DropShip Dovana,
Galatea Drop Port CGalatea, Lyran Commonwealth
July 9th, 2954 0340 Local Time
Jake Natchez hated landings almost as much as he hated deserts. The DropShip
Dovana had finished it's riotous descent towards Galatea and his nose stung from the acrid dropship air of the past few weeks and the film of lubricants and ozone that seemed to permeate everything when a two hundred year old, three thousand ton lawn dart hurtles to the ground. His olive skin was an odd shade when you added the irritation.
Most of his long journey to Galtea had been miserable, but the last leg seemed to be the worst. The crew of the
Dovana were Capellans, but from a much different world than Carver V, one much more rimward. With worse cuisine. Jake shook his head at the thought of more beet stew as he unstrapped from his his seat. When he grabbed his faded green, mildewed flight bag he began to think of how the smells right now were so different from those of home. He thought of freedom, he thought of the ocean back on Carver V and the warmth and familiarity of home.
The klaxon broke the spell of home. There was short burst of noise and then a recorded voice spoke that spoke in a proper Star League accent: WE ARE CLEARED FOR DEBARKATION, PLEASE ENSURE YOU HAVE ALL OF YOUR BELONGINGS. Jake heeded the voice and made a quick sweep of the room. He had gotten the habit of making sure not leave things since he lost his assigned technical manual on a commuter train in Sian on his first weekend pass from the academy. It was his last pass of that semester.
He stood in line behind the other few passengers as the bay door hissed open. The changing pressure popped his ears immediately and he wished to God that there was one DropShip Captain in the entire Inner Sphere who knew how to equalize the pressure properly instead of boasting that it didn't bother him and the ability to avoid the disorientation made you more of a man.
Thanks a lot Cap, I only need my eardrums to pilot a 60 ton war machine without falling over the first rock I encounter. The thought was interrupted by the the wonder of whether or not he needed to physically push his eyes back in.
He was next assaulted by the air rushing in. He had expected the heat of it, but what he didn't expect was that the
Dovana's recirculators produced better air than Galtea. The noise was about what he expected, he leaned to the side so he could see the ground crew member yelling to the first person in line. He was nothing but an orange vest and hat, aviator glasses and lots of gesticulation. There were words coming out of the man's mouth but they were a secret between himself, the first passenger in line and the DropShip engines. He patted the first passenger on the shoulder and moved his arm over his shoulder in a “follow me” gesture.
As the passengers filed out of the bay and began their flight from the
Dovana he could feel the heat in the night air. The drop pad was hot from the superheated plasma of the descending Dropship engines that were battering it just minutes ago. He was glad his boots weren't rubber soled as he could see that the passengers before him were leaving black smudges on the ferrocrete surface. After a hundred meter shuffle they reached the concourse blast door. The group kept their eyes fixated door as the whirlwind of unbearably hot air coming from a nearby landing kept backs in that direction. They huddled as the door opened, trying to keep airflow from coming through them just to come back towards their woefully unprotected faces.
Blake's blood! he thought as first cracks of light peered between the two halves of the door. I really hope the drama isn't on purpose. A few moments later and there was enough room for people to squeeze through but as the first passenger moved to duck through the ground crewman intervened. Using two hands into a “stay back” gesture. His mouth moved uselessly as he motioned is hands together in a clap.
Are you kidding me? The door is taking flipping 5 minutes to open it can't possibly just snap shut like that. Jake hated safety, not true safety of course just the fake “safety” made by those with no real world experience. The kind people write in manuals.
Jake and the rest of the passengers stepped quick-time as they waited for the door to open. He was sure there was a loudspeaker somewhere impotently playing “Also Sprach Zarathustra” into the cacophony. After a dramatically suitable amount of time the ground crewman was satisfied the door wasn't going to magically snap shut and crush them all the motioned them forward. They moved through the blast door and down a corridor. The noise began to subside as they delved deeper into the Drop Port.
After a few turns in the corridor they came through a sliding door into the Port proper. Here the structure opened up and reached towards the sky. There were at least a dozen levels that could be seen, people filling all of them. The group he had traveled with the past few weeks dispersed without a word to each other. He made his way to a customs officer in Lyran blue. The man put on a concerned face as he appraised Jake.
