Hey all, Smith here. I got some pretty good feedback on the last segment that I posted here so I thought I'd get something else finished up. The following is the first three segments of a story I am writing about a young man named Paul who desperately wants to become a mechwarrior and his introduction to the realities of that lifestyle. This is just a first pass, and I am planning on interweaving several other characters in between the segments posted below so this is sort of a work in progress. I'll continue to post as I make progress. Thanks for reading.
Smith
Denver Arcology
Colorado System
Federated Commonwealth
June 3035
Paul ran with a mad intensity through the corridors and passageways that crisscrossed the Denver arcology, pushing past maintenance workers and off-duty miners as he homed in on his objective... The mail room.
The Denver arcology was a sprawling eight-hundred-year-old complex of rusting iron beams, rotting floorboards, and dripping lime stalactites that seemed to grow from every bit of exposed ferrocrete. In fact, the ancient central heating system was city's only real attraction. A massive fusion reactor generating the kind of heat that the system's star never would. Colorado was an ice ball, with equatorial temperatures around seventeen degrees, and Denver was nowhere near equatorial. Winter temperatures could easily hit negative sixty. It wasn't an optimal place to build a city, but it's where the Germanium was so it's where just about everyone lived.
Paul rounded a corner and crashed into a large steel dumpster. He wavered, starting to fall, but managed to catch himself. He kept running. He rounded another corner and ducked under an exposed pipe. He could now see the small neon sign that marked the entrance to the FedComEx central office. His heart sank as he noticed the seemingly endless line of customers waiting for service.
“Weak,” he said to no one in particular.
An elderly man turned to him “Parcel system's just not the same since unification.” he said. “Of course a kid your age probably wouldn't remember what things were like before unification.
“I remember a lot before unification,” Paul said.
“Do you now, boy,” the man said, and Paul remembered his father. Not his face, not the details of him, just his presence, just the way he used to be there and now he wasn't.
“I do,” Paul said.
“What brings a young man such as yourself to this godforsaken place on a beautiful Friday afternoon? I can't image waiting in this line if I didn't need my pension check so damned bad. A boy your age must have big plans for the weekend, am I right?”
“I'm hoping to pick up a letter from the Robinson Battle Academy,” he said.
“Robinson eh, well that's an interesting choice, why not somewhere closer to home?”
“My father went there, and they have a scholarship program for the families of veterans.”
“Huh,” the old man said. “You know, I'm a veteran. Thirty-Five years in the Forty-Second Avalon Hussars. That was during the third succession war you know. Well, most of my life was during the third succession war, but that's just how it was...” The old man trailed off, lost in the memories of another life, then suddenly he snapped back to reality, his eyes locked onto Paul like a targeting laser.
“Sorry there kid, sometimes I get a little lost. My name's Wilson. Wilson Davis” he reached out to offer his hand. Paul took it.
“I'm Paul Anderson, it's nice to meet you, sir.”
“So what kind of job are you are you looking to get with that fancy RBA degree?' he asked.
“Well I know it's what every kid my age says, but I want to become a mechwarrior” Paul responded.
“I remember being your age. I was the same way. I had it bad you know. I read all the mechwarrior adventure comics. I built the model kits. I wanted to be a mechwarrior so badly. But, you know it was hard times back then. Seventy years ago it seemed like the Inner Sphere was crumbling apart. When I was born the Third Succession war had already been going on for a hundred years, and it just wouldn't stop. We knew our history, we understood the reasoning behind the war,but we also knew what we were losing. We all hoped that if we could just band together and win the damned war, well then maybe, just maybe, the golden age of the Star League would return. Anyway, I'm getting off topic here, and I'm probably boring you to death.”
“No. You're not boring me at all.” Paul said “We've got a long wait and I could use the distraction”
“Oh, well okay son. You see the thing is back then it was really difficult to become a mechwarrior. If your family didn't own a battlemech, it was damned near impossible to get a job driving one. But I was determined, and I eventually managed to do it.” The old man trailed off again and Paul thought he'd finished his story when he started again.
