BattleTech

  BATTLETECH: RIPTIDES

  ✷ ✷ ✷

  THE MERCENARY TALES, #1

  RANDALL N. BILLS

  CONTENTS

  Riptides

  Randall N. Bills

  About the Author

  Battletech Glossary

  BattleTech Eras

  The BattleTech Fiction Series

  Copyright

  Notable BattleMechs

  RIPTIDES

  RANDALL N. BILLS

  MERCHANT DROPPORT COMPLEX

  HEAN

  CLAN SEA FOX ENCLAVE

  17 OCTOBER 3150

  Perched high on a balcony atop the DropPort’s primary warehouse, Ya’el Labov, saKhan of Fox Khanate, leaned back in his chair, letting the hubbub of the massive facility wash over him. The wind ruffled his light-blond hair, and he squinted blue eyes against the warm orange-ish light of Hean’s K1V primary sun as it neared the horizon.

  “An impressive sight, no?” his companion asked, voice always harsh, regardless of emotion.

  Ya’el glanced to his right, taking in the slick, light-blue one-suit with the Sea Fox logo riding collar. Above it, the clean-shaven, square-jawed face of a man who’d taken to growing out his hair and plaiting it into short braids ending in various colored ribbons.

  On anyone else, a buffoon. But on you? You do nothing without reason. What group or culture are you emulating in hopes of opening new markets? Ya’el snapped his teeth together in mild frustration at the amount of resources spent trying to uncover the details of saKhan Andreas Sutherland’s machinations and the overarching plans of his Tiburon Khanate.

  He pulled his sunglasses off the table and slid them on as the slanting light grew harsh, then took a long drink of the cold water in his cup to buy a few moments to respond. His gaze slid across the large tarmac stretching into the distance, the dozen DropShips downside, cavernous bellies in their weakest open position, waiting to be filled with hundreds of thousands of tons of supplies before lifting to orbit. And then three jumps, and then Fortress. And then…the fight for the greatest prize in the history of the Clans. In the history of humankind.

  He took another sip, eyes still meandering. “Aye. Fifteen square kilometers?” he spoke softly, forcing the other saKhan to lean slightly in his direction.

  “No, nearly eighteen,” Andreas said. “And this is just stage two. Stage three will push it to twenty-five. And if all goes well, in less than five years, stage four will push it to nearly forty square kilometers. The largest Sea Fox Merchant House and DropPort enclave in the Inner Sphere.”

  Ya’el caught the prideful smile on the other saKhan’s face from the corner of his eye. As if you built this all yourself, regardless of how my Khanate supplied nearly half the resources. And yet, Andreas had been the one to secure three worlds within the Federated Suns.

  Ya’el suddenly wished for a stiffer drink.

  “I am sure Prince Julian Davion is grateful you have accomplished this undertaking in such a short time.”

  Andreas quirked an eyebrow as Ya’el looked at him more directly, taking another sip of cool water before placing it on the glass table between the two of them with nary a sound of glass on glass. You know there is an insult in there, but cannot decide if you want to sink after it. That almost pulled Ya’el’s own lips into a threatening grin.

  “Oh, I am sure the Prince is very glad we are making such good use of his former world. After all, he has not been so good at making use of his own worlds of late.”

  Despite the barb at the Prince of the Federated Suns, Ya’el agreed. “Neg, he has not.”

  “In fact, have you heard the latest? They are so desperate for troops they have begun selling their worlds piecemeal to any command that will hire with them. The Lexington Combat Group is the first. And they will not be the last.”

  Ya’el had not, and cocked his head, pondering the ramifications. “It is a bold plan. But there is a Gordian Knot there to be sliced. And, if not carefully managed, that entire situation could set many a worlds ablaze.”

  “Aff, saKhan. I agree.” Andreas shrugged, as though it was simply a morsel of information he passed along, free of charge. “It is a good thing we began this program,” he continued. “Fast-tracking the building of this interstellar transport hub.”

