechWarrior 5 Origins, Installment 5

Randall N. Bills

Dissimulate Wanderer

SIROCCO

ST. JAMES, MATAMORAS

BJARRED PREFECTURE, PESHT MILITARY DISTRICT

DRACONIS COMBINE

2 JULY 2995

The sun crouched, bloated in the sky, baking the landscape in an oven that soared above fifty-five degrees Celsius this day, high summer.

Fahad Arazad had worked alongside his father for over three years now, his slight frame carefully navigating the Arkab Legion’s maintenance facilities as he learned the arcane art of being a BattleMech astech. Despite such tough work, Fahad’s fifteen-year-old muscles struggled against the brutal 1.46 standard gravity of Matamoras, nearly double that of their home world. Combined with the temperature—Fahad swore he felt the wavering lines of heat sucking the moisture straight out of his pores—and the grinding weight that felt like both his older brothers were sitting on his chest, he was already exhausted. He stopped for a moment, adjusted his anti-glare goggles, feet sliding in the unfamiliar, smooth sands, and then unslung a pouch of water around his neck and took a deep draught.

“Careful,” Jabal Arazad said as he hopped down into the defile from the waist-high ledge, despite his large frame that cast a long shadow Fahad knew he could never fill. “That is all the water you will have until tomorrow night, when they pick us up.”

Fahad coughed at the surprising interruption and almost spewed the contents. The horror of wasting the resource—much less in front of his father—just kept it in. He stoppered the pouch and picked up the latticework of carbon-fiber tubing he’d been assembling.

“Aasif, Father.”

“We all have moments when we are sorry. What we do afterward is what matters.”

A companionable silence fell as they continued working. The two parts of the latticework slowly formed into a tear-shaped half shell that they pushed into the sand once fully assembled. His father pulled out the anchor gun, placed the pronged muzzle over the bottom frame rod, and fired. The thump was shocking after the long silence only filled with occasional wind and the whisper of sand particulates grinding their endless dance on each other. Compressed air shot ceramic-sheathed darts down deep into the sand, trailing a mix of spider silk and molecularly aligned synthetic thread. Two meters below the surface, the darts exploded, the embedded, viral-like crystal growths budding and shooting off in every direction. Within seconds it crafted a root system of hundreds of threads, each of which now oozed drops of epoxy that rooted it to the ground with a thousand anchor points. His father scuttled around the edge of the frame, ignoring the heat of the sand, setting seven more such powerful anchor points.

So much work just to be “safe.” Fahad watched, mesmerized by the remaining darts, desperate to actually see the working of such magical high technology. Even he knew how incredibly rare and expensive this must be. And yet they were shooting it into sand on this horrible world? He remembered, months ago, before they began, the shouting between his parents over this “once-in-a-lifetime trip.” Shrugged the ugly memories away, and kept working behind his father, wondering if he’d ever be able to understand him.

He started pulling out the elastic sheets of polymer, and flash-heated their edges within each pane of the frame by pinching the tape capsules they’d carefully placed and packed before traveling the nearly 500 light years to the world of Matamoras.

Soon, the impressive tent was finished, its fabulously smooth, white sides a flashing brilliance that almost made it past their anti-glare goggles. So low-slung and enmeshed now with its surroundings, it almost appeared like the cockpit canopy of a Sholagar aerospace fighter that Fahad had seen racing down the runways and into the skies of his homeworld of Al Na’ir. If I kick the sand, will we uncover a buried fighter?

“Abnay,” his father spoke, voice filled with reverence. “My son, isn’t this one of Allah’s greatest works?”

Fahad glanced away from the tent and saw his father encompassing the region all around them with a sweep of his arm; Fahad matched his gaze, taking it all in. As far as his sight carried, towering, intricate sculptures rose hundreds of meters into the air. Sinuous, graceful lines and arcs and flanges stabbed at the cobalt sky with abandon. Striated rocks, embedded with a variety of rare crystals and metals precious to heavy-industry, twinkled in the blazing light. A shimmering cloud of multihued, gem-colored spots of light wafted over the sandy dunes, and ethereal, towering, minaret-like protrusions of stone seemed to sit in midair. A brilliant, breathtaking kaleidoscope, carved across tens of millions of years by terrifyingly powerful winds that ravaged this world year-round. Such relentless windstorms made Matamoras a living hell for the poor souls consigned to work the more than four dozen mines and processing sites of one of the most valuable industry worlds in the entire Draconis Combine. But every two decades—for reasons not even the scientists from the golden age of the long-lost Star League could explain—the winds stopped for just a few brief weeks, fully revealing the glory of this treasure.

