Vision’s Hunger

MechWarrior 5 Origins, Installment 2

Randall N. Bills

Vision’s Hunger

BLACKHEARTS ENCAMPMENT

HIRIHITO, NEW KYOTO

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

4 AUGUST 2994

“You are not a MechWarrior.”

There was no anger nor frustration in those words, despite the frequent repetition over the last half decade. Yet they still hit Chloe Reed like a particle projector cannon to the chest. The twisting sprouted in her gut and thrust out until fingernails dug into her palms as Major Jeffers turned and walked away. The pride of his footfalls wasn’t narcissistic, as found all too often among MechWarriors in any command: the jagged, twisted sense of worth that always led to waste and needless deaths. Instead, it was the sure understanding and pride of knowing you were the epitome of military life. A modern-day knight, bearing a millennia-old mantle of responsibility, power, and prestige into any battle, on any world, across the thousand light-years of the human-occupied Inner Sphere.

She closed her bright green eyes, head bowed as her shoulder-length, dark-brown hair fell across her face, her already thin lips stretched into a grimace. Sucked in a lungful of humid air as the region surrounding the city of Hirihito moved into its rainy season. And tried to settle the hunger that seemed to burn ever brighter, despite any other accolades that moved her from a lonely repair shack to ruling the tech roost among the Blackhearts.

Thoughts of the holovid message sitting on her noteputer flittered through her pain. The specifics of the contract were generous. But did she really want to be that person? It was one thing to accept the life she’d chosen as a mercenary. A whole other thing to allow the almighty C-bill to run her life. And her dreams. Someday….

“Yo, Cap,” a voice lashed across her misery, bringing a spot of stability to the wash of her emotions. She opened her eyes and turned to see a lanky young man trotting up towards her position. Tilo.

He glanced at the retreating major and turned hurt eyes on her. “You still trying to be a MechWarrior, Chloe? You’re a tech. The most obsessed, detail-oriented tech I’ve ever met. Why you keep poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”

Hunger. But she wasn’t about to engage the young man in her dreams, much less in public. Such things were private. “Tilo, what do you want?”

“You hear the scuttlebutt,” he said in a too-loud whisper at her side, glancing up and down the middle of the avenue that crisscrossed the large, Blackhearts mercenary encampment.

She eased her fists open, ignored the pinpricks of pain from fingernails dug deep, and stretched her neck to unwind the tension within, as though spooling out a strand of myomer to fix a wounded BattleMech limb. You’ve known this hunger for a lot of years. Stop being stupid, Chloe. You can deal with it.

“No, Tilo. What’s the scuttlebutt?” She was good at keeping a finger on the pulse of what moved through the merc outfit she served, much less the web of logistics contacts that stretched to distant stars. But Tilo had a gift for the rumor mill that even surpassed her long years. Perhaps everyone just wants to put a bandage on Tilo’s knee and tousle that hair. Such hair… She shook aside that thought. He’s ten years your junior!

“New orders just arrived. Looks like we’re being deployed. A raid.” The young man practically bounced in place, as though he could just keep himself in check from sprinting toward the DropShip that towered at the edge of the Blackhearts’ encampment; never mind there would be days of preparations and loading thousands of tons of equipment, personnel, and war machines before liftoff.

The pain of her latest failure with her immediate superior ebbed at the news, her heartbeat stitching up a notch. “Really? Any ideas where? Or against whom?” Her mind’s eye pulled up a local map of the Inner Sphere, centered around the world her command guarded, New Kyoto. The borders represented star empires: their employer, the Lyran Commonwealth, rendered in deep blue, and the rival Great House, the Free Worlds League, in a bright purple just over thirty light-years distance. Two bounds for a JumpShip carrying troops ready for a raid and counter raid. Continuing the endless fighting of the Third Succession War, which had stretched for more than a century at this point.

Tilo made to respond but waited while two individuals swept down the road. Their intricately embroidered white robes marked them as starkly as their shaved heads and the too-shiny eyes of the fanatical. Acolytes of ComStar, the techno-religious society that guarded the secrets of interstellar communications via their hyperpulse generator network spread among the stars. Tilo and Chloe moved aside, as did all on the street. ComStar creeped everyone out. Most folks avoided them because even accidentally insulting an acolyte could earn you—or your whole city, your whole planet—a communications interdiction, if you weren’t careful. At least that’s the legends most people whispered in their wakes. Chloe knew better; gritted her teeth and kept her eyes averted while the men walked by, apparently in their own world, refusing to admit anyone else existed.

As though a pent-up breath held, the sounds of the street and surrounding markets settled back into its usual humdrum after the acolytes turned a corner.

“I heard Kalidasa,” Tilo continued, finally, as though sharing a powerful secret.

Chloe whistled. Adjusted her mind’s-eye map. Two jumps: from New Kyoto, through Solaris—bypassing Rochelle altogether—to arrive at Kalidasa. The Silver Hawk Irregulars. Gryphons. She slowly shook her head. “Nope. Don’t see it.”

“Why?”

