Act 1
Chapter 1
January 7th, 3025
South end of Whitman continent
Hesperus II
Emily Wright looked up from her data pad at the members of her new merc company and gave a disappointed sigh. "This is really all we could find, guys?"
Rhys Kang, one of the four standing in the tent, answered first, while trying to hold back a grin. "We were that green not too long ago, when we came up with this plan." Rhys was big, fairly trim by MechWarrior standards, and bald. Bald as they come. Laser hair removal had been a thing for over a millennium, and yet he insisted on his ritual shave with a straight razor every day or two. Being exceptionally pale for a man of Chinese descent also combined to earn him "Chrome" as a callsign. The other half of the name was up to anyone else's mood at the time.
Most of them were fairly young, in their early to mid-thirties, and had come up with this "plan" to pool their merc money they made to make their own company. The four of them, planning for over half a decade and yet they still haven't come up with a name for it yet.
Pearl Benezekri, the oldest of the group at thirty-six, leaned in over the holotable at their…what could loosely be defined as a TO&E. Pearl wasn't her original name, and she never actually told anybody, but it was legally changed when her hair started turning permanently white at the ripe old age of twenty-four, while still attempting to join the Nagelring Academy. She said it was a genetic trait, but Emily suspected the stress of dropping out of the academy had something to do with it. Didn't make her any less of a pilot, but the Nagelring took no prisoners when it came to graduating standards.
She was also the shortest of the bunch at one hundred sixty cm, which made it easier for her to handle the tiny cockpits of her youth, and even gave her a leg-up when helping maintain her old Locust, being able to help the techs get into tiny places. And having a MechWarrior's extremely fit body didn't exactly hurt morale while doing it, either. And yet, despite all that, her hair was what lead to her having the callsign "Mother Hen," with her Trebuchet able to reach out and help her friends from most distances away. Being the oldest might have had a little something to do with it, though.
Martin Danek was the most sour of the bunch, scratching his short, curly hair on his tall cinnamon frame with disgust. "I mean, we have the 'mechs and kinds of fits we're after, with no exceptions. Light, jump-capable 'mechs in the thirty to thirty-five ton range so it's easier for us to compile our parts for what we're about to attempt to do. And the techs we were hoping to get don't look too terrible, anyway. Hell even the Urbie we picked up can jump a little bit, but I'd be more comfortable keeping it behind guarding the loot."
His brow scrunched between his eyes. "Buuuuuut I'm not really a fan of each of us taking our own lance and splitting up to do guerilla ops without any prior training. I'm still thinking we should start with a simple raid or garrison duty somewhere near the center of the Sphere." The Inner Sphere comprised of thousands of planets colonized in the better part of the last millennium, but still represented a dot on the entire galaxy humanity called home.
The four of them were used to that kind of thing, so it suited them. But adding twelve more 'mechs, with groups of three assigned to each of them…that was something entirely new to them. They've learned the ins and outs of handling logistics from their old bosses, but never actually had to make the calls themselves. The fact that the four of them survived together despite all this made it even more awkward. Everyone silently expected around one to two of them to make it to this table.
Emily squinted playfully at him. "You know that's not our style, Clothesline. Besides, that's the nature of the contracts. We got a decent one that actually pays transport for twelve more 'mechs at once, to where we're going. We'll still need to twist his arm to set us down on-planet with our supplies while passing through, though. "
"Clothesline," was given to Danek when they were on the run from a sizeably larger Capellan garrison. Danek had managed to jump almost right in front of the path of a Jenner, who was already aiming-in on Mother Hen's limping Otscout at the time. He landed, albeit a bit off-balance, sticking his Wolverine's right arm out and literally tackling the Jenner as he landed, probably saving himself in the process, too. His tattoo of a tiny Jenner on inside of his right forearm with an X going through it is a tribute to his name. As well as the matching decal on the Wolvie's arm, with a few scratches left in for effect.
"It'll be nice to get out of a cramped brick for a change," Danek replied. "Unions are a little more spacious. Did he say how he was going to fit the other four 'mechs in there? They only hold twelve."
"We'll get the nickel-tour before we jump. The captain of the Dictator that's taking us to the jumpship says he knows that captain, and he's had that ship for a long time, so I imagine he's tinkered with it. Anyway, we're getting off-topic…again. They're waiting for us outside."
"They" consisted of roughly three-dozen people, chattering in a loose group amongst the swampy tents of the lower-elevations on Hesperus II. The rough "camp" situated on South Whitman was almost in the middle-of-nowhere. Not the most ideal place for a temporary recruiting center, but Emily was about to explain the discomfort to them.
