Chapter 6
Demi-Precentor VII-Rho Ballard Kundrin stepped onto the ‘Mech lift and with practiced ease raised it level with the head of the Clint. The canopy was wide open to allow interested parties to easily inspect the cockpit. It was immediately obvious this was not your typical Clint and had been heavily modified. The profusion of custom Dalban HiRez displays was a dead giveaway. He clambered into the cockpit to check the serial number of the chassis. He found it bolted to the floor under the main instrumentation panel, tucked into the corner.
CLNT 2-3T Clint
Serial # 10023024
Andoran Industries
Bell, Capellan Confederation
8-July-2691
ComStar been looking for this ‘Mech for eight years. Since before the sundering of the Federated Commonwealth, before the Battle of Tukayyid, even before the entire Clan Invasion itself. It’d been one hell of a decade, and it wasn’t even over yet, leaving him to wonder what else could possibly be left in store. Even as he thought it, his mind turned to the schism that had all too recently occurred within his own organization.
The so-called Word of Blake was busy establishing themselves on Gibson under the leadership of former Precentor Atreus Demona Aziz and with considerable help from Thomas Marik, the Captain-General of the Free Worlds League, and himself a former ComStar Acolyte. Already the Word of Blake was running all of the Hyperpulse Generators in League space and undoubtedly making considerable money from it to further their own corrupt interpretation of the Blessed Founder, Jerome Blake’s, words.
Just the thought of it appalled him. Primus Sharilar Mori, along with Precentor Martial Anastasius Focht, had it made it clear that ComStar would be a neutral organization, a benevolent guardian of human civilization and the technologies it relied upon. They, ComStar, were the true followers of Jerome Blake. The Word of Blake were, in truth, nothing more than devotees of Conrad Toyama, Blake’s successor, who had twisted his mentor’s words and introduced the quasi-religious trappings that had dominated the Order for centuries.
Crazed religious zealots are what they were.
He shook his head, returning his thoughts to the matter at hand. Why exactly ComStar was interested in this particular Clint he didn’t know. All he knew what that this unit had belonged to a mercenary company that had been blacklisted by the Mercenary Review Board for the murder of ComStar personnel and the destruction of ComStar property. It had reappeared a few years later in connection with the annihilation of an entire ComGuard Level II on Galatea, in Galatea City, which would have certainly been a massive interstellar incident had it not been for the arrival of the Clans later that same year.
It was a pretty sure bet it was still an advanced piece of tech, and perhaps in 3049 it could even have been considered lostech. But not anymore. Compared to the Clan OmniMechs he’d seen and even some of the new designs rolling of the rejuvenated assembly lines of the Inner Sphere, this thing was finally beginning to show its age. Still, orders were orders. Precentor Skye wanted this ‘Mech and in the end that was all that mattered.
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Cormack Raswell maneuvered the lift around to the front of Clint and up to the engine housing. It didn’t take him long to confirm it was an Extralight Vox 280 model. An early one at that, judging from the way the bulky engine shielding had been formed. Definitely Capellan manufacture, the writing on the housing was all in Chinese.
Shifting the lift over and raising it higher, he began examining the extensive electronics blisters. A Beagle Active Probe and a Guardian ECM suite. Again, early models, both of Capellan manufacture. He’d seen similar units on the early runs of the RVN-3L Raven. After jockeying around for a few minutes, he finally located the serial number on the Guardian. He had no trouble reading the Chinese.
Guardian ECM Suite
Serial # 00000765
Hellespont Industrials
Sian, Capellan Confederation
Manufactured: 15-August-3048
A dead match. Next he checked the active probe. He wasn’t a bit surprised to find that it too matched on of the serial numbers he’d been sent to find. This was the ‘Mech. He had suspected it would be, after all the Clint hadn’t been made in almost 250 years and very few had managed to survive for that long. Less than thirty in all probability remained across the entirety of the Inner Sphere at this point.
Not that it was a particularly good design. In fact, it was generally held in poor regard. A maintenance nightmare, it was well known parts were all but impossible to find, and to make matters worse Andoran Industries hadn’t even built them well to begin with.
