Knives in the Dark

MechWarrior 5 Origins, Installment 6

Randall N. Bills

Knives in the Dark

PALACE OF MIRRORS

REGULUS CITY, REGULUS

PRINCIPALITY OF REGULUS, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

17 NOVEMBER 3003

I’ve never been summoned like this. Why am I being summoned?

Lady Cameron-Jones walked nervously through palatial corridors large enough to accommodate a BattleMech without the pilot worrying about damaging the walls or ceiling. The wood patterns in the floor were mesmerizing as they marched in variegated, glossy patterns. After a dozen steps, she moved past a set of parallel doors—leading who knew where—and the floor transitioned into a new pattern. Nothing jarring or disruptive. In fact, the first time she’d noticed this, she’d paused, wondering how her eye for detail had failed to realize the change. But the intricate wood inlays simply moved from one pattern to the next in a way that pleased the eye yet dazzled the mind with the hidden puzzles within the design.

She pulled her eyes from the floor, only to have the tall, marching windows on her left catch her attention with patches of bright sunlight between. The lower halves of each framed the picturesque paths and gardens beyond as though paintings of idyllic beauty. The upper reaches of each were stained-glass masterpieces, displaying a myriad scenes of Free Worlds League history. In one window, three leaders held an eagle, depicting the founding of the League as the first, true Great House–led interstellar empire in 2271. In another window, the five Great House sigils surrounded the Cameron Star on a nebula backdrop, the Marik eagle larger than the rest—an obvious nod to the quintessential aid Albert Marik gave to Ian Cameron that allowed the forging of the Star League in 257l. In a third stained-glass window, a ComStar logo with its downward-facing points skewered an eagle, a dire reminder of when Captain-General Charles Marik militarily opposed that pseudo-religious order in 2837. The communications interdiction ComStar had placed on the entire empire ultimately forced the League to its knees, and the Captain-General capitulated to ComStar’s demands nearly two years later.

Lady Cameron-Jones sighed as she settled her attention away from the stained glass. While the artistry was beautiful, her instant recollections of such storied history served as a painful reminder of her noble upbringing, even if she’d not been in this particular palace since she was allowed to run free as a child.

At intervals, small chairs and divans graced cupolas of quiet elegance, as though to allow too-tired-from-walking couples to sit while attendants wordlessly slipped teas into their hands during whispered conversations.

She smoothed her long dress, then held her hands away from the fabric, knowing she was adding wrinkles to the expensive silk. Just need something to do with my hands. If I have that, I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine…

She rounded a corner and finally saw the distant doors. Even from this far away, they awed with their size; once again, BattleMechs could walk through them with ease. Her steps hiccupped momentarily, and her heel caught the edge of the dress she’d not worn in several years—schooling never required such niceties—and she stumbled, almost falling flat. Her face burst with heat, and she quickly looked around, desperate, her short hair swinging. She pulled in a shuddering breath and closed her eyes after verifying no one else was in the hall. After nearly a minute, she realized she could delay no longer and continued on, despite the jagged rhythm of her heart.

At last she passed into the throne room proper of the Palace of Mirrors. She’d seen holovids of the House Marik palace on far-off Atreus, and its magnificence that represented leadership of the entire Free Worlds League. But this room couldn’t be far off, with its towering, buttressed walls and domed, mosaic roof that rose more than twenty meters overhead. The series of 108 crescent windows around the dome took what should have been gloom and blossomed it with bright sunlight, causing the blues and greens and purples of the tiled mosaics to shine with almost painful intensity. The motifs of crescent moons and eagles marched throughout the tiles, with the crescent moon in obvious ascendance; after all, in the distant past, House Selaj, the self-styled princes of the Principality of Regulus, had assassinated Captain-General Terrence Marik IV, only to see the entire Selaj clan destroyed for their treachery. She pulled her eyes down from the heights where they’d subconsciously soared, past two empty, consecutive balconies, each backstopped by a myriad of paintings and mirrors that reflected the history of the Principality of Regulus itself. Her gaze continued down past fluted columns to the expansive wash of marbled floor tiles laid out in intricate patterns that mirrored and expanded on those from the preceding hallways. Despite her best intentions otherwise, the weave of lines pulled her eyes toward the back wall and the dais there, to the throne and its occupant.

Count Derick Cameron-Jones, Wielder of the Crescent Moon, Protector of Regulus, Shield of Regulus, First of House Cameron-Jones, leader of the Principality of Regulus, founding member of the Free Worlds League. The man sat the marble throne in a pristine white military uniform with various purple highlights, bathed in soft light from multiple windows designed to capture the count in a haloing effect no matter where Regulus’s sun hung in the sky. Despite the bright light, she noticed he didn’t squint. Wonder if he practices?

Per centuries-old customs that tied back to the Hinduism of House Selaj, she paused at each of the eighteen concentric half circles that flowed around the massive floor, all centered on the dais. At each, she carefully nodded toward the throne. In past centuries, that nod would’ve been a full bow. But the days of self-styled princes were gone, and today’s leaders of the Principality—while still fully embracing the power and prestige of their noble blood—gave at least lip service to the idea that in the Free Worlds League, more than any other realm, democracy had a foothold.

She stopped at the last ring, a bare two meters from the throne, and stood silently, her heart racing as though she’d just run a steeplechase with her beloved Hellio, feeling the magnificent equine’s flanks heaving with their own energy. She kept her eyes pegged on the feet of her liege lord and fell into stillness, praying to disappear into the marble. This she was good at.

All too soon, her wishes were denied. “It’s a pity that Captain-General Janos Marik could not restrain his anger and had General Willis Crawford executed earlier this year,” the count began in almost a bored tone. “After all, it wasn’t really the general’s fault he lost most of his command on Solaris. The entire conflict, begun in the Loric system, was bungled. Don’t you think?”

Despite her best convictions, she looked up to find his usual piercing eyes almost lax, as though discussing pleasantries over tea with an uncle back at one of the divans she had passed in the corridor. The count even smiled slightly and cocked his head while he let the time stretch.

