19 - A Request for Parlay

DropShip Lodestar, SLSC M9V.2016 Landing Co-ordinates
Dark Nebula, Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
12 November 3053

    Michael Holznecht settles the wireless headset comm into place and looks at the displays and controls laid out before him. He’s done this before, certainly, but it feels different now. He’s no longer answerable to AFFC Sector Command.
    The men and women out there right now – the last couple of ’Mechs just about to step off of the elevator platforms – are counting on him to back them up. They’re going to need his input and advice when the shells start flying. Despite what you may have seen in the action holovids, fighting in a ’Mech while also trying to keep track of your lance or even your company is very difficult. MechWarriors have died, distracted, trying to split their attention between shooting and issuing orders. A good communications officer can make all the difference.
    He looks at the codes tagging each of the little blue icons that are starting to move out. When he sees the Black Hawk, a smile appears on his lips. The five former Clan pilots had contested one another for the chance to pilot one of the two salvaged OmniMechs. At Brigitte’s urging, Holznecht had run the ‘Trials’ in the Lodestar’s simulator; it had been kinder on the hardware.
    He wasn’t surprised at all when Silver had won her way through to take the Black Hawk. Juno had edged out Carson, with Oliver a close third. She is aboard the Stormcrow that even now is striding out alongside Ben Gleason’s Clint and Amber Tyler’s Raven.
    “Control, this is Actual. How read you this?”
    “Loud and clear, Captain,” he replies. The Axeman icon is highlighted on the holoscreen before him. At a touch, he can bring up the ’Mech’s status in a secondary window. He doesn’t bother just yet. No one has reported any problems or malfunctions, and the telemetry streaming from the BattleMechs is all in the green.
    “We’re heading out on a vector of… zero five three. Speed is three-zero kph.”
    “Copy that, Actual.”
    “The terrain looks pretty uneven. What I can see of it.”
    “Local dawn is in twenty-five minutes. It probably won’t look any better then, but you should have decent visibility.”

    “Copied, Control. Stay sharp.” Brigitte Olafsdottír taps a button on her comms panel and brings in her command crew: Marc Campbell, Ben Gleason, and Valentine Tyler. “Any problems, guys?”
    “Midge is bitching about how this dump is making her miss the monsoons on Apollo,” is Tyler’s reply. “Aside from that, nothing to say.”
    “One of my heat sinks isn’t working,” Marc Campbell says. “I can deal with it.”
    Ben Gleason sounds a touch distracted. “No failures or red lights… but Amber tells me she’s getting something funny on her ground scanners. Looks like our unknown squatters have set up shop in some old ruins. Some kind of complex or base structure.”
    “Have her link the feed to Mike, let him have a look at it. I want to know if they’ve got emplaced guns or vibrabombs set up to greet visitors.”
    “Will do.”
    She turns her attention back to the Axeman’s tactical plot. Their machines are moving in a loose formation, with the bigger – and slower – BattleMechs in the centre. Ben’s group of faster ’Mechs is slightly ahead of the main body, giving the scanner gear in Amber’s Raven a chance to gather data on the encampment.
    They’re almost certainly pirates. If they’d been survivors of, say, an AFFC unit that had escaped the Clans, they wouldn’t be lurking out here. They’d be trying their best to reach a friendly system.
    This has the potential to get very messy, very quickly.

    The hammering on her cabin door seems to have a sharp echo inside Jessie Danvers’ skull. Rolling over on her threadbare cot with a groan, she tries to figure out where she’s dropped her handgun.
    “You better not be dead in there!”
    “Frack off, Maya. Let me suffer in peace, okay?”
    “Get up, Jessie. We’ve got trouble.” For once there’s none of Maya Sieberg’s good humour in her tone. She’s deadly serious… and that causes Jessie to sit up.