Fahad looked away from the magnificence so few human eyes beheld, and witnessed the first tears he’d ever seen his father cry, a look of glory and transcendence on his face. While his father worked in the dirt and grime of a maintenance shop, he was an artist to the core: with a loving touch, he performed repairs for the dozen-meter-tall avatars of war under his care, which made him the envy of every tech throughout all of the Arkab Legions and even among other Draconis Combined Mustered Soldiery regiments that knew his work.

They’d make a lot more profit if they mined this region instead of just charging admittance to gawkers. Fahad abruptly glanced away from father at such a sentiment, as though he would know instantly what Fahad thought, and punish him appropriately for what he would deem blasphemous insolence. But it’s true…

A strange change in the atmosphere caused Fahad to glance around uneasily. His father finally looked away from the beauty of the carved desert, surreptitiously wiping away his tears. “Let’s get inside.”

Fahad heaved a sigh of relief. They’d get inside, blocking out that angry ball of hate, and he could read his tech manuals and nap, waiting out the next twenty-four hours for the return of the vehicles that would extract them from his father’s “paradise.” I can keep quiet. I can survive this.

His ears abruptly popped, causing him to start. “Something’s different,” Fahad said. He looked around again, feeling something off in the air from what he’d grown accustomed to in the last week on-planet.

His father nodded as he moved to the edge of the tent and slid the only loose panel aside far enough for him to worm through. “It’s almost time,” his voice echoed from within the low tent.

Time? Time for what? Fahad looked around once last time, then easily slid through the same aperture. The abrupt dark and chill shocked him, and he was momentarily blinded while he fumbled his goggles off. A few long seconds, and the bioluminescence of the algae that’d sprouted in the sand via the anchoring shrapnel darts provided plenty of light while also ensuring ample oxygen for the coming day’s hibernation. He looked to his father for confirmation, then pulled the panel inward against the frame and carefully squeezed the twin nodules that flash-sealed this last bit in place. His ears popped again at the continued change of atmosphere.

A shift in the sound outside made him shuffle away from the wall’s edge, on his knees, glancing nervously at his father. “Time for what?”

His father drew in a deep breath as he knelt in the sand, eyes closed, then let it out slowly and a smile blossomed. “To watch Allah’s hand. Put your goggles back on,” he finished, adjusting his own back into place.

What? Fahad did as he was told. “Father—”

He was choked off as his father touched a control stud on the ceiling and the entire structure flashed transparent, with only the carbon-fiber frame disrupting an unimpeded view, as their heads were just above the lip of the defile where they’d built their tent.

The whickering of sand increased fitfully, and it started to lash against the tent. He slowly looked over his shoulder to follow the direction that held his father’s gaze. A wall of churning blackness, carried from horizon to horizon and towering half a dozen kilometers into the stratosphere, rushed towards them.

Thoughts burst with instant clarity. They were not here just for that brief respite when the winds died every two decades. Nor was the tent just a precaution. His father had timed it perfectly, so that they might see the calm in the eye of the storm. Only transparent, micro-thin walls stood between them and the monstrous, 600-kilometer-an-hour sirocco that gave this region its name. The storm stamped its ravaging hand on the sculpted land, making it a mecca for artists—especially those of the Azami—from across a thousand worlds and as many light years. Horror roiled inside as he glanced back at the rapturous anticipation on his father’s face.

You…are…insane…

Fahad Arazad pushed the terror down deep, looking calmly at his father as the sirocco fell upon the land with untold ferocity.

HOMAI-ZAKI, AL NA’IR

AL NA’IR PREFECTURE, DIERON MILITARY DISTRICT

DRACONIS COMBINE

3 MARCH 2999

Fahad slalomed through the traffic of Homai-Zaki. Finishing a long day of BattleMech maintenance, he unwound taut muscles in the race of wind and speed as he expertly piloted his hoverbike through gaps that left honking horns and vulgarity in his wake. By the time he reached his friend’s apartment in the lower end of Al Na’ir’s capital city, he felt almost refreshed, ready to tackle a night of lively political discussions and some good beer, and maybe, just maybe, Alita would be there.

He careened into the small parking lot, slid in between two vehicles, and jumped the machine up onto the curb—he loved how much it irritated Joseph’s landlord. Then he leaped out, already heading toward the door before the last of the dust billowing out from under the hoverbike’s skirt settled. Long legs bounded up the three flights of stairs, and he burst through the door without even a knock.

Joseph, Omar, and Alita (yes!) were camped around the small living-room table, smoke rising from an ashtray of cigarette butts, and a row of empty beer bottles already making its way across the table’s glass surface. A flash of smiles and waving hands were a balm to his nerves. He only managed to get away from his work and family once a week to meet his friends. And despite being the military, the Arkab Legion—at least those on Al Na’ir—scrupulously adhered to the laws of the Azami worlds. No smoking, no alcohol, no premarital sex. Good gods, how could you have any fun like that?! Right…they don’t have fun. He frowned for a moment, thinking of his father. Ever.