“The Gryphons are the dregs of the Free Worlds League Military. The Lyrans have been gut-punching them and stealing their lunch for centuries. What does that net ’em, here?”

Chloe walked on, motioning for him to follow. Might as well get out of the middle of the avenue and start packing. Her tech team would surely deploy with whatever command they detached for the raid. “Sure, we could fight ’em. And gut-punch them easily enough, again. But this is a raid. Unless I miss my bet, it’s not an objective raid, or a kidnapping, or even an assassination. They could want us to hit the Kali-Yama Weapons plant, but that would pit us against the Gryphons as well as the extra mercenary’s that trans-national corporation usual deploys directly at their facilities. But then there might be extra hazard pay the Lyrans would need to throw on the table. And you know how these merchant princes whine when they have to put their own C-bills at risk.”

Before they reached the crossroads of the two primary thoroughfares through the Blackhearts’ encampment, the ground began to vibrate, and a heavy-throated hum strummed the air like a thrash-metal band she’d enjoyed in a Solaris VII dive several years back. They both halted, squinted and covered mouths as a large Maxim hover transport moved down the crossroads, heading toward the tarmac and the waiting DropShips. Despite the recent rain, the fans kicked up a billow of dirt that caked clothing and slipped into their mouths despite covering hands. Another minute passed, and the interruption abated as the whine ticked down into the background hubbub. Was loading already underway? Had even Tilo missed the initial arrival of the orders? She picked up the pace (spat several times over the grit, while slapping dirt from her clothing), knowing her orders would be on the noteputer she’d left on her bunk.

“You were saying?”

She glanced over at Tilo, irritated at the interruption but couldn’t help but smile at his big-toothed grin and doglike hanging onto her words. Her fingers again twitched to tousle that hair.

“Unless I miss my guess, this is retribution, plain and simple. Remember those Wyatt raids? Back in ’91?”

“Sure. Everyone was talking about it.”

“The only memory longer than a bean counter’s is a House Lord’s.”

“Ah, which means the Marik Militia. Retribution for their strike on Wyatt?”

“Exactly. And where is that?”

He scrunched up his face, but she knew he’d never excelled at astrocartography, or remembering troop deployments.

“Wing,” she said.

He canted his head, still not getting there. Not yet. She’d keep teaching.

“Three jumps, Tilo. Algorab and Gacrux in the Commonwealth, and then crossing the border for Wing and the Thirtieth Marik Militia. I’m sure our employers are hoping we don’t net much salvage or potential hazard pay. And meanwhile, the high-and-mighty House Lords get to exchange glove slaps with each other, at our expense.”

“Welcome to being a merc,” he responded, wide-toothed.

She bellowed a laugh in return, slapping him on the back as they passed from the bright sunlight into the cool confines of their barracks and moved to prepare for their awaiting orders.

As she gathered up her kit, she saw the miniature JumpShip pendant swinging in her locker. Despite the sense of urgency and her own desire to deploy in action for the first time in years, she cradled the gift from Nikolai Mason. A JumpShip merchant trader she’d met several years back and now saw twice a year like clockwork. Their reunions were always…wonderfully memorable. And more. She ran a calendar through her memory. The Blackhearts should be across the border for the raid and back long before it was time for his trading vessel to reach New Kyoto. Even though months away, a large smile blossomed and she continued packing.

BLACKHEARTS BIVOUAC

GREINWALD, WING

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

11 NOVEMBER 2994

Chloe wondered if she’d ever feel her fingers again. Despite the best cold-weather gear the Blackhearts could procure, the gloves were simply too thick for tech work. Which meant thinner gloves. So while the rest of her was cold, her fingers flirted with frostbite…

She adjusted her goggles to ease the fogging on the inside, and glanced around at the snow falling easily through wan, dull orange skies. Around her the frantic activity of the Blackhearts’ bivouac belied the cold and the weather. After all, they’d just engaged in a firefight that morning and expected another engagement within the next day or so once they cornered the Marik Militia. How the dogs managed to hide their bright purple ’Mechs in white snow beggared the imagination. Yet their fox-and-hound routine had dragged a simple retribution raid into a nearly month-long engagement, with no end in sight. After all, they were on world to destroy a “significant portion” of the Thirtieth Marik Militia. What “significant” meant was left up to Major Jeffers, and he wasn’t yet convinced they’d satisfied the terms of the contract. And if they left Wing without fulfilling that contract, not only would the Blackhearts void any hazard pay and forfeit rights to battlefield salvage, they might just be in breach of contract.

She shuddered, from far more than the cold, at the idea of her command getting that type of black mark on a Mercenary Review Board report. It’d tarnish their record for decades. And every warrior in it. Which would tarnish my dream…

She shook off her ruminations, knowing she had a job to do, despite disagreeing with Jeffers. She ignored the nine meters to the ground below the cold grate of the repair hoist she stood on, and studied the gaping wound in the chest of the 65-ton Thunderbolt standing before her. A gust of wind and swirling snow momentarily blinded while her frustration mounted. How in Blake’s Blood can I fix this in a day? Field repair was one thing. But to think she and her team could work a miracle without moving the ’Mech back to their DropShip—which the Major kept safe in orbit—well…that was just stupid for stupid’s sake.