Does the Capellan Flag bandanna say, “too out of work and desperate'? I knew I should have kept it stowed. He thought about taking it off but instead just fumbled with it nervously, inadvertently loosening his longish black hair into his face.
The customs officer looked at him skeptically in a heavy German accent “Papers, sir?” The color drained from Jake's face as he looked at the man. He felt dizzy. The man persisted, “Sir, your papers?” this time in a slightly more stern and annoyed voice. Jake started to pat his vest pockets for documentation that he knew wasn't there. He began to feel panicked. Just at that point the officer began laughing. He spoke again, this time in a much less heavy accent. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry! But you looked the nervous type and that joke works so well on first-timers. All I need is a peek in your luggage to make sure you aren't bringing a rocket launcher into the building.”
Relief washed over Jake as lugged his flight bag onto the counter, making sure let it's mildewed odor waft onto the man. He stood a little more confidently as he set down the bag. He smirked as he finally spoke, knowing that the contents of the bag would change the customs man's opinion “Have a look”. The man looked indifferent as he unzipped the bag, sitting on top and taking up most of the space was Jake's pride: a large helmet with an translucent faceplate bolted and affixed to a set of shoulder pads to support it's unwieldiness-- his Neurohelmet.
“Ah, a MechWarrior.” the officer replied, his eyes a little too wide for genuine surprise. “One in a million, you must have very good genes.” he continued as he rummaged through Jake's other meager belongings. Jake fumed, his ego burst as he realized this man has to see a hundred MechWarriors a day. “What unit are you with?” the customs man asked?
“Uhh..independent.” Jake got out as he watched the man poke between his only other change of clothes and his flack jacket.
“I see, what machine do you pilot? I figure you for a
Blackjack pilot.” he continued, squinting at Jake as if he could see beyond him to grab his prediction. He looked back down to purposefully avoid touching Jake's rolled up socks, which for some reason Jake took as more of an insult than the patronizing questions.
“I'm..uhh...at the moment...dispossessed...for now.”
The custom's officer feigned shock and sympathy with an aghast look. “I'm very sorry for your loss, sir. Dispossession seems to be such a common malady these days.” as he finished he looked at Jake knowingly, lips almost in a pout. Finally Jake had had enough, “I think we're done.” Jake uttered as he gathered the handles to his bag without even zipping it. Gathering himself up as much internally as he was picking up all his worldly possessions.
“Indeed we are.” the customs man replied. He called to Jake after he had take a few steps from the desk, “May you find glory and fortune, MechWarrior!” in his best
Immortal Warrior imitation, chin tucked down to accentuate his mock seriousness. Jake didn't look back but he could he the man's chuckle.
Blessed Blake, why are there people like that? Jake continued to the nearest eatery where he could find some non-beet food. He settled on a falafel stand on the periphery of the atrium and sat down after getting his food. It wasn't bad. He looked at the giant screen above him. Showing advertisements for all manner of equipment and food and other wares. He had expected to see a lot more advertisements for recruiting. He munched on his falafel as he counted his cash, it wasn't much and he hoped it would get him far along until a paycheck. After tucking his cash back into his sock he finally noticed what he had been looking for.
Honor and Glory Await!!
Do you have what it takes to earn your way in the galaxy?
Come to the Hiring Hall!
Comstar and the MRB will help put you with employers who will pay top dollar for your skills!
Sign up today!
[/i]
Following the ad was an address and directions from the Drop Port atrium. Jake swallowed the last of his falafel and went straight to the Hiring Hall. It wasn't hard to find, but it did involve a lot of jostling with the crowds and Jake was the the victim of either three sexual assaults or three failed attempts to pick his back and front pockets. He had to kick one urchin that tried to get at his sock.
He entered the Hiring Hall and was disappointed when it involved less drama than the blast door outside. It was loud and raucous enough, but would-be soldiers of fortune didn't seem to have their heart in it. Jake looked at the kiosk and seen an arrow that said “MechWarriors over it and went in that direction. The line seemed a bit shorter. He took a number from the dispenser. His number was 86, The counter was on 78. It wouldn't be long, he thought. He found a spot with two empty seats on the end. He put his bag on one seat on the end and took the other. He put his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, and exhaled. No sooner had he done that when he felt a foot nudging his leg. He opened his eyes to see a tall, bald, fat man squinting at him. He was well over two meters and Jake guessed at least 180 kilos. He had the
daisho of a Combine MechWarrior strapped to his waist.