He settled his long frame onto a pillow, caught a beer tossed his way, and accepted a cigarette from Omar. He took a long drag, cracked open the bottle, and sloshed a long drink down a dry throat, before sighing delightedly. Heavenly.

“Long day, my friend?” Omar said. Unlike Joseph or Alita, whose families were minorities on Al Na’ir, Omar’s were strict religious adherents, as his own. He understands. It helped that they both shared a passion for computer programming, though Omar’s knowledge far outstripped his own. They shared a knowing look and a smile as they clinked bottles in a cheer of getting away from it all.

“Long week,” Fahad said.

“Has it already been a week?” Joseph flashed a smile in a white face that stood out on the city streets of Homai-Zaki. His lineage, from the Rasalhague Military District, originated from immigrants of the Nordic countries back on ancient Terra. White as white can be.

Fahad smiled at their wonderful friendship. “It has. It has. Too long.” He glanced at Alita, her own garnet-colored skin only a shade or two darker than his. While of the Azami worlds, her family had rejected strict compliance with their religious laws, taking a far more secular path with their lives. He envied them. And felt a delicious warmth in his belly at her shy, return smile. There was a reason he’d learned to understand her love of etymology, as she’d begun studying linguistics. Wanting her—and being able to wield her as a knife at his family—all wrapped into a wonderfully, burgeoning relationship. Perhaps tonight?

“You heard the rumors?” Joseph said. “About the Coordinator?”

“Yeah, a few days ago.”

“Combine newsfeeds are spinning it, but dig a little in the right places, and the truth emerges. Someone tried to assassinate him.”

“Word says it was a member of the Order of the Five Pillars,” Alita spoke up.

Fahad took a long drag on the cigarette before blowing it up into the air in one, large waft. “I don’t care who tried. I just wish they’d succeeded. In fact, I wish they’d killed the lot of them. Every…last…stinking…noble Kuritan. Then maybe, just maybe they’d leave us alone.” He hated his family’s religious zeal. But he was still Azami and always would be. And that meant his hatred of all things Combine was a wonderfully bright spark he loved fanning with such treasonous talk.

He looked back as his friends’ voices fell silent, to find three sets of shocked faces peering over his shoulder, and he glanced there. Horror, shame and rage swept over him as his father’s large frame filled the doorway like an avatar of doom. He dropped the cigarette and beer bottle, its sloshing mess forgotten as it slowly stained the carpet; despite his nineteen years of age, he abruptly felt half that, scrambling to his feet, excuses on his tongue to try pardoning his missteps.

The silent stretched, brittle and taut, waiting to shatter. The look on his father’s face darkened as his judging eyes swept the room. Fahad could almost see the checklist of infractions filling those eyes.

“You bring shame on your family,” his father finally grated out between clenched teeth. “Your brothers have whispered for some time, but I ignored them. Told them my son would not do such things. Would not hide such blasphemy from his family. From his mother. From me.” The last word trembled with strong emotion, but those eyes remained dry.

Fahad abruptly remembered the only time he’d seen his father cry. Over some rocks. You can’t even cry over me. Not even now.

“This is my life. I will—” Fahad began angrily, but cut off as his father’s impressive frame surged into the room, crossing the short distance in one eyeblink, hand descending into a stinking slap to his face, sparking flashing lights and the tang of blood.

“You will what? You who blaspheme and commit treason in the same breath?”

Anger quickly ate through the fright. He spit blood on the floor, his friends forgotten, and he faced his father, tongue running away for the first time in his presence.

“We have a right to our freedom! For nearly five centuries our people have bent our necks to the boot of House Kurita. And we’ve shamed ourselves by offering our blood so the Arkab Legions can fight the Kuritans’ wars, to live and die on forgotten worlds. Where is your god in that?”

He expected the slap, and still the flash of it caught him off guard. More stars and blood. Then his vision cleared, and he faced the monolithic menace of his father. Despite his previous burst of anger, he wilted before such towering familial and righteous fury.

“You. Will. Not. Speak. That you throw such words to the wind while stinking of those poisons means you know nothing of our people. We sent the delegation to House Kurita in 2516. We made a pact, knowing the rapacious growth of the Draconis Combine would swallow us if we chose inaction. It is our honor to fulfill the obligations of our forefathers with complete fidelity. It is our honor to affirm fealty to our liege lord, Coordinator Hohiro Kurita, and to his Heir-Designate, Takashi Kurita. It is never about what others do to us. It is about the words we have spoken and the actions we take. It is always. About. Us.”

Against the fusillade of words, Fahad had no defense and slowly bowed his head, waiting for the ax of his father’s judgement. The sound of his friends’ quiet, fearful breathing filled the room. That they also refused to speak up in the moment of chastisement alleviated none of his misery.