Chloe slammed her thin gloves together and ran in place for a moment, heavy-footed boots banging loudly on the grating, both to bring warmth and stave off more of her internal biting commentary. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start unconsciously muttering under her breath, and there’d be hell to pay if her mic picked it up. Like last time.

She finally moved to the edge of the gantry grating, further inspecting the hole. Hard to tell whether it was laser, PPC, or autocannon fire that had done the deed. Then again, the scorch marks and deep rents in the armor—even outside the gaping hole—probably meant a mishmash of all three. She moved the bright halogen lamp, at the end of a bending, telescoping tube, into a better position to see the damage.

A dunce could see that two of the three medium lasers jutting from the left torso were simply gone, blasted away in the debilitating damage that left the beast of a BattleMech in her care to fix. The third laser might still be operable, but she wouldn’t know until she ran some diagnostics.

Though her eyes told her all she needed to know, she loved the feel of a ’Mech between her fingers. Part of why she wore such thin gloves; several days back, she’d tried taking them off to touch a component and had lost a layer of skin to the ice-cold metal. She reached out and traced through the damage, trying for her usual feel despite the cold and gloves.

All four layers of ’Mech armor were fully breached across almost a meter of chest plating. The first two layers represented aligned-crystal steel over a layer of boron nitride impregnated with diamond monofilaments. Despite her exacting knowledge of the engineering involved, the notion that only a mere centimeter or two of armor plating could protect a MechWarrior against the horrifying kinetic energy of ballistic weapons and the kilojoules from lasers and PPCs never ceased to amaze. She felt below those two layers to the titanium alloy honeycomb that kept the armor in place and prevented too much flexing under stress, and the final layer, the polymer sealant that kept the ’Mech air- and watertight. She breathed a sigh of relief as she noted the hole only traversed through two panels of armor. That would cut down on repair time and require fewer armor plates, which they were starting to run low on. After all, they’d come supplied for a raid, not such a long hunt. I would’ve brought a lot more supplies. Always bring more supplies.

Despite the good news on the armor, the ribs of the internal structure through the right-hand side of the chest were rather mangled. She knelt onto the grating—ignoring the spike of cold even through the cold-weather pants—and pushed the end of the lamp through the hole so she could better see the damage.

Once more her fingers traced the giant-sized skeleton ribs that made up the internal structure of every BattleMech. The honeycombed, foamed-aluminum core wrapped with stressed silicon carbide monofilament and sheathed by a rigid, titanium-steel shell was a brilliant combination of strength and low weight. But the weight savings meant weapons fire mangled easily once past the external armor. Three of the ribs were shorn off, their foamed-aluminum cores standing out like diseased stumps, while the other half on the left side held stress fractures.

“Blake’s Blood.” This was gonna be a hefty price tag. The damage looked far worse across this whole portion of the chest. Did the stupid pilot fall down? Several times? She’d have a talk with the idiot to remind him he needed to stop destroying her work.

Chloe breathed deeply in frustration only to cough momentarily as the cold bit into her nose and throat, all the way to her lungs. There has to be a beach on this stupid world. Somewhere.

She shimmied farther into the hole, unplugged a noteputer from her belt, jacked it into the connector plate for diagnostics, and ran a check through the monster’s fusion reactor. They’d already run Geiger counter checks on the machine to know if any large breaches had occurred, but it was time to run the full algorithms on the heart of the metal titan. Even a hint of a stress fracture on the fusion-engine’s outer casing and she’d be done, ordering the machine decommissioned until they could get it to the repair facilities on the DropShip, which might let her fix any such issues. And if not then, she’d hold off until they were back to their full tech facility back on New Kyoto. The major would yell like a banshee, but when it came to this, Chloe’s word was law. She loved it.

After several minutes she finished the diagnostics. The fusion reactor was in fine shape and had avoided all of the damage. She tapped in her security code, double-verified with a quick retina scan she had to lift up her goggles to access—much to her displeasure as a flurry of snow streamed into the hole behind her—and she initiated the fusion reactor. Woke the heart of the machine and cycled it up to full activity. She then ran a sequence where the reactor spiked hot—within well-established safety parameters—which allowed her to access the system of coolant and heat sinks, which kept the substantial waste heat generated during combat under control. Once again the system reported nominal, and she nodded at how many C-bills she wouldn’t have to move to the spent column in her mental ledger.

Finally, she ran a system diagnostics on the Thunderbolt’s weapons. The Sunglow Type 2 large laser, Delta Dart 15 long-range missile rack, Bical Twin-Rack short-range missile launcher, and paired Voelkers 200 machine guns all reported systems nominal. (Ammo was pretty low, though.) However, despite hope, the remaining Diverse Optics Type 18 medium laser was nonfunctional. She’d have to strip the laser out and see whether they could salvage it instead of having to replace all three. As it was, they only had one spare medium laser on hand, after she’d had to replace all four on Captain Jorgenson’s Grasshopper. She’d argued against it, but the major’s call held, leaving them unable to fix any other such issues on other BattleMechs. Unless they secured some good salvage in the next engagement. Fat luck that’s been doing us of late. New leadership is what we need.