"Ten-HOO!" Kang bellowed, though nobody really knew where to fall in, other than "next to the other guy." Nobody had been officially recruited yet, nor had the rank structure explained to them, but most came from a military/merc background, so they got the gist of it. The techs decided silently to fall into a semi-circle around the back, almost completely enveloping the four of them.
Emily stepped forward, displacing herself from her friends temporarily. Her chestnut-brown ponytail bounced side to side against her tanned, lean shoulders as she glanced back and forth between the techs and 'mech jockeys.
"I am Major Emily Wright. Callsign Dirk. We're not big on ceremony, nor are we strict on dumb crap like "where to stand in a formation." We'll let you all sort that out. What we are strict on is getting paid. And we prefer to get paid as much as possible, as often as possible. That's where I got my callsign. We'd rather capture and loot than kill and destroy. I, and the rest of us here," gesturing towards her friends, "We run in some of the most uncomfortable conditions using as little equipment as possible. We're not big on fancy E-war, that's typically too hard to maintain for the types of contracts we've taken together. We're also not so insane that we force ourselves to eat the local plant life to stay alive," That got a chuckle out of almost everybody.
She gestured towards the other three with her datapad and introduced them. "Each of them will be in charge of a lance, including their own medium for fire support. Our 'mechs are currently strapped in a dropship on the way to our first official contract. If one of these three standing with me won't be your direct CO, then you'll be in my lance. We're gonna sort the details later, based on how you fit. When we talked to you over at Maria's," she pointed to the planet's capitol, Maria's Elegy, far over the horizon with the comforts of the city it offered, "we wanted to be sure you could at least make it out here on your own, throw some basic cammo on yourself and your 'mech, and enjoy in this awesome pile of shit we're standing in right now without sinking up to your waist before we even hire you." That got another laugh.
"The four of us have been with each other for over five years, serving with Bart's Broncos. They specialized in guerilla ops. We were known within that command for getting the biggest bonuses for our missions because we believed in capturing as much as possible, and not blowing every damn paycheck up just because we're sitting on top of miniature suns that power our guns," she continued, referring to the fusion reactors that provided nearly indefinite power to a 'mech. Provided the rest of the parts kept working. "That's how we were able to pool enough to get four whole lances with support personnel between the four of us. We're daaaaaamn good at it, and we're taking contracts that cater to our fighting style.
"Now, as to how the hell we could afford you. The answer's simple. Most of you are cheap." She shrugged, palms out. "There, we said it. Most of you, with an emphasis on most," she swept the loose rectangle of jockeys with one hand, the other on her hip, "are fairly new at riding a 'mech, but a couple of you have seen live-fire before. The kind that goes in both directions." That got some smiles and a laugh from some of more weathered-looking of the bunch, many sporting the I could care less about your regulations at this point haircuts and beards that usually came with that. Leaving out the fact that some of the greener jockeys might have trouble even starting a stubble at this point.
"Some of you," she continued, passing a glance at the trio of young men standing in the middle, looking fit but nonetheless cocky, "are riding a 'mech because you have some deep family pockets, and got yourselves some shiny new toys right off the lot here on Hesperus. That's fine, and it means your hiring price was a bit lower than some others, but if you're only joining us so you can have some cool stories to tell your many girlfriends later, get the hell out. Right now."
An awkward silence held the crowd, but the veterans kept their voices down, despite the wide grins those words earned her. "That being said, we want you in this company to make everyone money. The nature of the contracts we'll be taking, including this one, mean if you're not in this to get rich and come home in one piece, your head's not going to be in the right place when we land. If you come home in one piece, but are still dirt poor, well…you've wasted your time.
"But first," she continued, "we're gonna start work on your almost entire lack of cammo on over half of all of you that came here this morning." Both hands went on her hips in her best attempt at a disapproving mother she could manage while she gave a long whistle at some of the 'mechs surrounding the camp.
A humanoid Valkyrie that decided to use only a large tree as camouflage, standing with its left side towards the camp, as if hiding behind a comm-pole ready to stick its head out to peek. Three "Fire Javelins," of the lots-of-lasers variety, the right-out-of-the-display-room 'mechs piloted by people with rich parents mentioned earlier, were moderately camouflaged behind some rocks and had some loose shrubbery around the knees. Some vegetation was laid across the arms still locked in the L position. Perhaps they thought that getting "cammo'd" referred to gathering firewood, she thought. Clearly not enough appreciation was shown for the physical labor behind guerilla warfare. Points for trying at least.
