Tales of the One-Eyed Jacks
Prologue Chapter 3
New Faces, New Places
By Bruce Powell
“I wanted to
meet interesting and stimulating people of an ancient culture... and kill them.”
-
Unknown
Soldier
22 July, 3039
Andalusia
Crucis March
Federated Suns
The run to Point Barrow was totally useless. A rush to arrive and then cooling his heels
for weeks. Hurry up and wait! The
unwritten motto of all soldiers since before the time of the Roman Legions.
A young man came to a rundown flop house at the edge of the
Drop Port. He had been given a message
by a well-dressed man at a nice hotel near the main mining company
headquarters. The job was simple, that
the message to a man at a certain address.
But once the man was here he was wondering if he would live to spend his
fee. Jonathon paid the boy a handsome
tip and then closed the door to his shabby room. He had been here for weeks waiting and was
glad he finally had a message; but he was surprised when the message required a
thumb print to unlock from the case.
He used his thumb print and a coded phrase to open the
file. He was not shocked to see the seal
of the MIIO. In the short brief message,
he was told to report immediately to the drop port. Transport had been arraigned and he would be
meeting a jump ship at the Point Barrow Jump Point and then immediately jump to
his final destination. Looking at the
orders it was obvious that this was a circuit already established. In a few days he would be at his final
destination.
This plan was simple. A few jumps, then a 4 day drop to the
planet of Andalusia, a frozen blip on the annals of humanity. Most folks said it was a cold as Tharkad,
without the former planet’s charm.
Jonathon braced for the final burn that would bring him to the
designated Dropship, an old Union Cargo
conversion.
Boarding the Dropship at the Point Barrow zenith point he
had been informed by a very bored Officer that ”his cargo” had been received
and stored. Getting used to surprises he
just nodded and signed the bill of lading.
The officer looked at him closely.
“It is not usual that we carry cargo like this. Can I ask, what your business is?” The officer was just curious, but Jonathan
knew that the MIIO had made all of this possible. He looked at the man with his best poker
face.
“It is just that… my business. Thank you for the storage. I will check it as soon as I get my gear
stowed.” The officer looked at him and
shrugged. Summoning a minor steward, he
had Jonathon taken to a small cabin that had just enough room for his gear and
himself. Then he led him down to the
cargo hold. Jonathon had been posted on
a Union class just once on his trip
from New Avalon to Syrtis. That one had
not been a civilian modification. As he
entered the vast cargo storage area he became disoriented. There were no vast ‘Mech bays, and the
lighting was minimal.
The steward handed him over to a cargo master who seemed to
be at home in this jumble of containers.
He followed the man, climbing over some stacks of crates and walking
down pseudo corridors between crates haphazardly lashed down with webbing. “It is all over here near the central
core. I do not mind telling you it was a
bitch moving the other stuff around to get center of axis back. Most of this stuff is bulky, but not
heavy. Having 35 tons in one place made
the rest of the ship off balance.”
It was then that they came to the end of one corridor and he
saw …IT. The shape was one burned in his
memory since childhood. He walked to the
green and khaki mottled foot and placed his hand on it. It was like meeting an old friend in a party
full of other people. The world fell
away from him and he was only aware of….IT.
The paint above him was burned away but he could still see the paint
scheme of the 2nd Crucis Lancers, his father’s old regiment. He could see the fused ankle and knee
actuators, since the Starshield armor was melted and blasted away. Burn marks scarred the rest of the ‘Mech, but
it stood there proud.
“Yeah, that old museum piece has seen better days…guess it
is here for a monument or the like?”
Jonathan spun on the cargo master.
The older man was obviously a civilian.
Too young for service in the last wars and born in a soft life. He could not see the damage was
superficial. Even the head hit that
sprayed molten metal over his father was easily fixed. The frame was undamaged- well mostly
undamaged. It would take removal of the
cockpit to fix where the large laser had burned through to the cockpit. The left femur was also damaged, but
replacement parts were available. Even
new parts could be found if the Quartermaster Corps was good enough. But as a Merc? Who knows.
“This is still an operational ‘Mech. All it will take is a good ‘Mech Bay and some
time. But you would not understand.” He ran his hand over the foot. He was no longer Dispossessed.