She was about to crawl back out of the hole when she realized that her growing frustration with the major’s poor choices and the endless cold made her forget to run diagnostics on one of the most important parts of the BattleMech: the gyro. “Stupid woman,” she berated herself as she settled back in.

“What’s that, Cap?” Tilo’s voice exploded in her earbud, causing her to jump and hit her head.

“Blake’s Blood, Tilo. Warn a woman.”

“Sorry, Chloe,” he responded in his best kicked-puppy voice. “Thought I heard you asking for something. I’m just about done loading the armor plating on the J-24. It was two, right?”

She smiled, even as she rubbed away the pain. The boy would be a serious tech someday. “Good eye, Tilo. Two plates indeed. However, there’s a pile of internal structure damage. Far more than we thought. We’re gonna need to graft some sections. Reseal others.”

“I’ll load on some structure segments, sheathing composites, and the sealant extruder. That’ll take another twenty, at least.”

“Get it here earlier. I’ll finish the rest of the diagnostics.”

A long-suffering sigh. “You got it, Cap.”

Her endearing smile broadened. He shouldn’t call her “Cap”; she wasn’t an officer, let alone a captain. And if the major—much less the colonel—heard such a nickname, there’d be hell to pay. But she liked it. Liked it a lot.

She finished cycling the reactor back online, at its lowest levels, which allowed her to access the gyroscope. If the fusion reactor was the heart of the machine, and the MechWarrior the parietal lobes of the brain, the gyroscope was a combination of the amygdala and the inner ear: a system of balancing sensors with a multi-ton, brute-force assembly of reaction wheels, to keep the dozen-meter-tall avatars of war upright. And while a damaged gyro didn’t include the scare of nasty nuclear materials that could permanently ruin your day, it would still end a battle quicker than anything this side of a headshot that killed a MechWarrior outright. Hard enough to sit in the head of a BattleMech and pilot it into battle. (Memories bubbled, which she quickly pushed away.) But without a gyro, a ’Mech was a ludicrously expensive, high-tech puppet with its strings cut. Luckily, this crucial element was undamaged. More C-bills kept in the reserve column. While tracking repair costs for the entire mercenary command certainly wasn’t her responsibility, she couldn’t help herself. She kept track of expenditures in columns far beyond her own tech-related sphere.

She wiggled back out through the hole, just as the crunch of snow and growl of a diesel engine announced the arrival of Tilo’s J-24, ahead of schedule. A cousin to the J-27 ammo carrier, the low-slung vehicle was a large flatbed truck armed with a whole series of adjustable sides and short cranes that allowed for transporting a variety of components, including lifting said components easily onto and off of its bed.

She gave a wave as the young man leapt from the J-24’s cab and excitedly undid the securing straps on its cargo. Like a puppy frolicking in the snow. She smiled and dug into her reserves after weeks of too-little sleep, knowing days’ worth of work lay ahead to get the Thunderbolt back into fighting shape—despite the order to only make it one day—and back in the hands of a MechWarrior who could help fulfill the outfit’s contract.

Ah, the glamorous life of a mercenary. Still her dream, just not exactly how she wanted it to be. Yet.

BLACKHEARTS BIVOUAC

GREINWALD, WING

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

21 NOVEMBER 2994

“You gave your report on the status of our repairs. Why are we still having this conversation, Tech Reed?” Major Jeffers demanded, accentuating her title as though a whip to her back. Standing in the corner of the command tent they’d just erected after their last move to keep the Thirtieth Marik Militia off their trail in their continued fox-and-hound fighting, Chloe tried standing taller. The height difference—much less the gap between their ranks or the MechWarrior versus technician divide—made her self-conscious. Why won’t he listen to reason?

“We’re wasting away out there, sir,” she continued, trying to keep her voice reasonable. “We should be striking at the city of Wyvern. That’ll pull some of their forces away from Port Wyvern and allow us to bring in our DropShip for a low pass, guns blazing. We time it with our own ground assault, and we can take a chunk of the Militia now and be done with it.”

Despite the cold, the man had just entered the tent straight from his Orion’s cockpit, so he stood in a cooling vest, shorts, boots, and not much else. He doesn’t even have the decency to have goose bumps on his arms!

His voice grew rougher, if possible. “So, Tech Reed, let me get this straight. You want us to attack a civilian center—”

“It’s not a full attack, sir,” she interrupted. “It would just be a surgical strike that will force them to deploy to protect the city. If we…” Her voice trailed off as her commander’s eyes grew fierce, as though PPCs flickering with a desire to incinerate.

“Tech Reed, I have done you the courtesy of listening. Now you will pay me the same courtesy. Especially to your commanding officer.”

“Yessir.”