Not that it mattered to him. Fangh Li had been quite explicit, and remarkably generous, when he’d sent him here from Galatea. If the numbers matched, acquire the ‘Mech and bring it to him. Apparently he had a history with the ‘Mech, although he wasn’t willing to share the details.
But Fangh Li was a notoriously tight-lipped man. Better he not know anything, it might end up getting him killed later anyway.
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Annalisa Bitters cast a critical eye on the 40-ton relic. Recently arrived from the game world, Solaris VII, her stablemaster had dispatched her here to evaluate a Clint that had been put up for auction by Sanglamore Academy.
Of course the Clint itself was a piece of crap, even though this particular one was in surprisingly good shape for such an ancient war machine. It wasn’t the ‘Mech she was interested in, rather it was the Sloane 220 Lockover System, reputed to be among the finest Targeting and Tracking systems ever made.
It had come as a shocking revelation that the Clans still used, and presumably manufactured, the Sloane 220 Lockover System for use in their 40-ton frontline OmniMech, the Dragonfly. Interestingly enough, the Dragonfly weighed the same as the Clint, and was also an incredibly fast and jump capable machine. Whatever the case, if the Clans used it that was all she really needed to know.
The datasheet Sanglamore had provided showed the ‘Mech still retained its original electronics. Not only that, the sensors had been fully upgraded, including target acquisition gear, electronic countermeasures, and even satellite communications.
As she brought the lift up looking into the cockpit, she sucked her breath in. The last time she’d seen so many control surfaces and monitors in one place was in the control center of the Boreal Reach, the Class 6 arena in the Black Hills of Solaris City, famous for its extensive holographic terrain and sophisticated environmental controls.
She let her eyes slowly drift across the plethora of switches, gauges, throttles, levers, buttons, registers, petals, and finally the control sticks themselves. She was a trained technician, hell, she’d even seen and worked on some Clan tech, but this setup was mind-boggling. It seemed all but impossible that a single individual could even manage the vast array of controls that surrounded the command couch.
Clearly, the Sloane 220 Lockover must be a serious piece of tech if it could handle all the additional systems that had been installed on this rig. While the Clint was known to be a technician’s nightmare, it was just as equally well known to have been one of the most accurate. And looking at this, she was inclined to believe it.
Armed with an extended-range heavy laser, along with two mediums, the ‘Mech had excellent reach, close to 600 meters, almost on par with that of long range missiles. Far enough to make her wonder about just who had modified this ‘Mech, who had piloted it, and just what had happened to them.
Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t a training academy ‘Mech, that much was for damn sure, leaving her wondering just how Sanglamore Academy had ended up with it in the first place.
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Captain Angus Barclay, Second Kearny Highlanders, Ret., entered the cavernous warehouse referred to as “The Barn.” He was serving as an independent consultant at the behest of Duncan Wallace, the CEO of Bulldog Enterprises on Northwind. Wallace had asked him to travel here to Skye to purchase a Clint BattleMech that was scheduled to be auctioned off by Sanglamore Academy.
He had little trouble locating the machine in question as it was the only BattleMech there. The vast majority of the equipment being auctioned off consisted of outdated datapads, retired computer systems, a collection of heavily used service vehicles and military hardware, including a few old Manticore heavy tanks, ironically built by Bulldog, along with a myriad of damaged holo-displays and old projection equipment. There was also office and classroom furnishing aplenty.
As he approached the Clint, he saw a young woman lowering the lift having just finished her own inspection of the BattleMech. He gave a wry grin. Young meaning anyone under 50 to his old eyes. One look at the 40-ton Clint told him everything he need to know. Wallace had given him a picture of the exact Clint he was looking for and to make matters even easier, one of the members of his old unit, who now taught at Sanglamore, had alerted him to the impending sale.
It had once belonged to another member of Wallace’s old unit, the 69th Virginia Expeditionary Force. A kid by the name of Sigil. Wallace credited him with saving the entire command when they’d unexpectedly run into Clan Ghost Bear on Damian just as the Clan Invasion was unfolding. Of course the stories from that encounter had since become the stuff of legend on Northwind.