He actually wants an answer?! Expecting a harsh reprimand out of the gate, her mind swirled while she marshaled the details she’d gleaned. After all, despite being a third cousin and so far from the Regulan throne that she was lost in a haze of the dozens in line before her, she was a Cameron-Jones and so born to machinations. She found her tongue but couched her response carefully, feeling the landmines all around. “It was within the Captain-General’s prerogative.”

He tsked, as though disappointed in an errant child. “Come now, my lady, you can do better than that. It is within his prerogative. Of course it is. And yet?”

She paused, taking in another breath—this time filled with the spicy incense the count enjoyed burning in small wicks next to the throne—and ordered her thoughts. I’m already destroyed. Why do I vacillate? If he wants an answer, give him an answer! Her hands plucked at her dress, longing for something to hold.

“General Crawford was best friends with the Duke of Procyon,” she began, hating the timid tone, especially as the count interrupted.

“Come now, my lady. Despite your distance from the throne, you are of noble blood. Let us dispense with titles, shall we?”

She sensed a trap but knew she had no choice but to continue. “The Duke of Procyon—” She stumbled, trying to remember to set aside titles—as difficult as setting aside her own head, as such niceties had been drilled into her from her grandmother’s knee—but soldiered on. “Anton Marik, Janos’s brother, was best friends with Crawford. They were classmates at Princefield. There were rumors that Janos and Anton had a public yelling match over the incident.”

“Not rumors,” the count said casually, nodding for her to continue.

“Anton lost face among the nobility there. What’s more, Janos plundered the supplies and men from Anton’s forces driving into the Capellan Confederation’s Tikonov Commonality,” she continued, her voice strengthening as she lost herself in the moment, spinning the threads of Machiavellian politics into a potential skein for future developments. “Janos shored up his own failures by ensuring that Anton would fail also, then he publicly berated and humiliated Anton while executing Anton’s best friend because of his own military blunders.” She paused, eyes lost inward as she wove forward, grabbing a thread from a remembered past. “A plot to supplant the previous Captain-General, Stephan Marik, was foiled when Janos, as a student at Princefield, refused to collude with fellow students seeking to depose his father. I wonder if Anton is as loyal as Janos? The Captain-General surely has hemmed his brother in on all sides, leaving such an opportunity open for those that would seek to exploit it.”

She abruptly realized the treasonous words she’d spoken, and blanched, her eyes focusing back on Count Derick. His slow smile filled with sadness.

“It was bad enough you would attend the Loeches Trade School in the Duchy of the Oriente, my lady,” he began, and the new tangent of the conversation caught her flat-footed again as she struggled to keep up. “After all, we are equals to the Mariks in our League, unlike the Oriente lapdogs that lick the Captain-General’s boots. You dishonored our ancestors with that one action. Yet I could let that stand as you stood in good graces at the school, excelling in all your worker placement programs.”

Now she knew where all of this was heading. She tried to lift her chin, but found her head too heavy for the action as the pain of recent memories bore too much burden.

The count reached to a hidden compartment on the inside of the throne, pulled out a small noteputer, and read: “The student is directly responsible for the placement of a virus that infected the SelaSys Incorporated computer network. Which then spread to a JumpShip under refurbishment, causing a helium rupture that damaged its irreplaceable Kearny-Fuchida drive; the ship will be off-line for half a year. She is immediately terminated from her job and expelled from the Loeches Trade School. Furthermore, she will either be sentenced to prison in the Duchy of Oriente, or House Cameron-Jones will pay appropriate remunerations to House Halas.”

“I didn’t do that,” she spoke up, voice cracking, much to her shame. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Of course you didn’t do that.”

She once again felt whipsawed. “What?”

The count’s eyes finally turned from their quiescence to the piercing quality that kept him as the First of the House. “Despite your distance from my throne, I see everyone in this family. I know everyone in this family. And I know you. I see you, always. You would not do this.”

“Then why did you commute my sentence by paying the exorbitant cost?”

He waved the noteputer as though making an official proclamation. “Because you are a Cameron-Jones. I couldn’t let our blood rot in an Oriente prison. We’ve already determined you were caught up in the machinations of a fellow student. A girl from a lesser house, Orloff.”

She had a vague memory of someone she’d beat out for a prestigious position at SelaSys. Blue eyes, long hair?

“Then I am—”

The count cut her off. “My lady, I am not disappointed in the actions. I am disappointed you were caught flat-footed in machinations of your lessers. That you forgot your title and the blood of your ancestors. Just as I’ve always been aware of you—will always be aware of you—despite your distance to me. You should always be aware of those around you, for you can trust no one more than yourself. What’s more, you’ve painted me into a corner where I have no choice. And when someone of my station has no choice, the actions must often be dramatic. Just as Janos Marik has, by his imprudent actions, painted Anton Marik into a corner. A corner that makes me fearful for what might happen to our League in the coming years.”

It was her turn to stand quietly while the count’s eyes took on a distant look as though he beheld fields of sorrow before him. She shuddered with the hope of the League avoiding civil war.

The count abruptly focused on her once more. “My lady, you have such amazing potential to expand the power and prestige of House Cameron-Jones. But you’ve placed me in an untenable position, and there is only one option left.” He paused, his head lowering as though already weary of what was about to happen. She tried to brace for it, but felt herself crumbling with every word pronounced, knowing her father, mother, and sisters would fully support their liege’s decision, ever faithful to the throne.

“Brooklynn Cameron-Jones, you are formally stripped of all titles, obligations, and ties. You are forthwith banished from the Principality of Regulus, never to return. You shall have no recourse to any familial or financial ties to the Principality. You shall never again have recourse to the name Cameron-Jones, nor shall you use that name in any fashion. If you are found in violation of this edict, there can be only one final solution. Begone.”

She tried. She tried so hard. But in the end, the tears fell and she fled.

JAMES CITY DROPPORT

MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

11 JANUARY 3008

Dawson Clarmont finished loading the last of the supplies sitting on the tarmac into the truck. It would soon follow the other trucks to the Cavaliers’ new bivouac out in the so-called Badlands, some 300 kilometers distant, on this new world, McKenna. They’d requested permission from the planetary government to land their DropShip directly at that location but had been denied. A world governed by farmers, even in the Badlands, refused to allow spacecraft to land outside official DropShip facilities, for fear the drive plumes of the vessels would damage their precious soil. So the James City DropPort it was, and then several hours to reach their destination, much less the many hours of offloading equipment. Which, for now, included leaving their BattleMechs on the Union-class DropShip Interstellar Expeditions had loaned them as part of their new contract. It would be strange to fulfill said contract without once stepping in his Griffin. But with a full regiment of League defenders on-world, it wasn’t like the Cavaliers needed to be wary of an attack.