“First,” he grated out, holding up a finger as though the hand of God to write on a stone tablet. “Even a ‘surgical strike,’ as you call it, can be exceedingly dangerous around civilians. You know this. You’ve been at the edges of such actions before. So easy for soft-target damage. And once civilian blood flows, everyone gets angry. Especially at mercenaries. Second,” he continued, another finger jabbing into place, “you want to split our forces in the face of our enemy. Not out here, where perhaps we might find some advantage in terrain and the sweeping snow, but cozied right up next to their base’s defensive positions, as though we’re hoping to steal a kiss and be away without any problems?” The third finger jabbed into the air, like a punch to her gut. “Third, you want to take our Overlord-class DropShip, our only ride off this cold continent, and risk it in a crazy maneuver over such defensive positions?” All three fingers rotated to an accusatory triad of judgment. “And you know this, because you’re a MechWarrior and have field-command experience, Tech Reed?”

She tried to find her tongue, and despaired at its betrayal in a moment where she could finally face this arrogant bastard down.

“That’s what I thought, Tech Reed. You. Are. A. Tech. Not a MechWarrior. Not a field commander. The sooner you stop playing at such antics, the easier all our lives will be. I keep you around because your skills are unparalleled at keeping my men in their rides. But you keep pushing me like this, and I don’t care if I have to take a lashing from the colonel that will leave me standing for a week, I will terminate your contract and leave you stranded on this hellhole. Do you understand me, Tech Reed?”

Anger boiled, but she could not find her voice against the towering fury of her commander, and she simply nodded her head, moving to leave before she said something that would enact such punishment. Major Jeffers was already speaking with a communications officer that had attempted to hide at his terminal during their fight, Chloe forgotten.

“You arrogant prick,” she muttered as she moved out into the snow, strapping on her goggles and pulling up her hood against the cold; it also hid the sight of the crimson stain that washed her face over such a public humiliation. I could be a MechWarrior if you would give me a chance. And I can damn well see what’s right in front of me. You’re going to get us all killed out here…

Yet she was as trapped as anyone else in the Blackhearts battalion stuck in the snow. She hiked through the muddy slurry stamped by too many moving bodies, vehicles, and BattleMech footfalls as she wondered how they might all get out.

BLACKHEARTS BIVOUAC

GREINWALD, WING

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

5 DECEMBER 2994

Chloe lay on her back, hanging at a terrible angle, half off the deck of the repair platform while her upper body was wedged into a small hole. She knew she appeared utterly ridiculous. But at the moment, overheating yet freezing as the winter on the Greinwald polar continent of Wing continued to worsen, she couldn’t care less. She also tried to ignore that their “raid” still dragged on. Feels like we’ve been here for all three Succession Wars. No wonder they’ve been dragging on for centuries. Everyone just goes through the motions, endlessly stuck in a cycle they can’t break. “Pssh, there ya go, thinking philosophy while hanging seven meters in the air. Perfect. Just perfect.”

“Um, Cap, you okay?” Tilo said in her earbud. The tone spoke volumes.

“Ignore me, Tilo. I’m just feeling philosophical today. Someday, during the Sixth Succession War, archeologists are going to find our corpses in ice, frozen solid to these machines. And they’ll wonder why we didn’t just, you know, lift off-world!”

“Cap, you know why.”

“Yeah, yeah, contract, bylaws, defaulting, blah, blah.”

“You’re just mad because in a couple months, if you’re not back on New Kyoto, you’re gonna miss your merchant trader beau. Nikolai is scheduled to make planetfall for a supply run soon, right?”

The flash of embarrassment warmed her until the cold was almost forgotten. “How did you—” she sputtered.

“You really need to watch what you mutter when you’re in the bowels of a ’Mech. Luckily you keep it G-rated. ’Cause, you know, I got innocent ears. But still…most of the crew knows you got a man coming. Good on ya.”

She didn’t think it was possible to further overheat in this frigid weather, but she was attempting that feat.

“Shut up, Tilo. I’ve got work to do.”

His laughter both infuriated and settled her racing heartbeat. Just can’t stay mad at that kid.

She ignored the sweat starting to trickle up her chest and back, and got to work once more. The damage to the upper right arm of the 45-ton Phoenix Hawk really wasn’t too bad. But it had left the appendage dangling, with the pilot unable to affect much movement. Since the machine’s largest weapon lay embraced in the ’Mech’s right hand, that didn’t allow for precision aiming, let alone destroying the enemy.

She’d stripped out the damaged polyacetylene bundles of electrified, twisted strands that acted as the BattleMech’s muscles, contracting anytime electricity was applied. She’d restrung several refurbished bundles (she’d not seen brand new in ages), and was working the last, heavy strand into its connection point with the elbow joint that represented the lower-arm actuator. Luckily the Motor Control Unit for that section hadn’t been damaged, as she wasn’t sure she had a replacement. Memories surfaced of her meeting Nikolai for the first time years ago while he was hunting for a rare, Star League era MCU. With their involvement not broadcast to the world, she held such memories close and let the pleasing warmth (despite sweat!) carry her through the last, meticulous work that returned the arm back to a full range of motion.

The explosions were deafening, even shielded as she was by the BattleMech.