“When I joined up, I marched myself right into a recruiting station and said 'I want to be a Mechwarrior!' The recruited didn't tell me that there were hardly any mechs to pilot. He just got out the paperwork and had me sign everything. So, I joined up as a mechwarrior. I received all the training. I was capable, and I scored well in the sims, but in that time there were three or four of us for every available machine. In fact, you were required to take on an additional MOS so they could stick you in an actual combat role. I hear some mercenaries still follow the practice today. The only real tactical benefit was that you had so many available pilots that you could run your battlemechs almost twenty-four seven. A lance would return from patrol the pilots would jump out. The ground crew would go to work re-arming, and new pilots would climb into the cockpits. Just like that, away they'd go. Sometimes they didn't even cool the reactors off. Anyway, I tried for another combat role, like on a tank crew, or even the infantry, but I got stuck working as a technician. It was hard. Long days, of grueling, dirty work. You had to know a lot, and you had to develop a lot of different skills. I remember always smelling like axle grease, which made it really hard to meet girls. Axle grease smells pretty terrible, and whenever you go out people know you're a grease monkey, but it wasn't all bad. I was close to the machines and their pilots. I learned a lot and made some friends. I knew there was a pretty high pilot attrition rate, and I thought 'if a slot opens up I'm right here ready to go'. Turns out, that was the best place to be. One night a patrol comes back in for refit, and two of our machines a Griffin and a Shadow Hawk are dragging a disabled Commando in by the feet. This thing looks almost mint except where the auto-cannon round had penetrated the cockpit. Turned the previous owner into a sticky mess, that took a long time to clean up. Anyway, the Griffin pilot was a friend of mine, and the deal was if I could get the sucker running I'd have my own ride.”
“So you were a scout pilot?”
“Well for a while I was, but I was determined to get something a bit bigger. I fixed that little bugger up and started going out on patrols with the rest of my unit. One evening while scouting out this old logging road, I see three mechs escorting a bunch of trucks. I called it in and we manage to set up an ambush a few miles down the road. They walked right into it. I was behind them following from a safe distance when the rest of my company sprang the trap. Poor bastards didn't even know what hit em. Two of the three mechs went down instantly. The truck cabs all got raked with machine gun fire. It was a mess. They never had a chance. But this one Cappie mech manages to pop some smoke and get turned around. Well, he's turned around and he's coming right at me. We see each other and I know he's still a hell of a threat. My targeting computer starts going crazy and identifies the target as a sixty-five ton Crusader. He's pretty dinged up, but he's also got forty tons on me. We go into the merge. I fire some missiles. He fires some missiles. It was scary taking on a machine that much bigger than mine, but I managed to take him out. On my third pass; I hit the ammunition feed for his leg mounted missiles and sure enough, he went right down. I was given first dibs on the salvage, and I ended up running that old Crusader for the rest of my career. She was a great machine, I named her Alice.”
“What happened to her?”
“Well when I retired from combat duty she got sent out for a factory refit, and repainting, after that she was handed off to a young Lieutenant, who had just transferred into the unit. That was about thirty-five years ago, so I can't say I really know what happened to her. I'd like to imagine that she saw that young woman through her entire career as well and if that's the case she's probably been patched up and painted again by now for some other young mechwarrior to use.”
“Wow. It sure is crazy to think, that there are battlemechs out there still in use after hundreds of years of service.”
“It's a strange situation indeed. Alice was an ancient relic long before I ever blew her leg off. She dated back to Star League era production. Of course, she'd already been rebuilt so many times I doubt any one part of her was actually original. The really strange thing is that the people who built her never meant for her to serve as long as she did. I've heard that the expected service life of a battlemech in the SLDF was only ten to twenty years.” he paused for a moment then asked, “So your father is a mechwarrior?”
“He was... He died on Deshler seven years ago.”
“I'm sorry to hear that son.” The old man got that far away look in his eyes again. When he began again he did so by changing the subject “So what kind of Battlemech are you most interested in piloting?”
“I'm not sure. My father was a Marauder pilot, I guess I've always thought I would be too, but I'd be happy to pilot any mech. My friends and I spend a lot of time at the arcade playing the sim games. I really like the Rifleman and Jagermech, but I know that the real thing must be very different. Mostly I'm just hoping I get the chance. I'm really worried that my application to the Robinson Battle Academy will be rejected.” There was a pause, and Paul realized they were at the front of the line. The woman behind the counter yelled next. Wilson pushed Paul out in front of himself
“Go ahead kid, you're in more of a hurry than I am.”
Paul thanked him and walked to the counter.
“My name is Paul Anderson and I'm expecting a letter from the Robinson Battle Academy,” he said.
“Anderson eh; well give me a moment” The FedComEx woman turned and disappeared into the back room. A moment later she returned with a letter.
“Here you go mister Anderson,” she said.
Paul thanked her without looking up. He couldn't take his eye's off of the letter in his hands. He turned slowly and walked out of the post office. Outside he carelessly walked into a support beam, but even that wasn't enough to break his fixation. Paul opened the letter...