    “It looks like a Star League signal relay,” says Mike Holznecht. “The layout of the ruins matches up with the sort of thing the old SLDF engineers used to build.”
    “Handling HPG signals traffic to and from Camelot?” Brigitte takes a look at the rough outline of the ruins, which has been superimposed on the schematic of an old SLDF facility.
    “That’d be my guess. Most likely Kerensky’s lot stripped the place bare when they packed up to go.”
    “Great. What else can you tell me, Mike?”
    “They’ve got a pair of DropShips… a Union and a Mule, I’d say. No signs of any emplaced guns. There’s a lot of clutter in the ruins… magnetic returns… probably scrap metal and junk parts.”
    “Now, the sixty-four million C-bill question: do they know we’re out here?”
    There’s a moment’s pause. “I think so. Amber’s scanners are picking up ground movement. Looks like a full-scale panic has just kicked off.”
    “Skipper, can I have a word?”
    “What is it, Tyler?”
    “Can we go private for a second?”
    “Sure.” She switches over to a closed laser channel. “What’s on your mind?”
    “I think I can talk to them. Maybe.”

    “’Mechs? Where the hell did they come from?”
    “Through a magic doorway? I don’t have a frackin’ clue, Jess!” Maya throws up her hands in exasperation as they hurry along the DropShip’s spinal corridor. “All I know is that they’re out there to the south-west of us, and they’re getting closer.”
    “Shit,” Jessie mutters. “No one was keeping watch?”
    Maya lets out a hollow, humourless laugh. “Here? Don’t talk crazy. When was the last time anybody bothered with standing a watch?”
    “So we could have a company, a battalion, or even a damned regiment right on our doorstep.” Jessie reaches out and opens the access hatch that leads onto the bridge of Pearson’s Prize. “How can this day get any worse?”

    Tyler glances out through his Crusader’s faceplate before looking back down at his primary holoscreen. His initial guess has turned out to be correct: the two hill-like objects looming up against the weary red sunrise are DropShips. Specifically, a Union and a Mule. The first is similar to the Lodestar, although it is very clearly in need of repairs. The second is a massive merchant vessel, almost a cargo bay with engines and a crew section bolted on. It too features streaks of rust and patched sections of hull plating. It’s just the thing to pack full of booty. There’s some sort of crest painted on the Mule’s side, but he can’t quite make it out from his vantage point. A cartoon animal of some type, Tyler guesses.
    Someone has ignited and thrown out a few flares over at the pirates’ encampment. He takes a moment to examine the site via his ’Mech’s scanners. Half-collapsed walls of formed ferrocrete have been braced up with metal buttresses that have turned orange-brown with corrosion. Lean-tos underneath camouflage tarpaulins. He can see what looks like four or five scabby cargo containers, similar to the ones aboard Black Buck, which have been converted over into living quarters. Soaring above it all is a slightly crooked antenna tower that’s been hammered together out of scrap and scavenged equipment. He figures that it’s the settlement’s homing beacon for the DropShips.
    Let’s get on with it. He lets out a breath and flips a switch on his comms board. “Pirate base, pirate base. This is Sergeant Tyler of the Norns. Respond.” He’s transmitting on an open radio channel. As he does so, the Crusader’s scanners chime a warning; they’ve just picked up the ignition of a BattleMech’s fusion engine down in the heart of the ramshackle camp.
    “Pirate base, I know you can hear me. You better fracking respond, over.”
    There’s a buzz and crackle in his helmet earphones. “What do you want?” It’s a man’s voice, and from what Tyler’s scanners tell him, it’s transmitting from the Union.
    “I request a parlay.”

    Aboard the Pearson’s Prize, Jessie, Maya, and Jacobs exchange an incredulous look.
    “Is this for real?” Jessie wonders aloud. Maybe I ought to lay off that cheap moonshine. It’s rotting my brains.
    Jacobs raises the scratched and chipped handset to his lips. “You been watching some old holovids, Taylor? Nobody asks for a parlay!”
    “They do if they’re a pirate, frack-for-brains. And the name’s Tyler, not Taylor.”
    “Whatever. What makes you think you can deal?”
    “I got enough upgraded ’Mechs at my back to make things pretty frackin’ ugly for you and yours, Hotshot… so don’t even think about getting cute. I’m coming down there with my boss. You better get your arse out of that rusty death trap and over here.” The line goes dead.
    The three pirates all stare at the silent handset, disbelievingly.