He banged on the side of the truck, and the driver fired up a noisy diesel engine, sending foul smelling smoke swirling around Dawson before the cold breeze pushed it away. He watched the truck make its way past the security fence and personnel there, and then pick up speed on the road that lead off into endless prairie. He glanced all around. While the overall landscape had some roll to it, there wasn’t a rise more than, say, twenty meters that he could see in any direction. Like the hand of God had flattened this world into a pancake and left it perfectly habitable for humans, without a mountain to be seen.

He knew the rest of the Cavaliers would expect him to be on the road soon, but he wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow at the earliest, even if he drove through the night. Due to the planet’s short rotational period, a day here lasted less than twenty standard hours.

However, is eyes were drawn in only one direction, opposite of where the truck was arrowing away, and found James City about fifteen kilometers in the distance. More a town than a real city, it sat in a comfortable in-betweenness of size. He’d done some research on the burn in-system. There wasn’t any “den of thieves” on the surface. Not like Galatea City, where the underworld practically advertised its presence, much to the city council’s annoyance. But any town like this had its underside. And he didn’t really need to leave until sunset anyways, which was long hours away.

He knew Nikolai would soon forge his own contacts in such shadowy corners—assuming he hadn’t already started—while Chloe would meet with local tech guilds. But Dawson wasn’t here to force out any information. Just looking for a good time, with anyone important that might be at a table. And if they happened to talk, well, it wasn’t his fault his smile often caused others to spill their beans. He smiled, his usual deck of cards abruptly flashing in a spread in his hands, and went on the hunt.

BADLANDS

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

5 APRIL 3008

Brooklynn Jales held the clipboard firmly. She’d gotten used to her long hair, grown out and always in a braid, after the ejection from her realm. She’d even grown comfortable with her new, chosen surname, a not-so-subtle anagram of Selaj—her own private stab back at Count Derick. However, despite nearly three years with the Cavaliers, she’d never clicked with Nikolai Mason. The man was simply inscrutable and foreboding—unless he was around his child. Despite Captain Chloe Reed’s protestations that they shared everything, there always seemed to be secrets behind Nikolai’s eyes. And she knew secrets.

She glanced away and down at her clipboard, lifting it up as though she’d done that on purpose. “All the data we have says this is the location of Fort Corregidor,” she said. Without reviewing the data—at this point she had it memorized—she repeated what they’d discussed for weeks. Apparently Nikolai needed that again. “The Forty-ninth Jump Infantry Division of Nineteen Corps of the Star League Defense Force operated out of this location.”

She glanced carefully back up as Nikolai swept his arms around the empty, broken hills of the Badlands they’d tramped over for months, with IE scientists, using ground-penetrating radar to kick over every rock they could find.

“Do you see anything here?” Nikolai responded, exasperated. “How could a base that size possibly leave no trace?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ryana Campbell said from her perch atop a truck they’d been using to transport said radar, her tone scathing. “Are you forgetting what the first Succession Wars was like? Those House Lords tossed weapons of mass destruction like they were confetti in a parade. And just to follow that up, how many worlds endured orbital bombardments by the fleets of WarShips that existed back then? It’s a wonder humanity didn’t wipe itself out.”

“It’s why we’re all here trying to use technology their kids were playing with,” Fahad Arazad spoke, standing in the back of the same truck after spending the afternoon working on the old radar that had broken down. Again. “They practically knocked us back to the Stone Age,” he muttered angrily, wiping away sweat with a bandanna before he dove back into the guts of the radar. He’d get it working again soon; he was almost better at tech stuff than Chloe.

Brooklynn’s eyes surreptitiously lingered on Fahad. She liked him.

“I don’t need a history lesson,” Nikolai said darkly, matching stares with Ryana.

“Apparently you do,” Ryana responded, ever his equal as their eyes clashed.

“Stop it, both of you,” Chloe Reed spoke from the edge of their discussion. She’d been pacing long circles around the truck, glancing out at the broken terrain all around. Both of them stopped talking almost immediately, as they always did when Chloe spoke. “We all know this contract with IE has run its course. Just like our last one, there’s nothing here. Even if we had found something, odds are it was looted clean long ago by raiders, pirates, lostech prospectors, or just locals trying to scratch out a living.” She sighed, pulled off the hat she’d begun to wear against the endless, bright sunlit days, and fanned away the sweat. “We’ll report to Sebastian that this is another bust. Time to start packing it up and head back Galatea. Before we leave, I’ll file that our contract status is once more open.”

A truck was fast approaching. Without much to do until Fahad gave the all-clear that they could start the truck moving without further damaging the radar system, they all waited to see who it might be.

Dawson Clarmont practically leaped out of the truck as it pulled to a stop, dirt billowing momentarily around them, his smile as engaging as ever. Of anyone in the Cavaliers, Brooklynn had connected with Dawson the most; his infectious smile was hard to resist.

“We’ve got a new contract offer,” he said, grinning like a kid trying to hide a bag of candy behind his back.

“What?” everyone responded almost in unison.

“The Steel Guard is readying for a complete redeployment.” His Cheshire-cat grin continued as he waited for them to ask.

Chloe tried hiding her own grin at his antics, while Ryana shrugged, and even Nikolai smiled slightly. They all had a hard time not being infected by Dawson’s perennial good mood. Brooklynn suppressed a shudder at the idea of only having the quiet Fahad around, while the sparks flew between Nikolai and Ryana, without Dawson’s equalizing force. Well, having Fahad around wouldn’t be so bad.

“Fine,” Chloe spoke up. “Spill it Dawson. You obviously know where they’re going.”

“Anton Marik, the Duke of Procyon, has temporarily given the Captain-General command of the Steel Guard. They’re redeploying to the border with House Steiner. With Alessandro kicked off the throne, the new Archon of the Lyran Commonwealth, Katrina Steiner, has far more spine. You weren’t in the Grave Walkers with me very long, but we held then–Colonel Steiner in the highest regard. The fighting there has bogged down under her new leadership, and the Captain-General simply needs more forces.”