Dear Mr. Anderson
We have reviewed your application to the Robinson Battle Academy, and while we find you more than meet our requirements for incoming students, we regret to inform you, that due to financial concerns we are unable to admit you to the academy at this time. Due to budgetary cutbacks, we are unable to support our normal scholarship programs, and while we are greatly indebted to your late father by his service to the Commonwealth we simply cannot afford to admit you this fall. We are hopeful that this situation will improve over the next year and we will retain your application for future screening.
Sincerely
William T Hemsworth
Dean of Admissions
Robinson Battle Academy
Paul lowered the letter and sank to the floor. That was it. He wasn't going to the Robinson Battle Academy. He wasn't going to be a mechwarrior. He'd probably end up spending the rest of his life in a Germanium mine like his mother. The weight of his own ambitions crushed him to the floor. Somewhere far away, a voice asked him if he was okay. He didn't answer, but a moment later a more familiar voice said “So how'd it go?” it was Davis.
“I didn't get in,” He said. “They've canceled their scholarship program."
“I'm sorry to hear that son, did you apply anywhere else?”
“No, that was the only option.”
“Well, there's always another option kid.” Davis paused for a long time and Paul thought he'd drifted off again.
“I know!” The old man exclaimed “You come with me boy; they're some people we've got to talk to”
Paul was confused, and not fully reattached to reality, but he decided to follow Davis regardless. What's the worst that could happen? Paul thought as he followed Davis through the halls and corridors of the arcology, eventually stopping at the sector gamma elevator bank. They entered a car and Davis punched the button for the fist floor. Now Paul was really confused. He'd never been to the first floor. The Denver arcology was massive with over two hundred and fifty floors, and a footprint of twenty square kilometers. About a third of those floors were above ground, the rest descended deeply below the planet's cold rocky surface. The uppermost floors were reserved for plant life. The majority of people lived and worked between levels eighty, and two hundred forty. The first ten or so floors were filled with machinery; all of the equipment needed to maintain a livable environment. No one lived down there, and no one went down there. At least no one Paul knew.
Davis turned to Paul in the elevator “you're going to love this place kid! Well actually you're a bit young for it, but I'm sure they won't give us any problems” The elevator stopped suddenly and opened to reveal a world of rusty red pipes. There were lines painted on the floor that said things like “reactor room”, “waterworks”, and “heat exchange”. Davis headed down a narrow corridor towards the reactor room. As he followed, Paul noticed the temperature edging higher and higher. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt as he went. They kept on, farther and farther into the workings of the city. At one point they had to duck down under piping that came out of the wall waist high. Finally, they came to a rusty steel hatch with a large wheel on it, and a tiny porthole window. It looked like something more at home on a spaceship than in the basement of a city. Davis knocked loudly on the port hole three times, before stepping away. Suddenly there was a face pressed against the window from the other side. A bulging eye looking at them for a long moment then the wheel started to turn. Slowly at first, then increasing in speed until it seemed to be flying around its axis too quickly to see. There was a metallic bang, and the wheel stopped. The metal door slowly opened. It's rusty hinges screaming under the weight. His sense of hearing was suddenly drowned out, and the corridor became filled with the sound of heavy metal music.
Davis turned to Paul and said
“Welcome to The Heat Sink, it's the only mech jock bar in town.”
They entered through the hatch and found the establishment already packed with customers. It was dark and smelled of stale beer and sweat. As hot as it had been in the hall, it was even hotter inside the bar. To their left one wall was dominated by the bar itself, which seemed to be made of metal rather than wood. The center of the room had a few tables and chairs scattered around, and to the right, there was an open area just big enough for a pool table. Against the wall on the right were two battlemech simulator pods. Paul followed Davis to the bar. He noticed that younger patrons seemed to go out of their way to make room for Davis. They sat down, and the man behind the counter said
“General Davis, what can I do for you this evening?”
“Well, Stan I'm not really sure. A funny thing happened to me today on the way to the mail room, to pick up my pension check. Seems this kid is Vince Anderson's son. People around them at the bar were suddenly quiet, and the bartender just stared at him. Without saying anything the man turned around and started pacing the bar looking for something. Paul noticed that a lot of the other people in the bar were either looking at him or watching the bartender as he searched. Suddenly he stopped his gaze fixed on something way up on the top shelf. He was a short man, and he had to use a step ladder to retrieve it. He returned to the bar with a dull, steel gray, beer stein, which he proceeded to clean, before filling it with Fed Rat Ale. Finally, he placed the full stein in front of Paul. The stein had the silhouette of a MAD-3R Marauder on it. Under that was printed Vincent “Rapier” Anderson in bold font. Paul didn't know what to do. He wasn't even old enough to drink, of course, that had never stopped him before. Everyone was watching him. Without saying a word he raised the stein and began to drink. The bar went nuts. People were cheering and patting him on the back, Paul had no idea why. He'd barely known his father, and he didn't think he'd ever been home long enough to have a bunch of friends at a secret bar on the first floor. The bartender was the first to introduce himself.