  Nice of you to include a ‘we’ in there. Ya’el adjusted slightly in the chair, feeling the metal web through his own one-suit, waiting to see where Andreas was going.

  “We are, after all, beginning operations to ferry supplies towards Terra for Alaric’s grand campaign. Such a windfall of purchases. Is it not grand?” he said with a flourish, sweeping his hand to take in the massive DropPort and all it contained.

  Your frivolity never touches your eyes, Andreas. You need to work on that. He still struggled to fathom how this saKhan had bested Julian Davion. He’d heard so much better from others surrounding the House Davion prince. He took another moment to reach for the cup, again, casually buying time. How would you feel if I did not think this was a grand campaign? How would you feel if I believe the grandest campaign ever imagined by Nicholas Kerensky was one that we, Clan Sea Fox, are already undertaking? Not conquering a world. But conquering the minds, hearts, and stomachs everywhere we go. Often without firing a shot!

  He knew his thoughts would be considered near heresy—and absolute heresy among some Clans. From what I hear, Malvina would stake me out in the sun until fire ants ate out my eyes. And yet he knew you could not be a saKhan of Clan Sea Fox—master of the interstellar merchant lanes that bound a thousand light years of worlds together—and hold too tightly to Kerensky’s Way of the Clans. But how far from that are you really? How to test the waters…

  “It is a grand campaign,” Andreas continued. “And Terra, despite her ancientness, is still a prize vast, and sweet for the taking. But that taking…” He sipped again, cradling the cup slightly as he looked away.

  Ya’el cocked his head to watch a large LoaderMech attempt to pull materials off a land train, only to end in disaster as the pilot’s attention drifted for a second. And abruptly the massive pallet fell hard to the tarmac, splitting its military hardware like a causally tossed egg. He winced at the loss of revenue. Especially on the eve of marshaling materials towards Terra and Clan Wolf’s bid to become the ilClan. Bad omen, that.

  “It will be…painful,” Andreas said. “Very painful. Alaric is a brilliant tactician. Perhaps the greatest alive today. But the Republic will not go into the night quietly. And if Malvina can somehow breach the wall…she will punish him terribly. And that is provided he can even win if he must face both opponents.”

  “He shall win.”

  “You think so?”

  “Aff. The Republic is already dead, the body simply refuses to accept reality. Alaric will force that reality upon it. And Malvina, if she can breach the wall, can only feel the blood on her skin. She cannot ever seem to look beyond that. The very fact that we, a Clan apart, are here on a world in the Federated Suns, already loading supplies and ferrying them beyond the Fortress Wall to Terra to aid him in his conquest, shows a foresight Malvina could never manage. Yes, I believe he will win. But yet, the taking…” Ya’el paused, wondering how much further he should go. Placed the glass back on the table and rubbed his hands together, then slid them down the slick surface of his pants. Let him think me nervous. “Is it worth it?” He glanced at Andreas fully this time, holding his eyes.

  The yelling of the distant laborers fighting on the spot for the moment of stupidity wafted up to the balcony, as the two powerful men above deftly danced around the subject.

  “Is it worth it to become the ilClan?” Andreas asked, nodding as though wondering what he should order for breakfast. But Ya’el’s heart missed a beat, and he caught the subtle in
creased breathing of his contemporary. Nearly three centuries of indoctrination is…difficult to set aside.

  Eventually Andreas shrugged, reached to the plate of imported flora on the table, and randomly selected something that looked like a cross between a strawberry and apple, and began tossing it up and catching it. “Does it matter in the end? His glory will be our glory. As you say, Alaric cannot achieve this without us. His rise will be our rise.

  Ya’el nodded in return, but raised a finger. And to the heart of it all. “Aff. But not all will rise at the same rate. Every Khanate is playing some supporting role. But some are more in the Khan’s eyes than others. Perhaps even more in the coming ilKhan’s eyes.”

  The other man laughed, even as he nodded. “Despite my own glory of securing these worlds within the Federated Suns, Petr Kalasa’s rise within the Spina Khanate has been…exceptional.”