“You are still Azami,” his father finally said. “You will never see…these again. And I will double and triple your work until you are redeemed from this…lapse.”

Utterly alone and dejected, Fahad could not even bring himself to look at his lost friends as he shuffled outside. The door slammed behind him with a bang, like the closing of a prison gate.

HOMAI-ZAKI, AL NA’IR

AL NA’IR PREFECTURE, DIERON MILITARY DISTRICT

DRACONIS COMBINE

3 AUGUST 3001

On the massive parade grounds of the military headquarters on Al Na’ir, the pride of Azami stood resolute. Over 100 BattleMechs ranked at attention, the entire Second Arkab Legion—along with their supporting armor and infantry regiments—stood at the ready, with the colonel’s 100-ton Atlas as the central focus, its hulking, sixteen-meter height making it one of the tallest BattleMechs ever produced. Their tan- and dark-green camouflage was vibrant in the sun, as the yellow-and-black flag of the Arkab, emblazoned with a six-pointed star, snapped in the light breeze.

Across from the ranked soldiers, the command companies of both the Eighth and Fifteenth Dieron Regulars assembled—focused on their colonel’s Marauder—their own flags planted. Their commanding officers marched toward the middle as the Arkab officers, in matching crisp, white-and-red DCMS officer uniforms, moved forward to meet them. The official exchange of commands was underway, with the Second shifting their home base to the world of Tannil, and the two Dieron Regulars regiments replacing them. A grand, time-honored military tradition for commands stretching back thousands of years.

Off to the side of where both groups of officers met, a stage had been erected, the fresh paint vibrant and alive, as the auspicious observers kept their steely silence. The Warlord of the Dieron Military District—his dress uniform somehow larger and brighter than any other—was actually in attendance this day. Arrayed around the Warlord were MechWarriors from the Fifth Sword of Light—the crème de la crème of the entire Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery.

They could be standing naked and their arrogance would still slap you in the face. Fahad watched from the shadows of the large BattleMech assembly center that blocked in the southwest side of the grounds. He and his father’s team of techs were not directly attached to the Second Arkab, and instead were permanently stationed at the assembly plant and military headquarters, so they would not be leaving Al Na’ir. How I wish those regiments were marching to battle against each other. I wish I was anywhere but here. Anywhere has to be better than here.

Fahad toed a clump of dirt at his feet and glanced askance at his father and the group of men and women that made up their team. He was exactly two meters off to the side. Not enough for his father to use words but enough for an eyebrow raise. He’d been taught the hard way exactly the boundaries he could push, and where. Especially when it came to his friends. He’d learned to be very careful there, only seeing them directly every few months. While his fling with Alita hadn’t lasted, the group’s dialogue of freedom for their people had only grown. Not in volume—they’d left that behind as they’d moved beyond their teenage years—but in sophistication. In dedication.

Soon the entire affair wound down as the duty station exchange was finalized. The large gathering slowly broke up. The massive relocation efforts would span the next several weeks, including dozens of DropShip lifts that would exchange over 5,000 individuals, along with some thirty thousand tons of gear and equipment. He wanted to be gone from this place, packed with so much Kurita, but knew he couldn’t leave until his father dismissed the group. Abruptly they snapped to attention, and Fahad barely matched their form, sidling close to the group as the Warlord and his retinue of soldiers walked by.

“They wear our uniforms better than I expected,” one of the officers said, nodding toward the Second Arkab Legion troops breaking formation.

“Dress them up how they may, they can never be fully trusted,” the Warlord responded casually, as the group continued walking. “I am glad the Dragon has seen fit to listen to my advice and move their kind off this all-important world and bring in my own warriors.”

Despite his best efforts, Fahad felt his face flush bright red as the group moved out of ear shot. They speak as if we don’t even exist. As if vermin that aren’t smart enough to understand. His fists slowly clenched until his arms ached. We’ve worn your uniforms for half a thousand years. Have bled and died on countless worlds through the Succession Wars. Always honorable. Always with the highest skills. The Arkab are more than a match for either of your Regulars regiments. They might even give your Sword of Light a run for their money. His mind stormed with spiraling epithets and challenges.

His father turned and looked at each of them, eyes full of resolve, as though to say “You heard nothing.” Each tech nodded before moving away, their features clear of contention. Fahad had no idea how they did it.

At last, his father looked at him. Fahad desperately tried to hide himself—still struggled around his father—but something must have leaked through. “Remember, my son, what matters is what we do,” his father said softly, raising a hand as though to touch Fahad’s shoulder. But then thought better of it and dropped it, before moving away.

Fahad stayed rooted to his spot, the anger slipping past his placid safeguards as his father walked out of sight. He shot daggers at the retreating Warlord’s retinue and their towering arrogance. They hate us as much as I hate them. And that was just fine with him.