By the time Wallace returned, he was married with a wife in tow, the father of a bright eyed little baby girl named Varukka and had adopted a half-Capellan teenaged boy. But that’s not what had started the legend. It began when Wallace, and what was left of his ancestral Castle Airth Guard, had landed on Northwind in a gleaming Clan Union-C class DropShip with its belly stuffed full of salvaged Clan OmniMechs, including a vaunted 100-ton Daishi. And that had been in 3051. It was the first Clan tech Northwind had seen and the Bulldog Enterprise’s Research and Development division had a field day with it.
Shortly afterwards, his father Lachlan had retired, leaving Bulldog Enterprises in Wallace’s hands. After that, Bulldog had gone into full production of their 80-ton Schiltron fire support vehicle along with an upgraded version of their Tokugawa. And after that, they’d entered into a partnership with Cosara Weaponries. Already Cosara was producing the Schiltron under license, and work rebuilding their ‘Mech production facility, rumored to contain a least three different assembly lines, was well underway. It was assumed Cosara would bring their 50-ton Crab, and possibly even their 100-ton King Crab, back into production.
In fact, from his old contacts within the Highlanders, there had been talk of Cosara designing an entirely new BattleMech for use by the Royal Black Watch Regiment of the Second Star League. Of course, rumors about anything and everything had been flying around Northwind recently. The most interesting of which was talk about succeeding from the now sundered Federated Commonwealth and declaring Northwind an independent planet.
Regardless, here he was and just why exactly Wallace was so interested in this old relic was still something of a mystery to him. Must be sentimental attachment. If there was one thing the Highlanders clung to, it was tradition, and that included honoring the fallen. Wallace had said he owed his life to the deceased young man and that he had been among the best MechWarriors he had ever seen, and coming from a man who lived on Northwind, that was quite a claim.
Climbing into the lift and circling the ‘Mech, he noted it was in surprisingly good shape for such an old machine. It matched the pictures exactly, most notably the fins on the back, the custom cockpit, and heavy electronics. He paused a moment looking at the picture once more, except instead of focusing on the ‘Mech, he zoomed into the young man with a huge grin plastered across his face.
He must have been in his twenties, but he certainly looked younger. A mop of unruly sandy brown hair sat atop a fresh, open, and mischievous face. His eyes twinkled from within the picture as if he’d just played some fantastic joke on someone. He wore mechanics overalls heavily stained with coolant, grease, lubricants, and what looked suspiciously like ketchup, along with who knew what else. An impressive array of tools hung from hooks and cinches and he looked like a cross between an awkward teenager and mad scientist and not at all like the MechWarrior he allegedly had been.
Turning to look at the Clint again he couldn’t help notice all the disparate parts that had gone into the thing. It would have made Dr. Frankenstein proud.
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Amp Rogers methodically made his way through the various piles of equipment that would be auctioned off later that afternoon making various notations on his datapad as he went.
He could turn a few Kroners on some of the surplus datapads, a few more if he could get the holo-vid projectors cheap enough and manage to get a few of them working again. The displays and computers were mostly junk, worth a handful of Kroners to a recycler at best.
The only real money to be made would be, predictably, off the military equipment. He made his way over to a line of ragged out service vehicles. To his surprise, a couple of them were 4x4 Avanti GeoLanders. Sticking his head under the hood it was clear they’d seen decades of abuse, undoubtedly at the hands of students. Still, the GeoLander was a tough little utility vehicle and parts were plentiful. The tires were shot, the suspension was little better and body might as well have seen combat, but the frame still looked solid enough and the engine appeared salvageable. For the right price, they would be worth the time and trouble.
Next came a trio of tracked armored personnel carriers. A quick look in the cab revealed they were Drago LT-25s. Real pieces of crap and the machine guns had all been stripped off. After poking around for a few minutes, he could see the drivetrain was shot on one, and across all three the sprockets were mostly stripped and the tracks themselves bore the evidence of countless patches. The bodies had so many welds on them, they looked as if they had been used for target practice. He thought for moment. In fact, maybe they had been. The only value left in them was mostly the weight of the metal. A lot of hassle for little payoff.