“Name's Stanley, and I run this piss poor excuse for a watering hole. It's great to finally have you back here Paul.”
“I'm sorry, but I've never been here before in my life,” Paul said.
“Well son, thing is, you actually have.” Stanley turned again, scanning the wall behind the bottles. He reached in and returned with a small photograph. He handed it to Paul. The photo was a picture of Paul's father Vince holding up an infant with one arm, and the dull gray beer stein with the other. He was smiling. “I took that picture of you and your old man the first time you ever came in here. It wasn't a long stay. Your mom showed up a bit after that. I thought she'd kill the lot of us, but she just walked in, grabbed you, gave your father a good hard slap in the face, and took you home.”
“Oh, so I guess I have. I don't remember ever having been here, was that the only time?”
“Only the one time, after that your mother would have killed him, I'm sure of that, and she could've done it too, Jessica's one heck of a tough lady.”
“Yeah she is.”
“So what brings you to our humble piss pot?” Stanley asked.
“The kid just got rejected at the RBA. I thought maybe someone here could help find a place where he could go to get his legs under him.” Davis said.
“So the RBA wouldn't take the son of Vince Anderson eh? ******' ass clowns!” Stan said.
“They said I tested well enough, and they thanked me for my father's service, but they said they can't afford the scholarship program this year.”
“Figures. If those poor bastards could go more than fifteen, or twenty years without getting their school blown up by Dracs, they'd probably be better off with the bank. Well, I'm not sure what I can do for you, but I know I can do this.” As he said it, he turned and reached for something under the bar. Suddenly the music was dead and Stan was yelling over everyone for attention. “Listen up you drunk bastards! As you all saw moments ago, this kid is Vince Anderson's son. He wants to follow in his father's footsteps, but he got rejected by the RBA. He doesn't come from Sandoval money so they don't have a place for him. If anyone here can help this kid find a good school they drink free for life!”
There was murmuring in the crowd. Most of the bar's customers went back to whatever they'd been doing before Stan's announcement, but a few were talking. Phones came out of pockets as some moved to quieter areas. Paul turned back to Stanley and said,
“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
“It's the least I can do,” Stanley responded.
Paul drank his beer.
Paul ended up hanging out at The Heat Sink for the rest of the afternoon, and into the evening. The beer was free, and Davis' war stories were the stuff of legend. He also learned a lot more about the bar. As it turned out; the Bar itself was made of a large piece of armor plating from an Archer battlemech that had belonged to Stanley's great grandfather. He found that happy hour coincided with the time when the local mining mech operators got off shift from Basantapur Fine Metals, and he got to see first hand that the sim pods at the back of the room were used as a way for customers to end disputes without resorting to violence. Davis was right, he loved this place. It was getting past nine, and Paul was on his fifth beer when he saw her. Easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life. Tall, and thin with shoulder length hair so black it made her leather jacket look bright by comparison. He couldn't take his eyes off of her, which was how he noticed that she was walking right up to him.
“You Anderson's kid?” She asked.
“I.. I... I'm eh. Paul. Yeah, that's it, Paul Anderson” He finally managed to say sticking out his hand.
She didn't take it. Instead, she turned to the bar and waved Stanley over. Stan saw her and headed over, grabbing a shot glass and a fifth of Capellan Vodka as he did so. He poured her a shot before asking.
“Jinx, what brings you here this evening?”
“Word on the street is that you need an in, with a battle academy, and your offering free drinks for life to anyone who can provide. That true?” She asked.
“Sure is”
“My cousin is an instructor at the Black Jack School of Combat over in Lyran space. He's got an open seat for your boy here, but it won't be cheap.”
“Black Jack eh? That schools got something of a reputation, you know.”
“What sort of reputation?” Paul asked.
'They make mercs” Jinx said.
“Paul, if you want mechwarrior training this is a great option, but let me warn you. The Commonwealth fills new officer dockets from its top tier schools first, its middle of the road schools second, and its mercenary filled, for-profit colleges, not at all. If you want a commission with the Commonwealth this isn't the way to go” Davis said.
“I wouldn't mind that. I just want to pilot battlemechs, but I don't think it would work anyway. She said it wasn't cheap. I'm not exactly rolling in C-bills, so I guess it's a life in the mines for me. Maybe they'll let me operate one of those mining mechs.”