He couldn’t wait to tell his friends. But he would wait another month or two, especially since he’d slipped up recently and allowed his father to see he was still not the perfect son. His father would be looking over his shoulder with extra care.

He finally unclenched fists, smoothed his features, and turned back to the long work shift that lay ahead. Still needed to work on hiding myself.

HOMAI-ZAKI, AL NA’IR

AL NA’IR PREFECTURE, DIERON MILITARY DISTRICT

DRACONIS COMBINE

25 FEBRUARY 3002

The automated cutter’s accelerated jets of hot plasma knifed through crystal-aligned-steel plates backed by a cubic boron-nitride layer, sparks flashing amid the searingly bright actinic light. The massive, industrial-sized cutter moved through its precise, servo-directed motion across large sheets of BattleMech armor, which it sliced into computer numerical control–programmed facets for the BattleMech under refit—in this case, a 65-ton Catapult.

An overworked operator nodded off at the controls as an alarm sounded on the hour of 1 a.m. local, startling him awake. He immediately checked the parameters of the program to ensure all was proceeding appropriately, then nodded off once more. The rest of the warehouse in this final-assembly center of York MechWorks was in the late-night shift, and mostly automated for such hours. Very few other souls occupied the structure.

The computer program, set in motion weeks before, abruptly initiated its coded attack.

First, a large oxygen-flow valve—carefully delisted during multiple months of maintenance checks—turned on at full capacity. It would later appear to have broken due to faulty maintenance.

Second, the operator’s alarm was disabled. Later investigation would lay significant fault on the overworked, underpaid, and unsuspecting employee.

Finally, an armor sheet laid down months before, but ignored by the computer, abruptly appeared in the system. The logic brain of the machine verified the falsified date lasered into its edge, and cycled other sheets out of the way on various conveyor belts to ensure the oldest sheets always fell in proper order for immediate CNC work.

By 5 a.m., the ratio of oxygen to other constituent gases in the warehouse air had reached an almost perfect mix. The plasma torch then cut through the specialized armor sheet, igniting the accelerant woven in alongside artificial diamond fibers into the cubic boron-nitride layer, causing the sheet to explode in white-hot shards of shrapnel that tore itself, the machine, and most of the nearby structures to shreds. Milliseconds later, the secondary detonation of the volatile air ignited a titanic fireball that shredded the primary warehouse, killing five, wounding a dozen others, and sent a shockwave that turned connected warehouses inside out and knocked over two dozen nearby homes off their foundations.

The resulting chemical fire burned for nearly a week before valiant firefighters could reach the center of the blaze and use inert chemical foam to finally douse the last of it.

While official inquiries concluded that an accelerant was responsible for the incident, the investigation team labeled it an industrial accident and refused to believe that the accelerant had been maliciously embedded in one of the steel sheets. The investigator who ruthlessly pursued her conviction that this was a deliberate act of sabotage would eventually be publicly disgraced under false charges of bribery over a decade later, and Yori MechWorks carefully swept the whole affair under the rug in an effort to get their refurbished assembly facility fully back online and staffed by willing personnel by 3009.

While rebuilding, Yori MechWorks would not only deal with that lost revenue for years to come, but the Warlord of the Dieron Military District was obliged to make a public statement surrounding the catastrophe; the CEO and numerous board members were forced to resign due to the Warlord’s loss of face. (In any other realm, the company would likely pay out billions of C-bills in civilian litigation over faulty maintenance practices and the chemical fallout from the fires that spread to the nearby city, but in the Combine, the Dragon—and his Warlord representative—is the truth.)

The night was still alive with secondary explosions, lurid lights, and blaring emergency vehicles racing by as Fahad’s father burst into his room. Fahad turned, voice anxious. “Has there been a raid? House Davion?”

His father’s eyes scanned his face with brutal intensity, as though he would scrape away his skin to peer at the consciousness beneath. “Tell me you did not do this.”

“Do what?” Fahad asked, screwing his face up in confusion.

The silence stretched again, as the hubbub of awakened neighbors pouring out into the night grew with their shock and ever greater numbers. He stood up from his bed, opening the window to let in a rush of loud voices in the street and the stench of burning petrochemicals already engulfing the city, though they were long kilometers distant.

“I am shamed. Al-Taqiyya is our ancient custom that has allowed us to hide in plain sight, dissimulating our faith to protect our people against others. Yet you twist it to hide yourself from your own family. Do you even know who you are? What happened to that boy who journeyed with me to Matamoras?”

Anger slid up past Fahad’s carefully laid façade, and despite the futility, his tongue ran with indignation. “I never wanted that trip. You wanted it. And what you want, you get, regardless of the rest of us.” He glanced back at his father—no, only at a man whose genes he carried—and lashed further. “Do you even know the etymology of that planet’s name? Matamoras. It’s a derivation of ‘Matamoros,’ a title given to St. James, Spain’s patron saint, during the Middle Ages of ancient Terra. It means ‘Killer of Moors.’ You tried to find your god on a planet celebrating the killing of our ancestors in the name of their god.”