The last vehicles were a pair of tracked 60-ton weapon carriers, another product of Drago, one of the local defense companies. Slow, poorly armored, and lacking a turret, like the LT-25s, it was designed for militias on a budget. Whatever weapons had once been installed had been removed, though the armor plating was still largely intact. By the book it had about 20 tons of space available for weapons, power amplifiers, and heat sinks. The variants of it were almost endless, dual AC/5s or a single AC/20 being the most common, backed up with heavy machine guns.
Looking into the engine compartment of the first, he could tell instantly it had caught fire. Peeking into the crew compartment he saw evidence of fire there as well. This one was junk. Moving over to examine the second one, the gas turbine looked well-worn and there wasn’t any obvious damage. At least not until he looked under the hull. The torsion bar suspension had been all but ripped out and it looked as if the weapon carrier had been driven up onto a rock and then been forcible dragged off it, bending the frame, no less, in the process. No easy money here.
Finally, he made his way over to the only real prize in The Barn, the Clint. He’d been coming to The Barn for years to buy up surplus equipment and resell it on the local market, and even occasionally to the Lyran market at large if the profit margin was high enough. But it was unusual for the Academy to be selling an intact BattleMech, in fact, he couldn’t recall the last time they’d sold one. Or even if they’d ever sold one. But one thing was true. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was more profitable than BattleMechs. If he could score this thing, he could probably set himself up for life.
An older man clad in tartan was walking away from it as he came up. Hopping into the lift, the first thing he noticed were the weapons were all intact. Driving the lift over to the right arm he was shocked to see the exposed innards of a heavy laser. A real military grade heavy laser. Poking around, he located the identification plate.
Model: ERHL-600
Serial #: 10057865
Firmir Weaponry
Betelgeuse, Capellan Confederation
7-May-3047
He whistled. Damn. This was the real deal. Looking down at his datapad, he saw where the Clint was also reported to have two medium class lasers as well. Normally the datasheets the Academy provided were based off some ancient database of fixed assets that hadn’t been updated for decades. The LT-25’s had shown they carried heavy machine guns which, naturally, were no longer there.
Maneuvering the lift over to the chest he began looking around. Sure enough, a medium class laser. It seemed to be contained in some kind of sophisticated shock mount that including a three-axis gimbal. A little investigation revealed it was an Abderdovey Mk. II out of Tematagi in the Free Worlds League. He located a second, identical one, a few minutes later.
Leaning back against the handrail of the lift, he brought up a vidlink to his partner. “Yo, Ozzie! I got the real deal down here at The Barn. I’m looking at a fully armed 40-ton Clint BattleMech. I’ve just started checking it over, but I can tell you already this thing is a freaking prize. If we manage to get our hands on this thing, we’ll make more money than even you know what to do with. Check all of our accounts. I want to know exactly how much cash we can pull together to throw at this thing. Hit me back as soon as you can, this things goes on the block in about three hours!”
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Balthazar Lyons surreptitiously cataloged all of the goings on around the 40-ton Clint that dominated the warehouse as he examined the numerous piles of surplus scrap with feigned interest, waiting for the auction to begin. Five different individuals had given it a thorough inspection. Two of which were local, the other three being offworlders.
Of the two locals, the local junk dealer was unimportant, but the fact that Ballard Kundrin was here told him everything he needed to know. Kundrin was an undercover ComStar ROM agent and the fact that he had stuck around after checking out the Clint all but confirmed his own suspicions. This was the Clint he was looking for.
One of the offworlders was almost certainly a member of the Northwind Highlanders judging from both his dress and accent. One was a Free Trader, undoubtedly acting as an agent for some other organization, and the last, a woman, was an unknown.
Seeing the Clint unoccupied, he made he made his way over to the lift next to it. With a few deft motions, he stood looking into the cockpit. Climbing in, he verified the serial number, and withdrawing a small unremarkable black plastic rectangle from his pocket, he fixed it underneath the main instrumentation cluster.
If he couldn’t have this Clint, no one would.
May Blake be praised.
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