Pain tingled up her back as the entire Phoenix Hawk shook, her legs flopping outside the hole like a fish out of water. For a horrifying moment of terrible vertigo, she thought the machine might topple, but it settled. She scrambled out and to a standing position, just as another rain of missiles fell across their field position, several slamming into the repair platform itself. A flash of motion showed an entire company of purple-painted BattleMechs sweeping in from the heavy snow. Lasers, PPCs and autocannons crisscrossed the air in a scintillating skein of death. The concussive force of the missile blasts, combined with the abrupt rush of blood to her head after so long at a downward angle, forced her vision into wavering lines of narrowing blackness. Her stomach heaved as she realized she was in free fall, dropping several meters to the ground after momentarily blacking out and falling off the edge of the gantry.

I never got to share my dream with Nikolai…

Chloe hammered into the ground with a searing impact, and she gasped desperately for breath, as though drowning, unable to reach the air all around. Explosions and screams spread around her but remained a background cacophony to her desperate need to drag in just one lungful of air and live…

After a long, endless eternity, her lungs finally gasped, painfully drawing in air filled with spent propellant, burning diesel fuel, and the smell she wished she simply would never remember again: burnt flesh.

She lay dazed for several minutes before belief saturated her being that she was not about to die. Not yet, at least. She slowly pushed her awareness out, until she saw she’d landed in a heavy snowbank, which had saved her life. A scant two meters away, the toppled Phoenix Hawk lay across the destroyed repair gantry, fresh wounds pockmarking its rear armor.

Beyond, she could see the black, white, and grey tiger stripe-painted BattleMechs of the Blackhearts finally creating a cohesive response, their superior numbers repelling the bright purple of the Thirtieth Marik Militia. But she knew instinctively the Militia was already withdrawing. They’d done their damage, having finally tracked the roaming bivouac of the mercenaries.

Perhaps, just perhaps the Militia might lose enough forces in this engagement to fulfill the Blackhearts’ contract. But regardless, they were through. The battalion detailed to this raid had been pushed beyond its capacity. Despite everything she’d done to try forcing the major into a more sustainable raid, he’d wasted too many lives and C-bills. As soon as this zone could be secured, she knew he’d have to call down the DropShip and finally leave House Marik their world and return to New Kyoto.

Tears from acrid smoke turned to wracking sobs as she finally became aware of Tilo’s hair, tousled by the wind, face caked in blood, dead eyes accusing her as he burned under the collapsed repair gantry.

HIRIHITO, NEW KYOTO

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

2 FEBRUARY 2995

“I don’t care about an additional five-percent pay increase, or your robust indemnification clause that protects me from any malfeasance involved in dereliction of my duty,” Chloe said. She took a sip of the offered cognac, the mellow taste of flowers and citrus on her tongue warmed away the cold outside. Though compared to the horrors of the arctic fighting back on Wing, it was practically a summer’s day outside on the streets of the busy Hirihito city, as the sun set.

She glanced back from the window, and her deliberate casualness refocused on the man sitting across from her. Perhaps in his sixties, well past his prime as a soldier, he was still fit and trim, his suit showing that off to good measure. His large, handlebar mustache—not to her taste, but impressive—framed a thin, tall face, with knowing yet kind eyes.

“You don’t find those generous?”

She took another sip, placing the heavy glass back on the edge of the diminutive table that fit well in the small office they occupied. Through the interior window she could hear several people talking and the clatter of rather loud typing, which she could only assume was a secretary.

“Liaison Jamal,” she continued after once more savoring the expensive drink. “Of course I find them generous. However, your initial offer was generous.”

“Yet you didn’t accept it.”

“I was happy with the Blackhearts.” Then. She barely managed to keep her voice from trembling.

“We assumed you were content with your current employer. Hence, some additional encouragements to see if perhaps you might find a better place.” He took a careful sip from his own glass, somehow managing to not look ridiculous in doing so with such facial hair.

She leaned back, looking at the recruiter for several long moments. She couldn’t go back to working for the Blackhearts. It simply wasn’t tenable. Not anymore. “You already gave me a twenty-percent pay increase. Not to mention a very generous signing bonus.”

He nodded. “Only what you’re worth, Tech Reed.”

She nodded at the compliment. “However, I neither seek to be rich, nor do I ever intend to be derelict in my duty.”

He quirked an eyebrow, waiting. The game of negotiations was always so delicate, and this was a man who could walk on eggshells and not make a sound. The silence stretched uncomfortably.

She’d terminated her contract with the Blackhearts the moment she stepped back on New Kyoto. But that meant there was no home for her among her old mercenaries. Some of them might welcome her, but she couldn’t bring herself to visit the base for fear of running into Major Jeffers, who’d suffered no real ill will from the raid, as far as she could tell. After all, he’d fulfilled the contract in the end, destroying enough of the Thirtieth Marik Militia to leave the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces happy and continuing to pay the bills.

I cannot lose this. She’d tried three other commands, only to be turned down. If she lost this one as well, she’d have to figure out how to get off world, and she was practically broke. (A mistake she would never make again.)