The commotion outside increased as secondary explosions continued to thump in the night, and the sounds of sirens, now stretching for kilometers in every direction, converged as a veritable army of emergency personnel moved toward the unfolding catastrophe.

Fahad hunted for the anger he expected, yet found only a stony, empty pit in those eyes. “I know your skills,” his father said. “You are careful, so there is likely nothing to be found. Which I pray is true. If there is even a breath of a hint connecting the Azami to an act of sabotage, the Dragon with lash out with claws that could destroy us, sending their regiments marching against our worlds.”

Fahad managed to keep his lips sealed. Let them come. Better to fight and die than live in servitude to an unlawful lord.

“And if our family name reaches the ears of the Internal Security Force, we will all simply…disappear. But for all of that, I care not. I would see you brought to justice, except your mother…she would be undone. Destroyed in heart and mind by your treason and blasphemy. For her and her alone, I will tell no one.”

Fahad suddenly knew what was coming, as though he could see the blade of his father’s righteous judgment slowly cleaving towards his neck.

“But you are no longer my son. Or part of this family. You are no longer Azami. Altayih.” As his father turned away without another word; Fahad marveled that he didn’t seem to fill that doorway as he once did.

Wanderer. His father meant it as a curse, but he would embrace it. Thousands of worlds of opportunity amongst the stars.

He began quietly packing. Fahad wondered if his father cared that his elation had slowly turned to horror as the full scale of it registered. Did we mean for it to be like this? He wanted to contact his friends, to see if they had second thoughts as well. But knew his father was right. The ISF was everywhere. The chance at discovery exponentially increased if he tried to get in contact. Will we ever see each other again? Or will I bear this burden alone the rest of my days?

Soon enough, a short duffel bag over his shoulder, he slipped out the back door while the rest of his family jostled among concerned neighbors watching the ongoing emergency; they wouldn’t notice him missing for long hours.

He’d expected it to hurt more.

PLAGUE BOYS COMPOUND

ST. EDWARDS, LAYOVER

ACHEMAR COMBAT REGION, CRUCIS MARCH

FEDERATED SUNS

1 JANUARY 3005

Despite the protection offered by the rebreather mask everyone wore on Layover during extended outings to keep the planet’s pervasive microbials from gaining a foothold in their system, the punch still broke skin and dropped Fahad to the ground, his ears ringing. Despite the years, the mocking laugher always hurt more than the punches. Always.

He knew staying prone would not alleviate the torment, so he pushed up off the ground. How in the world do these drunken idiots operate a mercenary command? Then again, calling the Plague Boys a merc outfit was generous in the extreme. Just this side of bandits, hanging onto their Mercenary Review Board D-rating by their dirty fingernails. Then again, perhaps he was the idiot for accepting their short-term tech contract.

Lieutenant Corals sucked at the blood on his knuckle like a leech, with far too much glee in the gesture. The short, mean man’s face reminded Fahad of a pug, his beady eyes craving a violence no battlefield could ever quench. Especially at their current posting, where the last raid was a dog’s age ago. And so, instead of PPCs against an enemy, its fists against me.

“Ready for more stomping, ’Zami?” the lieutenant said.

Fahad sighed. He could do nothing about the color of his skin, but he’d been careful to not speak of his upbringing. His dialect had given him away. His two previous commands hadn’t been enjoyable, but at least they weren’t this bad, with such virulence directed at who and what he was. Was? Still am? He wasn’t so sure anymore.

He glanced around for an escape, but knew none existed. Beyond the short perimeter of the Plague Boys compound stretched nearly 500 square kilometers of raid-ravaged and age-dilapidated factories and storehouses that encapsulated the bright but distant past of Salvatore, Inc., a once major manufacturer of space vessels. A past destroyed by the depredations of the Succession Wars. But if he sought refuge, he’d likely have a wall collapse on him or he’d fall into a pit where he’d never be discovered. Better to deal with the here and now.

“Look,” he finally said to the lieutenant and the other two lackeys. “You hired me to do a job. Keep your ’Mechs in good, working order. I’ve been doing that. Is it my fault you pilot your BattleMechs like drunken Canopian pleasure circus rejects?”

His stomach dropped precipitously, and he slowly closed his eyes against the gleeful rage his words ignited in all three pairs of dull eyes. Stupid tongue. It always betrayed him.

As he fell back to the ground, pain enveloping his nerves and blood splattering the dirt, he knew, if he lived, it was time to wander on. Again.

COPELAND HIGHLANDS

TORLIA, LUNGDO

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

11 DECEMBER 3006

Fahad leaned against the service utility truck. Even in the bright light of Lungdo’s sun at full height, the arc of the world’s numerous rings was heavily visible. He’d craned his neck for long minutes as they’d first debarked from their Union-class Dropship in the distance. How are they not mining that?