    Brigitte fights down the urge to disengage her safeties as the Axeman plods up to the crest of the ridge, giving her a first look at the bandit settlement. What a garbage dump. Actually, she realises, that’s exactly what it is. The inhabitants have used anything and everything they’ve managed to steal or scrounge to build themselves a home.
    I wonder if they’ve got rats down there… She shudders. They probably eat the rats. She steers the heavy ’Mech down the reverse side of the ridge, bringing it level with Tyler’s stationary Crusader. Brigitte opens a laser comm channel.
    “How do we play this?”
    “Soon as their boss shows up, I’ve gotta prove I’m a pirate like I said I am. It’s like a pair of dogs facing off, Skipper. One’s gotta show the other he’s nastier. And I’m pretty damned nasty.”
    “Sounds ugly.”
    “It’s the way it is.” She can almost hear him shrugging. “Way I figure it, they got womenfolk and kids down there. Were we planning on blowing them up as well?”
    “What do you think, Tyler? Of course not!”
    “So maybe we can get them to listen to us. Push comes to shove, we’ve got enough guns to wipe them all out… but look at this place. It’s a shithole – and believe me, I’ve seen a few. They’re out of supplies and stores. They can’t run, and they can’t really fight us. Not without getting killed deader than Stefan Amaris, anyway.”
    “You’ve got a point there.” Brigitte looks at the tactical feed being relayed from Lodestar. Tammy’s lance has taken up position at the crest of the ridge, while the other elements of the Norns’ formation have fanned out to either side.
    Her scanners lock onto a moving heat source. Rattling towards the two BattleMechs is a tatty looking four-wheel drive vehicle that seems to be made of nothing but rust and weld tape.
    “Guess this is the ‘unwelcome wagon’,” she says.
    “Looks like. You ready?”
    “Not really.” She sighs. “Let’s do it.”
    “Boss?”
    “Tyler?”
    “Trust me on this.”
    That’s the worst thing. She does trust him.

    Standing up in the back of the off-roader, clinging onto the creaky roll bar, Jessie Danvers’ eyes widen as she takes in the sight of the two heavy ’Mechs standing side by side. They’re painted identically in a mottled grey-brown pattern, and from what she can tell they are both in top condition.
    The one on the right is a Crusader. There’s no mistaking the outline, what with the bulky forearms and hip-mounted missile tubes. The one on the left, though… She’s never seen the like before. The massive autocannon housing and the ugly-looking hatchet clutched in its right hand suggest it’s meant for point-blank fighting.
    Definitely not Clanners, then. From the way that guy had spoken on the radio, she’d been sure these people weren’t Clan. The couple of times she’s heard Clanners over the radio, they’d sounded just… weird. Blathering on about things like ‘dezgra’ and ‘zellbrigen’… whatever any of that crazy shit meant.
    Jacobs spins the steering wheel and brings them to a halt ten metres away from the feet of the parked BattleMechs. There are two people waiting for them, both dressed in jumpsuits and heavy parkas against the clammy local conditions. A man and a woman.
    Jacobs shuts down the engine and climbs out. Maya and Jessie follow suit.
    “I’m Jacobs. This is my camp, my crew. You are?”
    “Tyler. This is Captain Olafsdottír. She’s in charge of the ’Mechs up there.” Jessie recognises the guy’s voice now.
    Jacobs glances sidelong at the brown-skinned woman. “You got a tongue?”
    “Yeah.” She indicates Tyler with a nod. “You got a problem with him, right?”
    “Maybe. He said he wanted ‘parlay’…” Jacobs regards Tyler sceptically. “No one asks for parlay. Not anymore.”
    “They do if they’re a Black Warrior,” Tyler replies evenly. “I’m guessing you’ve heard of them, yeah?” The temperature drops a notch or two.
    Jacobs can’t conceal his disbelief. “A Black Warrior? You? What, they had an opening come up in their Senior Citizens’ section and you decided to apply?”
    “Cute.” Tyler shoves the sleeve up on his left arm to expose a few of his raid markings. “If you like, I could pistol-whip your scrawny carcass as well.”
    Jacobs is about to retort when Olafsdottír cuts in. “You about done with the big pissing contest? Because I don’t have a whole lot of patience for that, Jacobs… and you sure as hell don’t have a leg to stand on. Tell me: when’s the last time your people had a decent meal, or heating that doesn’t involve burning piles of dog crap?”