A mercenary life was all she’d ever known. All she ever wanted. But she needed it on her own terms. It was time to start taking those terms in hand.

“I will pass on the additional raise, and the indemnity clause. However, I want a new clause added. I will be trained as a MechWarrior and allowed to fight.”

A small change in his posture and eyes, and she knew she’d reached too far, too fast.

“You can put as strict limits on that as possible,” she rushed out, knowing she was starting to lose the battle—again. “I will pass every test your instructors place in front of me before I’m allowed into combat.”

“Tech Reed, you are a superb tech.”

“With exceptional contacts,” she interjected, desperately trying to find a firm footing in the quicksand now pulling her down.

He held up large, weathered hands that showed old calluses of a MechWarrior long used to battle, hands that were still working as best they could for the command they would serve until the day their owner died.

If only I could find such a place.

“I’m well aware of your contacts. That is why the contract was so generous. But you are a tech. Not a MechWarrior. You’re asking us to hire you for one job while also footing the bill to train you for a second job?”

“I’ll not only waive the additional percentage raise, but will also waive thirty percent of my standard salary to cover such costs. As well as flip that indemnity clause and bear the weight myself if I inflict any damage beyond the standard parameters while piloting said BattleMech.” She hated the edge of desperation she heard in her voice. Her mind kept casting about for something, anything, to salvage the situation.

Liaison Jamal drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, taking on a stare as though seriously thinking through the offer. But she could already tell by the set of his shoulders. She’d not won him over. It wasn’t enough.

Nikolai. I should be seeing you any day now… Could you help? What could you do to help me?

“Tech Reed. That is a generous counter offer, but it is not enough. I know my commander was more than willing to bargain hard to secure your contract. But I have only so much leeway. He’d dock my pay if I were to bring him back such a poor deal. Are you sure that must be a part of the contract? We’re happy to return this offer,” he continued, tapping the set of papers between them, “and I’ll even move the five-percent raise on the second offer to a seven-point-five.”

A dangerous thought had blossomed in her mind while he spoke. The kind of thought that only sprouts out of desperation. And she was desperate. After four years of friendship that had blossomed into love, she thought she knew Nikolai. But would he do this for her? She would be dropping this on him out of the blue, after not seeing him for six months. They’d talked about their dreams together, and his had always centered around becoming a Merchant Captain. But underneath it all, wasn’t it just freedom he sought? Freedom they could both find in a different path, together?

She realized Jamal was getting a concerned look on his face at her continued silence. She would either make their dreams a reality or destroy them both. She simply didn’t have a choice.

“Jamal, I have a counteroffer for you…”

HIRIHITO, NEW KYOTO

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

5 FEBRUARY 2995

The sex had been frenetic and loud, with a primal urgency, as it always was after such a long absence. Now they lay among tousled sheets, bodies still intertwined, breathing returning to normal, as they drank in the essence of each other.

If only this were enough. The blissful, companionable silence stretched, but her heartbeat picked up several notches as she realized she couldn’t wait any longer. She dragged herself out of his tender embrace to sit at the edge of the bed.

In the dim light of the hotel room, moonlight dappled through the curtains. She loved every curve and line of Nikolai. Her eyes met his, and they shared a long smile before she turned away. Will this be the end?

“Chloe, what’s wrong?” he said.

This moment… Can I let it stretch just a little longer?

“I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw you,” he said. “I gave you space and time. But I’m not sleeping until I know what’s wrong. How can I help?”

Those last words were a spike to her heart. Such kind, selfless words. The most kind voice of anyone she’d ever known. And she was about to put a stake in it. She took a deep breath, faced the fear and turned back to him.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Anyth—”

“No!” she interrupted, the harshness in her tone surprising them both. “Do not say anything. Not until you’ve heard me out. Because it’s the greatest favor I’ve ever asked of anyone in my entire life.”

Nikolai cracked a smile and sat up against the headboard. “More than the favor when we first met? Is this you finally calling that card?”

She drank in the love in his eyes, terrified of what would come next. “Yes. And more.” She swallowed in a suddenly dry mouth and stood up, heedless of her nakedness, and got a drink of water before sitting back at the edge of the bed. “Nikolai, I love being a mercenary. The life, the freedom. It’s all I’ve ever known. But it’s not real freedom. Too many others are in control of my life. I’ve left the Blackhearts.”

He cocked his head. “Oh? Who’s your new command?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On you?”

Confusion moved over his features as he crossed his legs under the sheets and leaned forward to bring his hands together. “I’m confused.”

“I want my own command someday.”

“Sure. Doesn’t every mercenary?”

“I mean it. Someday I will have my own command. But to get here from there, I need to become a MechWarrior.”

Surprise worked its way past confusion. “Um…okay.”

“I’ve…” She paused, feeling far more naked than just her skin in the moment. “I’ve had training before. A lot, in fact,” she finished, giving up something she’d never told a soul since. If I’m going to ruin his life, he deserves to hold a part of my life in his.

“Um, okay.” There was a legion of questions in that tone, but so much trust as he voiced none of them.