“Not so fast kiddo. We've got a way of raising some C-bills down here that I think you're going to like.” Stan reached over and killed the music again. Then he pulled a small box from under the bar and placed it on the table.
“Listen up you sons of bitches! I've got ten thousand C-bills in this box, and I'm going to put it all on the line to help my friend Paul here get into a good school, or maybe I'll lose it to one of you ass hats. We're going to have a good old fashion battle tourney! Thousand C-bill buy in! WINNER TAKES ALL!”
The bar lite up like fireworks. People were screaming, cheering, and waving cash around. Davis turned to Stanley and said,
“Now you've done it. Every halfwit, wannabe mech jock, industrial machine operator is going to want in on this, and we're going to have to beat em all.”
“General, I thought you enjoyed a challenge.”
“I do, but this won't be one. I'm just cranky because I'm an old man and this little contest of yours is going to take me all night.”
“Well, I've got some stims if you need em?”
“Stan, I'm almost eighty years old. Do you have any idea what would happen to my heart if I started popping stims like some kind of twenty-something punk?”
“Yeah, you'd probably die... well suit yourself,” Stan said as he threw a handful of pills to the back of this throat, followed immediately with a shot of bourbon.
“You crazy bastard, that shit's going to kill you one of these days,” Davis said as reached into his pocket and grabbed out a stack of paper bills. “Here's the cash for the kid, and I,” he said, as he handed the money over to Stanley.
“Sir, I can't let you” Davis cut him off before he could finish
“You can, and you will. Kid. I'm an old man, and I've seen a lot of things, but I've really only got one great piece of advice for you. When people are trying to help you. Let em.”
“Thank you, Wilson”
“It's no problem kid, what you need to start thinking about is what you're going to run during the fight, and how you're going to win. Most of the people in this bar aren't real mechwarriors. They're industrial operators from the mines, and a bunch more are wannabes that we allow to hang out in here, but charge extra for drinks. Now a few of us are actual mech jocks, and one of those few is going to come out on top of this thing.”
“Who are the real mechwarriors here?” Paul asked
“Well there's Stan, and I to start with. You know my story already, but Stanley here was a Lieutenant in the AFFS. He also served with a mercenary lance for several years. He's easily the best Quickdraw pilot I've seen. That fat man in the far corner is Red Conlin. He's a Free Worlds League immigrant, and supposedly he was an assault mech pilot in the thirteenth Marik Militia. I don't know much about him, but if he was an assault pilot in the FWLM watch for either an Awesome or a Stalker. My money's on the Stalker because the dumpster chickens love long range missiles the way we love cannons. Okay, so you see those two playing pool? The really thin guy, and the woman with the bionic arm? That's Anton Borislav Sergeyevich and Farha Nazar. They've been lying low here for a few months now. From what I gather they're either revolutionaries from the Saint Ives Compact, or they're the kind of people who hunt down revolutionaries from the Saint Ives Compact. Either way, both seem to be trained as mechwarriors, but that's not their primary skill set. A few weeks ago we watched some ****** digger pick a fight with Anton. The poor guy ended up in the hospital, and I think he's still there. I've never seen them in the pods, but if they're Capellan trained they're most likely to run CCAF machines like the Cataphract, or the Catapult. Oh, and there's Jinx. She's young and inexperienced, but she's got good instincts. She's only a year or two out of the academy and as I understand it she hasn't found a job yet. She's dangerous; if you get a match with her, use cover to get in close. She loves long range weapons. Expect a Marauder, or a Warhammer. Anything with particle cannons. She's something of a Kerensky wannabe... but don't tell her I said that.”
“Okay, so most of the competition is going to be miners. Any idea what they'll be running” Paul asked.
Stan looked at Wilson and started to grin. Wilson started to laugh, then stopped himself.
“Well kid, they're miners. They spend all day every day, grinding rocks into dirt with giant mech sized drilling rigs. They like it up close and personal, and there's this new battlemech that they're all in love with. Have you ever heard a Hatchetmen?”
“I've heard of it. It's the first new design in decades. It was built for urban combat right?”
“Yeah, and that's about all it's any good for,” Stan said. “Just keep them out past arm's length and you'll have no problems at all.”
“So my best bet is to bring long range weapons, and maintain a good distance?”
“That will work for most of them, but you'll have problems with Conlin, and Jinx. Either way, just do your best kid, you don't have to win this thing alone.”
The bar slowly settled down as the entries came in and the brackets were established. In the first round, Paul would have to beat a miner named Quinn Connolly. He was excited, knowing this was his first chance to prove himself as a mechwarrior. Paul didn't think he would be able to win the pot, but he was hoping, he could make it for a round or two.