  “It has.” Ya’el also tried to keep the jealousy out of his voice but failed; he winced at the ease with which Andreas spotted the target. Petr’s scared visage came to mind. “He will come out of this ahead of us. His place in the currents is simply better crafted.”

  “Then we need to adjust our place, no? We need to find something that will pull us ascendent alongside his trajectory.”

  “We do. We must.”

  They both glanced away from each other as the silence fell, as neither had any idea what that might be—or even worse, if their talk of heresy was as unsettling for both as either imagined.

  ILLICIAN LANCERS ENCAMPEMENT

  AL QALYŪBĪYAH, KAFR SILIM

  CAPELLAN MARCH

  FEDERATED SUNS

  19 DECEMBER 3150

  Colonel Luciana Araya Morales stepped off the last rung of the metal ladder dangling down the chest of the metal avatar that momentarily eclipsed the bright, orange sun. She glanced up at the ancient machine, and quickly looked away, shame worming past years of defenses. Sighed heavily as she turned around, flicking sweat off her brow from interminably long training that day, and began the hike back to camp. Scratched at old armpit sweat and started loosening the coolant vest, hoping for the merest hint of wind.

  Will that ghost ever leave? Will the ol’ Ostroc ever be mine! She wasn’t religious, wasn’t sure she believed in heaven or hell, or even God. But one thing for sure, there were ghosts that helped or haunted. And right now, one of them would not let her go.

  Ahead, the bustling of the Illician Lancers encampment was as familiar as the evening calls of the primates in the near-by arid jungle; tuned-out with ease.

  “Colonel!” Major Xavier Jacoby called out as he trotted up next to her.

  She liked his look—well-muscled without being obscene about it, and an open face, with a big smile—but had never really contemplated the temptation; simply not done with a junior officer. Not to mention, just too damn tall. She refused to glance up and kept walking. “What?!”

  Luciana kept her feet locked on the well-trod path beginning to wend through the outer encampment buildings now that they were far enough away from the edge of the live-fire range. She gritted her teeth. I can feel your damn smile.

  “Your elocution is what keeps me forever in your service, Colonel,” Xavier responded.

  She could feel his smile getting wider. “I keep you around because I put a paycheck in your pocket and put up with your dumbassery.”

  “Well, there is also that, Colonel.”

  “I smell worse than the inside of my ’Mech, Major, and a shower is a siren song I cannot refuse. What do you need?”

  “You assume that’s different than—”

  “Major!” she cut him off, refusing to warm to their usual banter. Not today.

  “Sorry, Colonel,” he replied, voice almost denuded of his notorious smile. “The general’s six years are up next year.”

  “I know.” She refused to rise to the bait. Stepped into her office—closing her eyes for just a moment at the degree-and-a-half drop of temperature—her footfalls too loud on the ready-made flooring never meant to be used this long. Will we finally give up and build permanent housing? The thought was a nagging ache she couldn’t shake.

  “You’re going to be tossing your hat in the ring at the next conclave, right?” Xavier said loudly, accompanying the stomp of his large frame into her office.

  Anger sparked, deep and vibrant. “I don’t want to have this conversation. Not now.” Not ever.

  “Colonel, please, listen…”

  Luciana closed her eyes, trying to throttle the anger as her second-in-command tried his best wheedling tone. Usually she found it mildly endearing as she put up with it. Not today. Not today.

  “You’re the best chance we have of getting off these worlds. We’re losing out on combat bonuses, and our skills and morale are declining, regardless of our training. We’re not meant to be garrison troops. We’re the Illician Lancers! We should be at the front of anything the Suns does! How much longer will the Dragon chew up the Suns and we’re given no orders to help—”

  “Enough!” she said, voice loud to her ears, as she spun, slashing her arm down. She caught him by surprise; an unfeigned, real emotion as he stepped back from the anger bubbling and struggling to burst from her. “You really think the Elders will give me the time of day? I was there at the space port, Major. I was there the day the Fifty-Ninth failed. And Colonel Bradley died.”