"As you can see, most of you need work, and we'll get you there. With the help of some of our vets. Speaking of which," she turned her head over her shoulder, raising her voice loudly," has anyone seen an Urbie around here?"
Seconds later, the sound of a small fusion reactor powering up startled most of the crowd, especially the techs. Several people crouched low while staying in formation, but most people simply turned towards the sound of mud peeling off of itself about thirty meters away, and the rising mound of large branches and twigs cracking.
From there, an Urbanmech with nothing but a two hundred mm autocannon on its side started to appear as the leaves parted. From a semi-crouched position, just enough of the trash-can-shaped 'mech came above the surface to bring the head and some of its chest into view. Mud continued to slide down the front until it almost obstructed the head from view again. From there, a roar that would attract the attention of some minor deities of the local culture came from beneath the Urbie as it lit it's jump jets and exited the hole, albeit barely, landing behind it and further from the crowd.
"OK to be fair, Nymph, A.K.A. Corporal Ampliia Vakitchev, had a few days head start on you guys. She even dug a little ramp in her hole for her to walk in and out of to talk to you this morning. She'll be joining us as well." Nymph's AC bobbed up and down briefly, as she turned to the side a little bit, like she was waving HI! at everyone. Hard mud and dirt continued to plop off of the legs and the giant autocannon in a rather gross sounding sccchhhpllpp as most of the jockeys were chattering "I remember seeing something shiny over there last night but wasn't really sure. Hah, called it," and so on. Apparently a few c-bills went back and forth for a moment as well.
Emily made a wiggling motion with her hands behind her back with nobody in particular looking, and with a frustrated sigh, fifty c-bills smoothly changed hands from Mother Hen to Dirk based on the reaction of the show.
"OK, OK, I think everyone gets the point now. We expect you to be able to make holes similar to these given the sizes and shapes of our mechs. These are fallback points you will remember by heart, even if you wind up using someone else's hole in the heat of the moment. Expect bigger ones for stashing parts and loot. There will be lots of loot." That brought the attention back towards Emily, mostly smiling when hearing the L-word.
"The terrain here almost matches our next contract, but the gravity will be a tad lighter. Ninety-three percent Terran g's. The climate is about as shitty, so consider this your orientation. Since you all at least made it out here, consider yourselves hired, with the sign-on bonus we talked about." Hooting and hollering and some clapping ensued, and Emily let it run for a little bit, while grinning towards her friends.
"Now, the nature of our contract states 'general guerilla warfare' which means the kinds of targets we'll be going after will change based on the political climate. You're not getting paid to worry about the other seventy-eight pages of this damn thing, but we leave in about two days, and it is a few months travel, so you have enough time to get home tonight and say goodbye to whoever, but meet at the spaceport, sans all the dirt and mud," making a little eh, what can ya do kind of gesture towards Nymph's Urbie.
"Questions?"
"Ma'am," a voice called out from in the middle of the tech crowd. "Is this one of those under-the-table kinds of contracts? I thought every unit had to be registered with the MRB or something. You know, to see who's liable for what? I don't know exactly, though. Do we get to know who we're working for and all that?" The Mercenary Review Board acted as an arbitrator between two parties when disagreements over contracts flared up.
"Good question. The answer is I gave them a generic name for ourselves for now, and its subject to change later. Since the nature of our contract is pretty clandestine, the less you know about who hired us or who we actually are, and how strong, and how we can be beaten, the less you can tell anyone if you get caught. We don't like getting caught. If we did, you'd have never met us.
"Also, none of us four ever liked pulling names out of hats, thus any callsign you went by previously is probably going to be changed. What really matters to us now is what happens in our company, in our present and future, not your past." Some nods and looks of various kinds of disappointment of about equal number seemed to circulate the groups. To be fair, not every 'MechWarrior appreciated their given callsign. And not every person was happy with all the decisions they made up till this point.
"Ma'am?" Another voice amongst the jockey section.
"Yes?" She pointed at him.
"So, what's the name of the planet we're headed to, and how long? You said a one-year contract, right?
"Suk II, for a whole year," she replied with a wide grin. A jungle-heavy, mineral-rich planet guaranteed to make any visitor lose several kilos before leaving.
A unified chorus of groans and boos ensued, which would also have attracted the attention of some more major deities of this locale, if there were any.