“Hey buddy, no saving seats” the fat man informed him.
“Sorry, just wanted to keep a good eye on my gear.” Jake responded.
“Yeah, well, under the seat works well too, kid.” the man lectured. Jake to his bag off the seat and held it awkwardly in his lap as the man settled down into the end seat that Jake immediately regretted using for his bag and not himself. The enormity of the man and his presence took up a good portion of Jake's space, that combined with the space his flight bag took up left little room for Jake who was now looking for anyplace besides under the seat to stow his bag. As Jake sat hugging his bag the man looked at him, “Pretty stubborn, huh? Must be a Cappie.”
Jake glared, “And...” he questioned.
“And nothing.” the big man replied. “Just you guys are known to be stubborn. Look, we got off on the wrong foot.” The man extended his gigantic hand, “The names Edqist, Kinta Edqist. From Rasalhague.”
Jake allowed the hand to envelop his, “Jake Natchez, most recently from Douglas P. Hasek Prisoner of War camp on Lee.”
Kinta winced at the mention of Lee, “Ouch, I heard that was bad for the guys on the ground. They're calling it 'The Great Lee Turkey Shoot' or something like that. Sounds bad, how did you spring it?”
Jake sighed, “I'd rather not say.”
Kinta nodded. “I hear ya. I got my
Javelin shot out from under me by some mewling Sandoval brat. It looked like we were all lined up to duel, his P-Hawk had a few tons on me but the way his voice sounded on the comm demanded that he be shut up in the most definite manner possible. Blake, he sounded like he was having tea in his cockpit.” Kinta mimed putting up a monocle and holding a dainty tea cup with his pinky finger out.
Jake continued to listen as he stuffed his bag under his seat. “Anyway, we get down to it and as soon I put an SRM salvo into his chest , an LRM strike blast off my right leg.” He slapped his own right leg for emphasis. Apparently, Daddy Sadoval didn't appreciate his little boy being messed with. He tells the kid to put me down like I'm his sick hamster. Of course my lance tries to cover for me but they were outmatched by the command lance. My reactor was done for by then and there I was siting in a swamp on Mallory's World. If I went back to Regiment without my 'Mech I had a feeling I would be expected to commit
seppuku. Even though the duel was broken, I had upset my
Sho-sa months ago and was looking for a way to get rid of me. He had wanted to duel but we were in the middle of repelling a raid. I would have had to refuse his duel. So here I am until I can get my own ride to go back and give him satisfaction.”
“NUMBER 86” a voice called out. It was the same voice as the dropship and the same one used on 'Mech startup protocols. He wonders if anyone has developed a different computer voice since the Cameron's were a House. “Well, that's me.” He let go of his flight bag to shake hands with Kinta again.
“Take care. Let's go blast some Fedrats together sometime.”
Kinta took his hand and gave a slight nod, “Sure thing, kid. See ya' out there.”
Jake reported to the front desk to talk to the young lady in glasses seated behind a plate glass window.
“The MRB fee for new MechWarriors is two-thousand C-Bills how do you want to pay?” The receptionist asked in what seemed a purposefully nasally voice.
“What?” Jake looked at her quizzically.
“The fee for new MechWarrior Registration is 2000 C-Bills. If you don't have the cash we can hold lien against your BattleMech until you get a contract.
“That's ridiculous!” Jake was exasperated.
“Well sir, that's the fee.”
“I have my Neurohelmet, that has to be worth something, right?”
“That may be sir, but we can't hold for payment.”
Jake briefly though about asking Kinta for the loan but decided against it. Jake huffed: “Fine, I'll be back with the money.” He turned around and walked out.
It took Jake all of thirty seconds after walking out of the front door to find a surplus shop. Han's Discount Hardware and pawn was flanked by a liquor store on one side and an even less reputable business on the other. He entered the front with his flight bag over his shoulder the shop was about as dingy as the rest of this street on Galatea, there was a balding and graying man with a hooked nose behind what he assumed was ballistic glass inspecting a computer monitor, seemingly uninterested in the interloper coming into his store.