“And where did you hear that?” Ryana said.

“I happen to be at the right place at the right time. The rumor mill was easy to pick up.” Dawson practically preened.

Which means you were probably in a poker game with someone in power. Brooklynn was always amazed at how quickly Dawson ingratiated himself into every world where they stopped. Chloe and Nikolai both forged contacts (his usually in dark corners). But Dawson seemed capable of walking right up to a House Lord and introducing himself with a flash of his ever-present card deck.

“The planetary governor has extended us a contract. Obviously our two lances can’t possibly match the Guard’s regiment, but we’ll still be a deterrent for any pirates that may decide this garden world is easy pickings.”

The group broke into a general discussion of the pros and cons—by Chloe’s tone, she leaned toward taking the fortuitous contract that didn’t even require they leave the planet—but Brooklynn’s mind raced. Her conversation of several years past with Count Derick—she could think about it now without wincing, mostly—ran patterns in her head. On the surface, it all seemed perfectly reasonable. Archon Alessandro’s ridiculous “Concentrated Weakness” defensive strategies had been a disaster for House Steiner, allowing both the Free Worlds League and the Draconis Combine to launch successful attacks along both edges of the Lyran Commonwealth’s empire. This contributed to Katrina Steiner deposing the man. And yet…and yet… Despite Anton Marik’s fealty to his brother, the Captain-General, there were numerous ways for such a powerful noble to deny his liege use of the military under his command, to bolster his own power. Considering the exceptional animosity between the brothers, that Anton would apparently acquiesce so easily struck Brooklynn as…off. A dangerous specter slowly arose.

“This is not good,” she said.

“What?” Chloe said, practically at her arm.

Brooklynn jumped, not realizing she’d spoken aloud and then squeaked as she saw the whole group—even Fahad!—was looking at her.

“Having a contract seems like a pretty good thing,” Nikolai said, frowning.

She was desperately trying to figure out how to deflect the conversation. This all struck too close to home. She’d sworn to never reveal her past. Even outside Count Derick’s remonstrations against her use of the Cameron-Jones name, she simply didn’t want her shame known. (The men she’d thought were following her last week could not be his agents. Right?)

But Captain Chloe looked on with kind eyes, nodding. “Go on.”

Brooklynn had a hard time saying no to this amazing woman that had given her a chance. She took a deep breath, fingers clutching almost convulsively to her clipboard, and responded. “The Duke of Procyon and the Captain-General are currently at strong odds,” she began.

Dawson almost guffawed. “Come on, they hate each other. That gossip can be found in any bar on any world in the League.”

She nodded, realizing she was still struggling against a lifetime’s duty to not speak ill of her liege lords. “As you say,” she continued. “But who is the Steel Guard more loyal to? The duke, or the Captain-General?” she asked.

They all knew there was loyalty and then there was loyalty—federal versus provincial. Who would follow the Captain-General unquestioned, and who would follow their more direct liege, in this case, the Duke of Procyon? It was a question of tension between loyalties that had plagued feudalism from the very dawn of its existence back in the Middle Ages of ancient Terra. And here in the Free Worlds League, where the internal provinces held more power against the House Lord than any other star realm, that was particularly relevant.

“I’ve drank with several officers,” Dawson said, scratching at his blond hair, bobbing his head as though vacillating. “They seem pretty solidly behind the Captain-General.”

“I agree,” she continued, wanting to stop, but Chloe’s eyes continued to draw her out. “And I’m sure there are other regiments that the Duke of Procyon is temporarily releasing to the command of the Captain-General. I wonder how many of those are more loyal to the duke or his brother?” she got out, once again nervous at even this oblique reference to treason.

They all glanced at one another, before looking back at her. In particular, she did not like the speculative cast on Nikolai’s face. If there was anyone that might uncover her shame, he would.

“Damn, Brooklynn, you’ve got a head on that pretty shoulders of yours,” Fahad said, standing in the back of the truck, leaning against the top of the cab. “You should speak up more often.”

She slowly blushed, powerless to stop it, looking anywhere but towards Fahad.

“Does that really change anything?” Ryana finally spoke up. “Not sure I agree with Brooklynn, here. But even if the League is heading toward a civil war, we’ve got a contract. Work to do. If a fight comes, we fight.”

Brooklynn couldn’t help a final comment, as she looked at Chloe. “When it comes to nobles, the fight can just as easily be knives in the dark. Coming from a completely unexpected quarter.”

Chloe slowly shrugged. “Again, does that matter? We’ll face it and defeat it, as we’ve always done.”

When it comes to nobles, it always matters. Brooklynn wouldn’t further voice her concerns, not without giving even more away from her past than she had. Yet, despite the heat of the afternoon, she shivered. She knew all too well that a fight might look nothing like what Ryana envisioned. Especially when even the local nobles and farmers who controlled this world were so easily dragged into larger power plays. But she let it go as a general consensus was reached, and they prepared to head back to the city and accept the governor’s contract.

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

3 AUGUST 3008

Nikolai pulled into the trigger of the joystick in his right hand, and the satisfactory boom of thirty long-range missiles launching toward his target vibrated through the hot cockpit of his Catapult. His coolant vest tried desperately to keep away the heat, the crawling sensation of the gel in the twisting tubing seemingly failing, what with all the sweat drenching him.

He watched as the hail of explosive metal fell across the enemy Hermes. Earlier autocannon fire from Chloe’s Shadow Hawk and two excellent particle projector cannon shots from Dawson’s Griffin had already damaged the 30-ton ’Mech, so Mason’s own weapons fire absolutely devastated his target. The Hermes’s left arm sheared off completely, causing the machine to abruptly convulse as though in an epileptic fit—a sure sign the stabilizing gyro had taken a strong hit as well. The machine teetered for a moment before the head split open under explosives; the pilot’s ejected conn chair rocketed skyward as the machine toppled to the ground.