“But it’s been awhile. And, well, it’s not really the same thing here. I need current training as a MechWarrior. But I still have to hold down my position as a tech.”

“I can see how that would hold down even you.”

She smiled sickly, past the sarcasm, her nervousness carving an ache in her stomach. Time to tear off the bandage.

“I offered them two people for the price of one.

“Um, what?”

“I told them that a superb trader, aspiring tech, and someone building their own network of logistics contacts would join me under a slightly expanded contract.”

Nikolai’s surprise shifted to shock. And then she watched it slowly morph to anger.

“You had no right. That may be your dream, but I’ve got my own dreams. You’ve no idea the pain and hell I’ve lived through to reach where I’m at.” He stood up abruptly, moving to slide on pants and tug on a shirt. “And I’m supposed to just, what, give that up because you asked? No, you didn’t ask. You’re telling. I might’ve been able to deal with asking. But you just told me. ‘Hey, hon, that sex was good, right? Well, that was payment for trashing your dreams, because mine are more important!’” His raging words tore at her with their truthfulness.

He stormed out the door without even putting on his shoes, and her dream turned to ashes in his wake.

RED STONE CITY

BONE-NORMAN

TRELLSHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

15 JULY 2995

Chloe’s hand rested on the foot of the ten-meter-tall avatar of war. Glanced up, eyes watering at the too-bright white sun of this new world, as she made out the distinctive shape of the 55-ton Shadow Hawk, then stepped back forlornly. Reached down, hefted her toolkit, and hiked back across the tarmac. Perhaps someday….

“Tech Reed,” a voice called out.

She stopped and turned as a MechWarrior in his togs trotted up to her, while another figure, much further away, waved in her direction and walked toward her as well. A waft of hot, hard air swept across the tarmac, bringing the heat and grit from the deep deserts of the badlands that straddled the entire equatorial region of this desolate, backwater world. Beyond the tarmac, sweeping up from the DropPort, was the sparse but hospitable-looking Red Stone City, which festooned the flanks of the sweeping, titanic rock that sprang up out of the desert as though the wind had etched everything else away over countless millennia. And at the peak, even at this distance, she could see the Red Stone Palace, a massive edifice carved directly out of that brilliantly red native rock, housing the planetary government and the station of her new mercenary home.

“Yes?” she replied.

“I’m Lieutenant Dawson Clarmont.”

She couldn’t help the surprise that swept her features. The young man laughed, and the tone and smile mirrored Tilo for a moment, sparking a wistfulness. I’m gonna miss you, my puppy.

“I know, I know,” he responded. “I’m much too young to have lieutenant’s bars.”

Chloe nodded carefully. “Hard to think otherwise.”

“Yup. But I bet you’ll learn quick enough.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Um, are you here to greet me? We already got the welcome wagon.”

“Sure, sure. All the official orientation stuff. But has anyone just come up to say hello?”

“No,” she admitted. “Not yet.” Amazing how much that helped.

“Well, let me be the first. After all, how far did you come for this fabulous station and beauty at the center of nobility and high society?!” He practically bellowed, sweeping his arms to encompass the stark, harsh environs all around.

“Almost five hundred light-years,” she responded sheepishly.

He whistled, eyes widening. “Hot damn, even farther than I thought. From the center to the very edge of the Periphery. You jump once more and you’re out in the boondocks. Pirates’ll eat ya for dinner if you’re not careful.”

She laughed in response to his natural warmth. “I’ll be careful.”

“Chloe,” another voice broke in.

She turned, and despite five months of journeying, it still felt newly fresh to fall into his eyes. Five hundred light-years and giving up everything, to follow her dream. Now their dream. “Nikolai, I was wondering where you’d gotten yourself to after the orientation.”

He smiled back, the flash of emotions a match for any heat of the deep desert. “Just finding the local bars. Gotta start making contacts.” He glanced down at his feet and then back at her. “If we’re gonna be here a while, I guess I’m glad its lower than standard Terran gravity. All this weight is gonna take some getting used to.” They laughed at the shared joke.

“I’m Lieutenant Dawson Clarmont,” the other man spoke up. He and Nikolai saluted before shaking hands.

“I noticed you eying the Shadow Hawk,” Clarmont continued towards Chloe.

“Always been partial to a good mix of maneuverability and firepower,” she said.

“It is that…but, you know you can’t start there.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, still looking longingly at a ride perhaps years away.

“We’ve got a beat-up twenty-ton Stinger with your name on it. Held together more with spit and baling wire than anything else, but in your off-hours, the colonel’s given me permission to start teaching you. Maybe someday you’ll work your way up to that ’Hawk.”

She smiled, glanced at Nikolai, knowing the price already paid. She’d make it. And a lot faster than a couple of years. They both would.

Clarmont joined their laughter, and he companionably threw his arms over both of them as they began walking toward their new home.

“Welcome to the Grave Walkers.”

About the Author

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

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

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

Cover by David Kerber

Edited by Philip A. Lee

Additional Continuity Review by Chris Wheeler

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