Jake positioned himself in front of the desk. Finally, he had to knock on the glass to get service.
“Can I help you, sir?” the old man asked.
“Yeah” Jake replied, “I need to pawn this Neurohelmet.” He pulled the bulky helmet out of his flight bag and hefted it onto the counter.
“I'll give you 1,500 for it.” the old man spat the words out like a curse.
“No way, this is worth at least five thousand.” Jake shook his head and thought,
Is every person on this planet trying to chisel me? Jake appealed to the store clerk, “They barely make these now days, it's practically LosTech.”
“I don't know about that, sir.” The old man sucked in his lips trying to divine some fault in the ancient piece of gear. “The heraldry is a bit off-putting, it'll make it a hard sell, seventeen-fifty.”
“Look, I need some cash, but I'll be back for it before the end of the week, thirty-five hundred and it's yours.” Jake gave the owner a pleading look.
“Oh, you'll be back by the end of the week, you say?” the old man started laughing in a manner more menacing that his role as cranky shopkeeper should have allowed. “I bet you're going to go get some big Mercenary contract, huh! Hoohoo! We'll how about I just give you the two thousand the MRB wants from you and just march back in here after you get your fat contract and get it” he spoke between breaths, trying to put himself back together. Jake wasn't amused by the sarcasm.
“I have a feeling that is all I'm going to get.” Jake resigned himself as the shopkeeper started counting out Comstar notes to him. They were all 100 C-Bill notes with the visage of the Blessed Jerome Blake on them. He looked back at his last familial possession and wondered if he would really see it by the end of the week.
After going back through the line and paying his fee Jake found himself in front of a suited man behind a desk. There was an overfull ashtray on his desk and eight empty soda cans. “Welcome to the hiring hall.” The man reached across to shake Jake's hand. “Have a seat.” He motioned an open hand toward the seat in front of the desk “Here's how it works: we do a little interview here, take a picture for your dossier, get some specifics on your ride and pair you up with an outfit that needs you.” Jake squirmed a bit in his seat at the mention of “his ride” but he needed to get to a unit so he hoped that making it through the interview would get him back in the cockpit.
“Let's get down to brass tacks, then, so to speak. First things first, name?”
“Jake Ellis Natchez...the fourth”
“Oh?” the man asked curiously, “Titled?”
“Uhhh..no.” Jake replied sheepishly.
“Moving on, education” the man continued.
“Sian University, MechWarrior Academy,
Hen gao Xiao-lu. I was commissioned as a Subcommander in 2949.”
The interviewer made a nod as if impressed, “Impressive, what about after graduation?”
Jake sat up a little straighter, “Yes, after my commission as a MechWarrior I was assigned to the First Tikonov Lancers, there I earned the Citation for Meritorious House Service for leading a hot-drop during a raid on Ulan Bataar. After that I was promoted to Commander and assigned to the Second Kearney Highlanders where I served as a Lance Commander for Fires Lance, Third Company, Second Battalion.” He kicked himself for ending so abruptly.
The interviewer stared at his questionnaire, “Any actions after that?”
Jake thought about his answer, the replied “No.”
The interviewer cocked his head to the side, “Alright, then. Let's get to the important stuff. What do you pilot?”
Jake knew what the man was asking, but skirted the question. “I piloted a
Clint for most of my career but trained with
Catapults with my Fires Lance.”
The man didn't write anything, and continued to stare at his paper. “So what is the disposition of your
Clint. Do you need repairs? Is it in a bay here?”
“It's not...” Jake began to fumble.
The man looked a Jake and cocked a half smile. "It's alright, son. I know where you going with this, but it's alright.”
Jake felt like a balloon that just sprung a leak to keep from bursting. “It is?” he replied with a slightly raised eyebrow.
“Oh yeah, do you think everyone comes here with a pristine machine fresh from Kerensky's hidden base? Of course not, son!” He leaned back in his chair, so what do you need? New autocannon? Engine rebuild?”
Jake then felt the air come out of him past the point of relief into despair. “I'm dispossessed.”
“I see.” the man replied as he lit a cigarette. “How do you feel about the Infantry, son?”