“Nice shot,” Dawson yelled over the commline. At a kilometer’s distance, Nikolai watched the young man sprinting his Griffin toward another enemy BattleMech. The 70-ton Grasshopper was the largest BattleMech they’d yet faced. Good armor and a phalanx of medium lasers, it was often called the workhorse of the heavy ’Mech class. The enemy pilot expertly landed a high-flying jump on thrusters along the back of its legs, grounding within a few dozen meters of Dawson’s Griffin, and let fly with a quartet of medium lasers. Three found their mark, all along Dawson’s right side, where the enemy had been concentrating its fire. Among the flashing of explosions along the Griffin’s right arm, a bright spark of blue flashed momentarily, leaving afterimages, despite the distance and the glare protection of Nikolai’s forward viewscreen. Damn.

“Damn it!” Dawson yelled, as though they were thinking the same thought. “Just lost my PPC, folks. Things just got a little harder. Please don’t doc my pay, captain.”

“Start pulling back,” Ryana spoke up over the commline. She’d be back at their bivouac, data feeds from the various BattleMechs all giving her the best view of the battlefield so she could work her magic as ops commander. “Nikolai, let’s hedge your flank. Chloe will form up with the other new recruits on the other flank, pushing toward your point to pincer them.”

“Right, XO,” he responded immediately. He and Ryana often clashed, but Nikolai was always aware of her superb contributions in the continued growth and success of the Cavaliers. And especially in battle, he followed her instantly.

He moved the throttle forward, fighting the sluggishness of his BattleMech as he’d pushed the heat high with so much fire to down the previous two enemy machines. The wafts of heat continued to bake his skin, and the stink of his own sweat filled his nostrils.

As Dawson fell back toward Nikolai, and the Grasshopper continued to harry, it brought the enemy BattleMech within range of his paired LRM 15 racks, and he let fly again after achieving tone lock, breathing shallowly as the wave of waste heat struck him. Alarms of imminent shutdown sounded, and he quickly punched in the override code. Only half of the missiles struck home, savaging armor and setting fire to crops in the fields where the battle unfolded. He winced, knowing the plantation’s owners would yell at them, but nothing he could do about it. You couldn’t stop a battle without, well, a battle.

He braced for more heat and triggered another full spread of missiles. He almost swooned under the intensity of the blast furnace, and had to key in another auto shutdown avoid even faster as alarms pealed within the cockpit. But he cheered as almost all of the warheads found their mark, exploding large chunks of armor off of the Grasshopper’s center torso. The machine, finally thinking better of it as Dawson added a stab from his own remaining missiles—and perhaps spotting the incoming carets on his radar indicating the other lance of Cavaliers approaching—started to fall back towards his own reinforcements.

The battle was winding down, as neither side was in any position to take a killing stroke, and so better to reserve resources and lick wounds and get ready for the next clash. Nikolai finally paused from the intense action of the last twenty minutes, his missile magazines almost empty, heat sitting into the red zone. That he’d managed to land the missiles, despite the targeting system glitching under the punishing heat, was a testament to the continued growth of his MechWarrior skills. Despite the years, he still marveled at where life at Chloe’s side had taken him. At times, he almost couldn’t remember the dreams he’d once had, years ago, of being a JumpShip merchant captain. This all felt so much more…right. Together.

The pirate attacks had come shockingly fast after the Steel Guard departed, and had continued unabated—and more frequent than seemed possible, leaving all of the Cavaliers wondering whether other factors were at play, just as Brooklynn had suggested months ago. Especially as they’d been unable to put their finger on the pirate’s strategy. Here again, the raiders had struck the edge of the Norm Plantation with a fury, setting a huge fire that local emergency personnel were already working on, and destroying numerous farming vehicles. But what was going on? Usually pirates were all about the smash-and-grab, the grab being the all-important word. But this seemed to be nothing but smash, which just didn’t make any sense.

As the cockpit heat finally dropped to nominal levels, allowing him to breathe without pain, Nikolai wondered if he needed to push his underworld contacts more. Perhaps there was something there that might help…

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

5 OCTOBER 3008

Nikolai Mason sat on the large missile rack that made up both shoulders of his 65-ton Catapult, legs dangling into the air some eleven meters up, as he took in the rolling Norm Plantation that spread out before him. Autumn was in full swing, and the titanic work of harvesting was underway, despite the pirates’ destruction, though the Cavaliers had managed to heavily curtail that activity over the last month.

This breadbasket world exported food to dozens of nearby star systems, at a scale that boggled. The Norm Plantation was just one of dozens of similar farms, which encompassed a staggering ten million hectares, all run by a single family with an iron fist, every bit as ruthless as any noble (though careful comparing such locales to nobility; they hated that).

From this high ground, Nikolai could see for kilometers, where each large spread of crops was carefully delineated by lines of windbreak trees, all with an odd bluish hue that tagged most of the local flora and fauna, despite centuries of various terraforming techniques that allowed Terran-stock agricultural products to not only survive but flourish.

In the closest field, a massive Saturn Harvester moved, its 175-ton bulk stretching dozens of meters across and into the air, in a beetle-like configuration. Despite treading directly over large patches of fertile ground, the land was left relatively unharmed, as the combination of special track designs spread the weight of the colossal machine across a large footprint. He’d done some research after watching the amazingly large vehicles. It and its companions—twelve in all, though he could only see four from his current position—made up a nomadic fleet of families that drove or swam around this globe, following the seasons, ever harvesting. What’s more, each machine housed an entire factory that could process cultivated food to almost any animal, celebrated as “go from hoof to freeze pack in under twenty minutes.”

A kilometer in front of the closest Saturn, a pack of local gargaraffes had moved into the line of its march. A small tractor sped away from the Saturn, closing the distance quickly, and several men leaped out. They shouted and waved at the creatures, but there was no moving the placid beasts; they stood five meters tall at the shoulder with long, reptilian necks that could stretch to well over ten. He’d talked with enough local farmhands to know that centuries ago, the initial settlers had killed and eaten the animals with abandon, until they realized that part of the amazing fertility of McKenna came from the symbiotic life and death cycle of these creatures. In reality the gargaraffe was a crazy hybrid of animal and plant, their lives tied in strange ways to the tall blue kubala trees all around; scientists had yet to figure out how to classify it, despite centuries of study.