  “They can’t still keep blaming you for that,” Xavier managed to get out, getting his own emotions under control. He took a small step further into the room, and she knew he would keep badgering her. He might get himself thrown into the brig again—by her hand, if he kept at it. His stubbornness and her anger. And she didn’t need the Elders looking at her again, thinking she apparently couldn’t control her subordinates. She had to try something different.

  With the alacrity of a battlefield command decision, Luciana grabbed the coolant vest buckles, undid them, and let it slide to a heap on the floor. “Not today.” She grabbed her dirty, sweaty t-shirt and yanked it off over her head, leaving her in a sports bra as she tossed the nasty garment aside.

  The warring emotions of interest—and horror at that interest for a commanding officer—starting to wash onto Xavier’s face was almost comical. On any other day, she might have enjoyed it, but now she was ruthlessly using it to get rid of him.

  “I won’t have this conversation. You want to talk about it, again, fine. Not today.” She reached both arms crisscrossed to grab her sports bra and yanked up. She caught a moment of absolute startled shock before her vision was cut off and when she could see a moment later, he was gone, the door slamming shut in his wake.

  If it had been any other day, she would’ve laughed until she peed herself. But it wasn’t any other day.

  And uncaring if another person might walk in on her standing half-naked in her office, she struggled against the tears that suddenly threatened. Trying to ignore the feeling of something disapproving standing just behind her.

  “They will never nominate me to lead the Lancers,” she whispered. “I was there when the Lancers were shamed.”

  She dropped the bra and hugged herself, breathing heavily, tears falling as she closed her eyes at the memories of the firefight on New Syrtis exactly three years ago today engulfed her mind with razored edges. The day her best friend and commanding officer, Colonel Ryan Bradley, had died.

  And, she feared, began to haunt her…

  MERCHANT CARRACK-CLASS TRANSPORT JORMUNGANDR

  NADIR JUMP POINT, TERRAN SYSTEM

  REPUBLIC OF THE SPHERE

  10 JANUARY 3151

  Ya’el Labov floated lightly above the command deck on the Jormungandr, staring intently at the large, revolving holovid displaying a mostly blue world. Despite the months of convincing himself he didn’t care about Terra, seeing it now, even at a distance of over one one-and-a-half billion kilometers, relayed via other ships, a shiver chilled its way down his spine: holy Terra. He tried to stop another shiver, and failed.

  But no
w the display showed riven deep, bright orange furrows across the atmosphere, as though bloody claws slashing at its skin. A Clan is landing on Terra!

  “We have come home,” ovKhan Zoie Vewas whispered in her unusual accent.

  Ya’el nearly visibly jerked that his ovKhan could read his mind so easily, glancing to his left to see the large-boned woman at his side, nearly his own height, with deep red hair shorn to her scalp, and sharp features that missed little. Then chided himself. Of course she could.

  He glanced around the large bridge of the 300,000-ton spaceship, and caught all eyes glued on the large display. He couldn’t fault the personnel of Alpha Aimag if they were as enthralled by these events as he. The Clans will never be the same after this day. The Inner Sphere will never be the same.

  “Yet we are eighty-five minutes of lag behind this video feed, my saKhan.”

  He looked at her more fully, and Zoie shrugged slightly and cleared her throat.

  “Yes, of course, you know. The Wolves have already made planetfall on the continent of Australia.”

  He smiled. You are not used to me standing on your bridge? Then again, he wasn’t used to it either. While he demanded that his ovKhans meet him at least once every three years, beyond that, there might be five years or more that pass between extended gatherings. Then again, despite all I might have said to Andreas, this is the current of all currents.

  He turned back to the holoprojection, laying a hand lightly on the metal railing that ran around the deck he floated above. But how can we maneuver our trajectory?

  “Is it not fascinating that at the moment of the Clans’ greatest victory, mercenaries will be involved?”

  Ya’el slowly shook his head. “That was a surprise, was it not? Khan Ward is full of them.”