“Yeah, whatever. The
rest of yer junk is over there!” The
man, who’s friendly attitude had disappeared, pointed to several crates of
material. He stood aside while Jonathan
moved to the pile of crates haphazardly tied down. He started looking over the material. Several crates on the bottom of the pile were
Starsheild and Durallex armor. He then
looked at the others precariously perched on the armor. He then noticed a warning label turned upside
down and half hidden.
“You might want to restow those crates, preferably on the
deck.” He pointed out the crates he had
an issue with.
“Look sonny, you might be a hotshot Mercenary and know about
these hunks of junk, but I was storing cargo before your Mother spread her legs
for your father.”
Jonathan turned and looked at the man with a look of a
Tharkad glacier. “Well, it is up to you,
but if this ship takes a bounce in atmospheric insertion and that crate shifts,
you might have a brand new cargo port.
That crate is carrying Short Ranged Missiles. While I am sure the safeties are on, a good
hard knock could still cause them to go off.
Then that crate of Long Ranged missiles next to it might go off; but
since I do not know about storage of cargo, I will have to ask your
Captain.” The man looks at the crates
and becomes agitated. He complains that
they are not supposed to carry military hardware. He then grudgingly calls a few cargo movers
and they start to re-stow the crates.
Jonathon supervises the safe handling of the ordinance. The cargo master was right, they were not
equipped to handle this sort of material.
In the end he turns to thank the cargo master.
Before he can speak the older man looks at him. “All yer needs met, Yer Worship?”
Jonathon’s rage flared but he easily gets it under
control. “Yes, thank you. I will ensure a bonus is paid to you and your
men.” The cargo master beams and then
nods.
“Thank ye, we will ensure everything is good from here on
out.”
“Good, and sir … You ever speak about my late mother like
that again I will drill you through the head where you stand.” Turning on his heel he walks back to the
access hatch and his quarters. God!
I am already sounding like a Merc!
Insertion and landing were smooth. However, upon checking his cargo and arranging
for storage he noticed that many of the crates in the bay had shifted. The cargo handlers nodded at him as they
unloaded crated of agricultural materials.
He found that a storage area had been arranged in a warehouse and the import
fee for his ‘Mech was covered.
Following his instructions, he arranged transport to the
estate of one Frederick Theodore di Biasi.
This man was hiring ‘Mechwarriors and he was told could be ready in a
few weeks to handle a contract on the list that Jonathan had in his
possession. Asking at the main house he
was informed by an older woman with a personality as warm as Andalusia’s
weather that Master di Biasi was down in the compound. It was a short half mile walk to where is
potential employer was located. Jonathon
decided to walk.
By the time he arrived he realized his mistake. The cold had eaten all the way to his
bones. He could see the lights on in a
large building that looked like a Mech hanger.
He entered the building and found himself walking up to a man in nice
civilian attire, which Jonathan hoped was much warmer than his own clothing. He was looking up at a ‘Mech. Glancing at the ‘Mech Jonathan could easily
classify it as a Whitworth, a basic
WTH-1 variant. But while his Jenner was damaged, this was
trashed. The center torso was ripped
open and one could see components exposed.
It was a wonder the Mechwarrior walked away. He could still see turf in the shoulder
joints where the ‘Mech had crashed to the ground. He was calculating the work that it would
take to get running when he jumped hearing a voice right in his right ear.
“What a hunk of junk!”
Spinning he found himself looking at a young man dressed in the cast off
of a Lyran military uniform. The collar
tab designated him as a former member of a Spacer crew. He looked between Jonathon and the other man
in the Mech Bay, obviously unaware of the insult he had offered up.
His potential employer turned to glare at him. But Jonathan turned to look at the person who
had spoken. He ran his hand through the
pad of blonde hair on top of his head he wore as a pad to the heavy
neurohelmet. The sides were almost shaved,
but he could feel the blood rushing to his face as he felt anger for the owner
of the Whitworth.
“It is not all that bad.
Just needs some work.” He turns
to the well-dressed man and offers his hand. “Leftenant Jonathon
Wilkerson. I am looking for a job.”
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