Finally, desperate to not slow the harvester and cost money, one ingenious fellow lassoed one of the creatures as it ate, then attached the other end to the tractor, and slowly pulled away, the alien creature in tow. Nikolai wondered how they would get the rest of the pack to follow, but soon they were obediently ambling along behind as well. Ah, they must have grabbed the matriarch.

He glanced down, saw Dawson and Brooklynn arguing by the field command tent, while Chloe and Fahad sat on the other side, tinkering over some piece of tech. My wife. You’ll never let go that side of you, will you?

Nikolai eased off the Catapult’s shoulder, climbed down the ladder, and walked toward Dawson and Brooklynn. Dawson, whose left hand was newly bandaged, appeared worried, while Brooklynn frowned and kept looking away. Nikolai had never been at ease around her. She had secrets, and he didn’t like that. (He ignored his own, still kept from Chloe, despite the years.) The feeling left him vulnerable to actions he couldn’t properly interpret or guard against. That Dawson seemed as troubled by Brooklynn of late, spoke volumes. The man never seemed troubled by anything.

Dawson saw Nikolai and quickly scrubbed his features clean, as though he didn’t want him to know of his worries over Brooklynn. I’ll ask him later. He glanced at the man’s left hand. “How’s it healing?”

Dawson smiled disarmingly as he held up the heavily bandaged arm. “Doc says I don’t need all five fingers to pilot a BattleMech, especially as this is my throttle hand. So don’t go thinking you can dock my pay to reconfigure joysticks or anything. Of course, gonna have to relearn some of my card tricks. I did need all my fingers for that.” He abruptly pulled a card from underneath the bandage, beaming as he twirled it.

“Just be glad you didn’t lose your whole hand,” Nikolai responded. “Leave tinkering with heavy equipment to Fahad or Chloe.”

Dawson smiled sheepishly but flashed a quick look at Brooklynn. I really need to ask him later, Nikolai thought.

“What were you two arguing about?”

“Just discussing the raids,” Brooklynn spoke, still not meeting his eye. That always bugged him. Look someone in the eye if you’re going to talk to them.

“Brooklynn thinks they’re not just random,” Dawson said. “That perhaps the planetary government is involved. Trying to screw up shipments in a way that allows larger forces to come and play here.”

“Oh?” Nikolai said, inviting her to speak.

Chloe and Fahad joined them as they’d overheard the gist of the conversation.

Brooklynn glanced around, nodded at Chloe, who smiled back—never did understand how his wife liked her that much—and she continued. “We’ve talked about how the raids don’t make sense. Too much smash, not enough grab. That gets the pirates nothing. Unless the very act of the sabotage is the point. If a noble wants to increase their influence, or their military presence, disrupting critical food supplies to a dozen or more worlds would set the stage pretty well, would it not? Especially when the original forces protecting the world were called away?”

Nikolai may not like the woman, but as Fahad kept saying—perhaps a little too easily—she had a good head on her shoulders. But where did you get that? “If what you say is true, then our own employer could be against us?”

“We’ve been awful effective at stopping these pirates,” Chloe said. “If that’s the case, that’s gonna piss our employer off.”

“Like I’ve said before, what does it matter?” Ryana said, having arrived from a quick perimeter patrol. “If a fight comes, we fight, right?”

They all shared a look, unsure what more they could do when nobles in charge of hundreds of star systems played their games. But Nikolai stared heavily at Brooklynn. I can at least keep a better eye on you.

JAMES CITY, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

27 OCTOBER 3008

Brooklynn paused in front of a window display of wedding dresses to keep the man she was following from noticing her. Of course he would recognize her, but she was just out for a stroll, taking in the sights. Easy way to dissemble.

You still have a job.

Brooklynn stood in the middle of the sidewalk in James City, staring at the note in her hands. She tried to keep them from shaking. Failed. Still trembling slightly from a third encounter with the men she’d mistakenly convinced herself months ago were not following her. Were not from the Principality. Were not from the count, who despite banishing her, apparently could not let go. Would not let her go. I’m such a fool.

All of the Cavaliers’ discussions of the machinations of nobles and how caught up, or not, the Cavaliers might find themselves seemed as children among adults laughing in the shadows. She’d known. Known something was up. Hence why she was trailing her target. But this abrupt pressure to make something happen from the inside, to complete a job she’d not even understood until thrust at her with a painful reminder that she might never be free of the tangles of her blood… She’d grown to love the Cavaliers. Loved Chloe. Could she really do something so drastic?

She tried to focus on the window display, but her eyes still saw nothing as a yawning chasm stretched. She had been exiled, but her family was still in the clutches of the count. And he would do with them whatever would leverage Brooklynn to his bidding, in the name of furthering the power and protection of his realm. Whether that meant supporting the Captain-General or the Duke of Procyon was utterly irrelevant to her when that moment came. Only the pressure to take terrible action mattered now.

What should I do? What should I do? She slowly crumpled the note, knowing that regardless of the actions she took, her life was again at a crossroads not of her choosing.

* * *

Nikolai kept to the shadows several blocks away, carefully following Brooklynn, as she stepped into a strip-mall entrance. He’d never really trusted her, and she’d seemed especially erratic the past few weeks. He’d tried to talk about it with Chloe, but realized there was no convincing her. The women got along too well. No, he had to find something. Some proof he could take back. She was dangerous, not to be trusted.

He moved into the mall. And realized he’d lost her by trying to be too discreet. He growled under his breath and systematically searched the entire strip mall. The sun set, and hours passed before he entered a restaurant, still trying to track Brooklynn down. He hadn’t wanted to believe she was this over her head, and so saved this place, which had local underworld connections, for last. But he’d been flashing her photo around, with no luck. There was no other place she might have gone but this den.

A teenage boy bumped into him on the way out, pushing him aside roughly, dropping him to a knee. “Out of the way, old man,” the kid barked, before moving out.

Others in the restaurant looked on with sympathy, and the host scurried over to offer a helping hand. “I’m so sorry. Teenagers are such hellions,” he said.

“Too right, too right,” Nikolai responded soothingly.

“Are you eating?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d just like to sit a moment.”

“Of course.”