Then again, no one could likely afford it. Not that he’d been on a lot of worlds. Yet. But so far, this might have been the most backwater planet he’d ever walked on, with a population not even breaking a million. No metropolises and really just a handful of medium-sized cities, and most of those just fragmentary settlements spread haphazardly throughout the single continent that hugged the equator. An independent world, just outside the Protectorate within the Free Worlds League, it was a place that apparently cared little for the outside universe. And the Inner Sphere responded in kind; shipment tracking and ports-of-call manifests had painted a picture of a planet visited by very few. I guess if you were going to try hiding something, this would be a good place.

The column of dust he’d spotted earlier grew into a truck mirroring the one he leaned against, while a Highlander BattleMech kept up a steady accompanying trot, beating rhythmic tremors that grew ever more powerful as it approached. The two arrived together, and, still getting to know everyone—despite the time together, he’d learned the harsh way to be very leery—he watched with a critical eye as the Cavaliers’ XO, Ryana Campbell, powered down the 90-ton BattleMech, extended the chain ladder from the chest, and egressed out the back of the head before shimmying down to the ground with ease. She then took a step to the BattleMech, placed a hand on its massive foot, and bowed her head to say a prayer, her lithe figure still, her top-knot fluttering in the light breeze that carried the odd, sickly sweet aroma of some local flora.

He’d been surprised at her prayer the first time he’d witnessed it, with memories of his father striking hard at emotions he avoided. But while prickly, Ryana seemed okay. She never foists that on anyone. More importantly, in his eyes, she was a warrior who any Arkab Legion soldier would’ve lauded with respect.

“Nothing,” Ryana said toward their group as she stalked across the small clearing, disgust in every line of her form.

“You sure?” Nikolai Mason responded. (He refused to accept any rank, Fahad noted.) The brooding but intelligent man stood at a field table, a small holomap open, making annotations on the connected noteputer; one of his favorite knives stood hammered into the table, a testament to frustration. He was a warrior-tech-trader-agent extraordinaire; a jack-of-all-trades who always seemed to have something up his sleeve to solve a problem. He should’ve suffered for spreading himself so thin, but that never seemed the case. Nikolai and he had immediately been at odds, often clashing over personalities. He didn’t really like nor dislike Nikolai, but none of that mattered. He was married to the boss lady, and she did matter.

Captain Chloe Reed, despite her short stature, always dominated the conversation, even when she spoke not a word. She kept silent as the troop of tired, dusty men and women, wearing gear affixed with the Interstellar Expeditions logo, stomped up from the other truck, dropped their gear onto the grass, and collapsed straight to the ground alongside their packs, despite the patchy grass coverage.

“It’s simply not there,” the lead archaeologist, Jolinda Hays, responded. Her dark skin made Fahad’s own seem light, and her large halo of black hair was almost as loud as her personality.

“You sure?” Chloe spoke, mirroring her husband’s words—much to his annoyance, if the crease on his forehead was any indication.

Fahad watched Sergeant Brooklynn Jales slide up to Chloe, trying not to interrupt the conversation, and hand her a clipboard. He swore she loved that thing more than breathing. Chloe glanced at it a moment, nodded at Brooklynn, handed it back, and the other woman slunk away, her long braid of hair swinging. He liked the sergeant, though he’d not found a way to say much to her just yet. Her shyness reminds me of Alita. He frowned and instantly pushed those memories down and away.

“Of course I am, Chloe,” Jolinda continued. “We’ve been digging in those caves for over two months. Even using your BattleMechs to help dig out some sections. Spears’s contacts were simply wrong. The Chalice and Tablets of St. Kamen DeGruen are not here. And by the gods, I’m gonna make him pay for sending me on this fool’s errand.” She finally joined her cohorts, flopping down onto the ground to stretch fully out on her back.

“Now tell me again why we’re on this backwater world hunting a cup and some slabs of rocks from some saint executed a couple a hundred years ago?” Dawson Clarmont spoke up. While older than Fahad, he had a boyish exuberance that left everyone around him smiling. Even I can’t resist the man.