    “I do not like this,” Juno says quietly, shifting in her command couch.
    “What’s that?” Amber’s voice makes Juno start. She did not realise she had left her comm channels open.
    “They are pirates, Amber. Bandit Caste. Thieving parasites. They cannot be trusted.”
    “Dad’s a pirate. Well, he was, a long time ago. And I’m his daughter. Does that mean I can’t be trusted either, Juno?”
    “I… I do not…” The question makes Juno pause.
    “She has got a point there, sib,” Silver says. “Is Amber worthy of your trust or not, because of her parentage?”
    “Neg! I mean, aff! I trust you, Amber.” Damn you, Silver!
    “So then it is a matter of knowing someone rather than where they came from, quiaff?”
    “Aff, Silver.” Juno fights down the urge to curse.
    “Keep the comms clear, ladies,” comes Sergeant Benjamin’s voice. “Keep your game faces on.”

    “Look,” Tyler says, “You guys are stuck. I know that. You know that. The only way you can get supplies or parts is by raiding… but every last target in range that you can reach has a Clan garrison parked on it – and they just love pirates. But you’ve seen that for yourselves, up close. They look at you guys like living range targets. So what’s that leave?
    “You can’t go coreward; that’ll take you into their supply routes. You can’t go spinward or anti-spinward. And heading for the rim… that will take you towards the border of the Clans’ occupation zones. They have front-line forces stationed there that make the garrison units you’ve faced look like stuffed toys.” The look the two women exchange tells him he’s only pointing out what they already know.
    “Seriously,” Brigitte says in a reasonable tone. “You’ve got to be hurting for consumables.” She waves a hand in the direction of the two landed DropShips. “How much fuel do you have left for them?”
    Jacobs seems to deflate a little. “Not much,” he says after a moment.
    “I bet your ’Mechs are out of ammo as well – or are very close to it.”
    The guilty look the girl with the fraying woollen cap gives Olafsdottír is all the answer she needs.
    “Cut to the chase,” Jacobs says. His previously hostile tone has gone. “What are you saying here?”
    Tyler ventures a sidelong look at Brigitte, and knows what she’s going to say.
    “I’m the senior officer on the ground here. I answer back to the commander in theatre – and only to the commander in theatre. I’m going to offer you people a conditional pardon… if you’ll swear parole to me.” It’s all Tyler can do to keep from laughing at the look on their faces.
    “But… why?” The girl in the woolly cap is staring at Olafsdottír like she’s just turned bright blue. “Why would you do that?”
    “Why? A couple of reasons. First: you guys have annoyed the hell out of the Jade Falcons and Steel Vipers. Maybe you even killed a few of them. That’s a whole lot more than most of the FedCom forces along the frontier have managed to do so far.
    “Second: I want to know if you’re any good in a ’Mech.” She indicates her own machine with a thumb. “I’m always on the lookout for talent. Even after it punches me in the face.”

    Juno looks up a few minutes later, when the comm channel opens from Brigitte’s Axeman.
    “Marc? Ben? Mike? They’ve agreed to stand down. They know they’re all out of options, and they don’t want us to come in shooting.”
    “Can we trust them?” That is Michael’s voice, from the DropShip.
    “Nope. Don’t trust ’em, and don’t let your guard down around ’em,” Valentine’s voice replies. “They’re gonna take a whole lot of convincing we aren’t just setting them all up to get shot.”
    Were it up to Juno, she would have destroyed them all by now. She fights down a reflexive shiver of disgust at the idea of even having to talk to these vermin.
    “So, what happens now?”
    “We break out some supplies, Ben,” Brigitte says. “These poor dumb frackers are down to boiling up bones to make stew. They might just appreciate a few ration packs and some fresh water.”
    This has all the makings of a disaster. Juno can feel it… but it is not her place to argue. She has only just been granted Warrior status again…
    She looks down at her gloved hands. They are shaking. Inhaling sharply, she clamps them together in her lap.