Nikolai sat down on a bench in the entryway, exaggeratedly massaging his knee for several minutes—he was getting on in years, but did everyone believe he was that old?—before he felt confident enough to carefully reveal the note the teen had passed him. Sure, he’d been trying to follow Brooklynn, but he’d put the word out, and there were several others beating the bushes for him. Almost the moment his feet had hit the planet, he’d slipped money into the right palms to start building trust. And teenagers made amazing contacts, able to go, see, and hear things others couldn’t; most adults attempted to ignore them like the plague. And this one had proven exceptionally reliable, giving him a good lead on the pirate attacks several weeks back.

He slowly opened the slip of paper, and his stomach heaved on the verge of vomiting at the words; the specter of his nemeses from years past, Jules Vonic, occluded his eyes with her gloating and the destruction she’d visited on him. I underestimated Brooklynn! She even told us what she’d be doing right to our faces, and we didn’t see it! Knives in the dark! Not again!

Without another thought, he stumbled out of the restaurant, knocking others aside as he sprinted toward the door and his waiting vehicle, the paper fluttering to the ground.

They’re coming to take your child, it read. Now.

RANCH HOUSE

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

“They’re coming for our child!” Nikolai whispered to Chloe after waking her from sleep.

The horror on her face matched his tone. “What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s Brooklynn.”

“What? What? It can’t be. Why are they coming for our child? What’s going on?” Despite the stream of desperate questions, she slipped out of bed, reached into the nightstand for the needler pistol she kept there, cocked it back to insert the small block of polymer for ammunition, and then eased toward the door.

While terror gripped him, the sight of his wife, standing in only her underwear, her JumpShip pendant swinging around her neck, weapon in hand, ready to sprint down the corridor, the niceties be damned, filled Nikolai with savage love. What a woman!

He quickly held up a hand to forestall her sprint. “My contacts told me the government is sick and tired of us interfering with their plans. They’re behind the pirate attacks, spiking prices and waylaying shipments, all at the beck and call of other forces. Anton Marik, I would imagine. And just now I’ve learned they’ve suborned one of our own. It’s Brooklynn.”

A protestation rose to Chloe’s lips, but it died as they shared a long look, and the unease he’d always felt surrounding Brooklynn oozed onto Chloe’s features. “Blake’s Blood,” she finally said.

He nodded at her acceptance. “You take the east wing, I’ll take the west.”

She nodded and without another word slipped into the darkness of the hallway. He followed, moving in the opposite direction.

* * *

Stupid Chloe. Stupid, stupid Chloe.

The metronome ratcheted up in ferocity to match her panicked breathing as she sprinted quietly through the darkened corridors of the large ranch house. She and Nikolai had acquiesced to their child’s demand. What could a separate room, in another part of the sprawling complex, hurt? They were perfectly safe here, after the plantation owner loaned it to them in gratitude over quenching the pirate attacks. After all, they often had meetings late into the night. It made sense. And twelve was a perfectly fine age for a separate room.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Chloe.

* * *

Nikolai moved through the dark, keeping to the edge of the walls, where the floors would creak less at his passage. He slowly unsheathed his favorite knife, its blackened blade almost a void in the darkness. He knew plenty of people over the years had balked at his use of a knife. Chloe’s needler seemed so much smarter. But there was a satisfaction in getting a job done, personally, that only a knife brought. And this was oh so personal.

He’d always felt there was something off about Brooklynn. He’d never been able to put his finger on it, and ultimately he trusted his wife’s instincts implicitly. She’d never been wrong on this before. Until now.

He reached the final hallway and slowed down. If Brooklynn was already in the room and heard him coming, she might just decide to end it here. He closed his eyes momentarily, shuddering at the thought, and then moved to a side room. All of these were interconnected here, in a strange plantation style he’d never seen before. But it allowed him to ignore the hallways entirely. Perhaps that would be enough.

He slipped into the first door.

* * *

Chloe reached the final hallway and eased into the first interconnected room, knowing her husband would be doing the same from the opposite direction. Hopefully they’d pincer Brooklynn between them. But what if she has help?

She pushed down the rising bile and fought to steady her abruptly shaking hands. Her senses heightened until she could almost feel the grain of the sandalwood floor against her bare feet. A light, cool breeze through an open window brought goose bumps. She calmed the shaking and held the needler out in a two-handed grip as she eased toward the door, let go with her left hand to push it open, and slipped through.

For just a moment she thought she saw movement across the way. She almost jerked into a shot, but held her fire. If Brooklynn had completed her abduction and was coming back… No, she had to be smarter than that.

Chloe inched along the wall to the left, feet carefully sweeping for obstacles as she sidled around the circumference, pistol aimed where she thought she’d seen movement. Abrupt motion caught her attention, as black moved against black.

There!

* * *

There may be more than one!

The thought blossomed, and Nikolai cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He knew Chloe would not have made that mistake and would be trying to deal with it. How do I handle that? He’d moved through two rooms and was about to ease into the next when a sound arrested his motion, muffled, followed by a curse. Had Brooklynn hit her shin on one of the low-lying tables scattered throughout these rooms? He smiled, especially as he found the door ajar, and he moved noiselessly inside. The heavy clouds outside eased as a wan light lit the end of the room through a window. A lithe individual, form hidden by a hoodie, was at the door to her target. Brooklynn’s height and build. He then noticed rope in one hand and another holding a pistol; she bent down, trying to rub her shin without letting go of the rope.

He’d had his fair share of hand-to-hand fights over the years. But not since his youth and the days of bandits and exile had he unleashed the demons within. Scampering out from the corners he’d buried them in oh so many years before, he moved as if in a trance, the years of brutal training still in muscle memory despite dusty disuse. He could slit her throat and instantly kill her, as she deserved for this despicable deception. But he couldn’t help it. He needed to know why. So he decided on a route that would guarantee her death, but would give him a few moments to ask his questions.

He flowed through the room as quicksilver as a shadow, and as silent. In one motion he clamped his left hand to Brooklynn’s mouth and hammered the blade up under the rib cage in front, puncturing lung and heart.

* * *

As the clouds from recent heavy rains began to clear, wan moonlight washed past Chloe and toward the other occupant. Her abrupt shadow as she faced the door to the next room caused the intruder to jerk, pistol rising. In a moment of clarity Chloe saw they were alone, and she pulled the trigger. The pistol instantaneously shaved off thin needles of hardened polymer, blasting a cloud of the nasty things that tore into the intruder’s arm, causing them to cry out and drop the gun, falling back as they clutched their arm.