“It is a Chalice and Tablets,” Jolinda said, not even opening her eyes, the long-suffering in her voice splattering everyone with its aggrieved tone. “St. Kamen DeGruen was executed in 2183,” she continued, instantly becoming a bored professor teaching recalcitrant students, as though she somehow missed the rhetorical tone of Dawson’s comment. “Not a ‘few hundred years ago.’ At the height of mankind’s first diaspora to the stars, the wealthiest member-states of the Terran Alliance colonized the closest worlds. The poorer nations, already have borne the financial brunt of the Alliance discovering and then manufacturing faster-than-light travel nearly a century before, would no longer be cowed. St. DeGruen was a true believer in the Terran Alliance and tried desperately to stave off what he saw as a coming catastrophe for the Alliance in rebellions. Some were already occurring on Terra, and others that would spark soon enough off-world. He was captured in Turkey as a spy by rebels, given a kangaroo-court trial and executed. But it is said that his Chalice and Tablets were actually part of a much more ancient treasure trove from the Near East. Perhaps as old as ancient Babylon itself. They’re valuable enough just being associated with DeGruen. But if such rumors are true, they would be a find beyond measure.” Her words slowly trailed off as she opened her eyes, leaning up on elbows to find everyone staring at her. “Right, already told you all that.”

“Mate, you’d be an insufferable professor,” Fahad responded. He’d worked hard to scrub away the linguistics of his youth, adopting a House Davion Outback dialect he’d carefully researched. Despite all of that, he couldn’t bring himself to change his name; he’d shorten it, or not provide it until he got to know a person, but he simply could not completely self-erase his past in that fashion. He dug into a vest pocket and pulled out an energy bar, tearing at the wrapper and taking a large bite.

Jolinda shrugged off the barb. “That’s why I’m out in the field and not teaching.”

“What does that mean for us?” Chloe spoke for all of them. “Is our contract…fulfilled?” The slight hitch in her tone matched the odd looks on the Cavaliers’ faces. After all, this entire contract had been strange beyond belief. Secretly hired off the Mercenary’s Star, the world of Galatea, nearly a year ago by Interstellar Expeditions, a consortium of fabulously wealthy and connected individuals from all around the Inner Sphere. The job: to go find some dusty old artifacts that might not even exist, and safeguarding the pack of archeologists tasked with their mission. To, as their employer said, “protect the knowledge of mankind.” The whole thing was strange beyond their experiences.

“Yup. Mark off a big, fat ‘mission accomplished,’ Chloe,” Jolinda said, falling back onto the grass. “You got a great, cushy paycheck. If Spears still likes you and isn’t too disappointed, maybe you’ll get another contract. And perhaps then you’ll get to fire your big, bad weapons.”

Chloe looked carefully at Nikolai. Even in his short time with the Cavaliers, Fahad knew the tension between those two surrounding the spirit of the law versus the letter of the law; had heard the philosophical discussions. Nikolai walked with a foot in the shadows while Chloe always felt the call to keep both feet in the light. He knew what Chloe was thinking: had they completed their contract? Fahad wasn’t sure he even saw a nod from the man, but Chloe turned away, and he knew a decision had been made. He marveled. I wonder if I’ll ever have a relationship like that?

Chloe then looked at Dawson, and he smiled that big, infectious grin. “I bet we get a bonus. Just, you know, ’cause Sebastian likes us.”

Chloe shifted her gaze to Ryana. The other woman tossed her long topknot, as though a thoroughbred shaking her mane in anticipation of running. “I didn’t like this rock anyways.”

Chloe nodded, then looked at Sergeant Jales. “Brooklynn?”

Fahad watched her fingers tighten on her all-important clipboard, eyes unfocused, lips moving as though she were reading some internal document.

“Brooklynn,” Chloe spoke again, with more force.

“Captain, there’s no clause in our contract that precludes this scenario. If Dr. Hays believes we’ve fulfilled said contract, we can consider it completed without a risk of penalty.”

“Brooklynn,” Dawson said, “did you have the whole thing memorized, or just the clauses that could cost us money?” Laughter burst out among the group as she turned bright pink.

While the tired scientists slowly stood and, ignoring the Cavaliers, started loading their vehicles and supplies back onto the DropShip for liftoff, Fahad braced for what was still utterly unexpected.

Chloe switched her gaze to his. “And Fahad, your thoughts?”

Despite less than a year in their employ, he was floored at being included in the common decision-making. He’d known his answer before she’d asked, but it was the asking that was a treasure.

“There’s another contract out there for us. Thousands of worlds of opportunity amongst the stars.”

“Didn’t know your tongue could be so poetic, Fahad. It’s usually throwing knives,” Dawson said, and another round of laughter burst out. One in which Fahad wonderfully joined.

He was not sure he’d ever truly fit in anywhere: no matter how he hid it, he would always be an Azami without a people. But for now, at least, his wandering feet could rest for a while.

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

Copyright ©2019 The Topps Company Inc. All rights Reserved. BattleTech, BattleMech, and ’Mech, are registered trademarks and/or trademarks of The Topps Company, Inc. in the United States and/or other countries. 

Catalyst Game Labs and the Catalyst Game Labs logo are trademarks of InMediaRes Production, LLC. 

MechWarrior and BattleTech are registered trademarks of Microsoft Corporation and are used under license. 

All other logos, trademarks, and trade names are the property of their respective holders. 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.