Chloe instantly recognized the voice, and called out: “Freeze, Brooklynn.”

* * *

As sticky warmth enveloped his hands, Nikolai immediately knew this wasn’t Brooklynn.

He pulled backwards, away from his child’s door, and laid the collapsing body on the ground, loosening his grip as he swiveled around in a crouch to look. Just then the clouds fully cleared, and brightness lit the room. Horror crawled up Nikolai’s spine until he couldn’t breathe.

Dawson flashed a sickly smile, blood-flecked lips ghastly in the moonlight. “I’m sorry, Nikolai.”

The room swam, and Nikolai struggled to focus. But it was Brooklynn. It was Brooklynn! “Why?” he finally coughed past a constricted throat.

Dawson coughed up blood, head lolling to the side. “Galatea City has nothing on the thugs here. The governor. Been fighting us all along. Just like Brooklynn kept trying to tell us. I got caught up in gambling. Owed so much. My stupid hand…they cut off my fingers!” he wheezed in anger and desperation, coughing up more blood. “Threatened more. Wasn’t gonna hurt the kid.” Tears were leaking out of Dawson’s eyes. “Never hurt the kid. No one was gonna get hurt. Just needed to back the Cavaliers off, and my debts would be gone.”

In a flash Nikolai realized his terrible mistake. His dislike of Brooklynn had blinded him to all of Dawson’s shifting and troubled looks. It hadn’t been for Brooklynn, but for himself. It had been right there, and Nikolai hadn’t seen it!

The years of good friendship and camaraderie warred with the horror of his actions. Nikolai finally broke into motion, tearing off his shirt and trying to stanch the blood flow, but his old teachers had been far too good at their task.

He ignored a cry of pain from a distant room, tears flowing down his face as a good but flawed man died in arms.

* * *

“Chloe?” came Brooklynn’s panicked and pain-filled response. “You shot me?!”

Chloe eased closer and kicked away the gun, keeping her eye and barrel squarely centerline as the brightening moonlight brought the full scene into view. “You’re trying to kidnap my child!” she shouted, adrenaline starting to crash. If there was another intruder, she simply had to hope Nikolai took care of them.

Incredulousness swept Brooklynn’s features. “What are you talking about? I figured out Dawson was being forced into a kidnapping. I thought of coming to you, but by the time I realized what was going on, it was too late. I had to try to stop Dawson myself.”

“Right, sure,” Chloe responded harshly. She so badly wanted to pull the trigger again. And again. And again. But she schooled her muscles against the irrational desire. “Who are you working with?”

Shock mutated into anger. Despite her obvious pain, Brooklynn slowly stood up straight, trying to swing her blood-spattered braid over her shoulder, left hand clamping the mangled mess of her right arm against her body. “After all I’ve done for the Cavaliers. For you. You could believe such a heinous act from me?”

With the cascade of chemicals finally starting to defog her mind, Chloe carefully studied the woman in front of her. Behind the anger, and the pain that was more than physical, Chloe dug deep. And she found the woman she’d trusted with her life for several years. I’ve never been wrong. She slowly lowered the gun. “I don’t understand. Dawson? It’s not possible.”

The exterior doorway opened, and she immediately swung her pistol on target there. Only to find Nikolai, covered in blood, his tear-stained face wracked with sorrow. Her own tears began to flow.

It was indeed possible.

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

31 OCTOBER 3008

The Cavaliers buried Dawson Clarmont. The nightmare of the man’s decisions would haunt them for years to come, along with his death. But he’d been a faithful friend and comrade. That could not be forgotten against the backdrop of one night’s terrible actions.

They eased him into a hole dug at the base of the tallest kubala tree on the plantation. He’d not been much for nature, but there seemed nothing better to do, unfortunately, And perhaps, just perhaps, they all silently thought, he might find some peace and redemption, reborn at some future time as a gargaraffe, his life giving endless life.

Soon enough they left, beginning the day’s long preparations to lift off-world. They’d terminated their contract and lodged all the appropriate legal complaints against the governor of McKenna with the Mercenary Review Board. Even if any sanctions were finally leveled against the governor—and no one had any delusions that would happen—it wouldn’t be enough. Never enough.

JAMES CITY DROPPORT, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

4 NOVEMBER 3008

Brooklynn watched Chloe close her bright green eyes, while at her side, Nikolai opened his mouth as though to start another round of arguments about her decision. She adjusted her wounded arm and stared the dangerous, brooding man down, stopping him before he could try. Surprisingly, her hands remained perfectly still at her sides.

Around them, a gaggle of passengers moved toward the waiting ticket lines and the distant civilian DropShip prepping for liftoff on the tarmac. The sounds of talking, of movement, of a life, were so…normal. The day felt anything but normal.

“I’m sorry, Brooklynn,” Nikolai finally responded, softly. She’d heard that litany a hundred times from Chloe after that fateful night. But it was the first time that sentiment passed the lips of her husband.

Despite her stoic demeanor, Brooklynn was heartbroken. After several years she’d assumed this would be her home for a long time to come. But she couldn’t get over their lack of faith. Of them betraying her honor she’d given. That she’d finally faced Nikolai down and stood with her own strength—took decisive actions to try and stop Dawson—seemed a paltry prize for another lost home, all things considered. Especially after she’d decided a week back that instead of escaping into anonymity away from the Cavaliers, to shield them from the machinations of Count Derick, she would stay and help them. Despite the potential horrors it would open her family to…it now all seemed a horrible, ironic cosmic joke as she was leaving anyway.

Chloe’s eyes sparkled, and she turned away before her tears fell again. Brooklynn felt her own call of emotions. Wanted nothing more than to hug and forgive and return to the way it had been. But it could never be as it was. Despite his terrible plucking’s at their strings, Count Derick’s words echoed down the corridors of years with their wisdom: You should always be aware of those around you, for you can trust no one more than yourself. She’d forgotten that truth. There could only ever be Brooklynn. Careful of her wounded arm, she picked up the bag holding the few items she owned, and turned, dried eyed, toward the waiting DropShip and the wider universe beyond.

It would have to be enough.

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.