Building the Jacks #1

Welcome to the first installment of building the campaign.  This series will be about how we structured the initial guidelines, discuss introduction of new rules, and how the nature of the campaign changed over time.  It will feature emails and rule references, though no printing of actual game rules.

It all started innocently enough.  Steve, who was already GMing a Rolemaster game I was playing in with Bruce once a month sent out this email.  He had no idea the can of worms he was opening.

From: Steve

Sent: Monday, May 21, 2018 12:13 PM

To: Bruce; Neil; JV; Brian

Subject: BattleTech Campaign?

  

Is there any interest in a BattleTech campaign?  I would like to start

hosting a game about once a month on Sundays. (With an option to play

twice a month if we are really into it.)

My thoughts are these:

The players would be members of a small mercenary unit.  One lance is

what I'm thinking, although you could certainly expand throughout the

game.  After all, playing more than one mech is pretty easy. Basically, 

I plan to start you off with one mech per player, probably all light 

mechs with maybe one medium mech for the Lance Commander.

You would keep track of pilots and your own unit's equipment.

As the GM, I will make "contracts" available, play the opposing forces,

adjudicate salvage and repair, determine what mechs are for sale, etc.

Much of this will be handled by e-mail between games.

Each game session would be the resolution of one "contract." 

Essentially one mission.  The battles may or may not be "balanced." 

You will have intel on each situation, but intelligence is sometimes 

inaccurate.  You will have to decide what to do when unexpected things 

happen.

The intent of this is to go light on the role-playing and heavy on the

blowing-stuff-up, but keep enough of the role-play that we have an

ongoing campaign for a mercenary unit: Consistent pilots, consistent

mechs that have to be repaired or replaced after each game, salvage,

maintenance, all that jazz.

I should mention that I am not an expert at all things Battletech.  I

just love the original game.  I'm searching through some of the later

publications now for consistent rules on costs, salvage, repair, etc.

If I can't find them, I'll probably end up making stuff up.  Who am I

kidding?  I'll probably end up making stuff up anyway... :-)

Any interest?

Any interest?  Of course I was interested.  I hadn’t played any serious BattleTech since 2012, with the exception of a couple of one-offs.  I was kind of getting itchy to play, particularly with the Harebrained Studios’ BattleTech computer game having just become available the month before.  I hadn’t had a chance to start playing yet because my computer wasn’t powerful enough to run it, but I had been spending way too much time on Twitch watching other people play it.  Those factors were making the desire to play even stronger.  It took me all of 15 minutes to reply, mostly because I was at lunch when Steve sent the original email.

On 5/21/2018 12:30 PM, Neil Ikerd wrote:

I've been looking for an excuse to buy Campaign Operations!  :-)

I would love to get in on a BT campaign, I have lots of books and maps, 

and several assorted mech, vehicle, and aerospace fighter figurines.

If you didn't want to write your own campaign, I have a couple of 

campaign books as well (Sword and Dragon, Operation: Klondike).  What 

era are you thinking?

I’m not the only one either.  Bruce has a complete copy of the Solaris VII box set, the last version of the box set that included 24 plastic minis, a few of the modern era rule books, several of the novels, and few figures of his own.  Steve’s reply gave us a loose framework of he wanted to do, and a bit of surprise that has proven to be very cool.

I have virtually nothing for the game, except it is one of those games 

I'm always willing to play.  My brother Brian has (I think) all of the 

Technical Readout books, and I have one of the compiled rule books, plus 

a few PDFs I've been downloading and daydreaming about playing...

Plus, JV has a 3d printer. :-)

I'm thinking of doing an early era - back to the days when, if you 

weren't rolling to avoid an ammo explosion, you weren't really in the 

game yet - but not so early that we couldn't reasonably start to 

introduce more advanced weapons and mechs as the campaign progresses.  

Certainly sometime before the Clans raised their ugly heads.  Maybe 

they'll show up once you get really established.

Campaign wise, I'm thinking of doing something along the lines of the 

old PC game Mechwarrior II.  You are a small mercenary unit with one 

mech per player.  Probably all light mechs or maybe one medium mech for 

the leader.  You'll be hired by whoever has the money (unless the 

players develop, you know, "standards" or something) to fight the "side 

battles" the major forces don't have time to fight.  (I'll make a list 

of contracts available on their equivalent of merc.net and you will 

choose which to take on.)  As you get more money, you can buy better 

mechs, upgrade the ones you have, etc...  As you get better mechs, you 

can take on more lucrative contracts.

But all that is in the very early stages right now.  I might take a look 

at some of the existing campaign books.  I know very, very little about 

the background and story that has developed around Battletech. When I 

played it, there was really no story. it was just "blow up the other guy."  

Which, I'll admit, is usually enough for me.  I'm a simple guy. :-)

Thanks for mentioning Campaign Operations.  I hadn't heard about that 

one.  Downloading the .pdf now...

This is where I start going down the rabbit hole.  I don’t have the encyclopedic knowledge that some players do, but I can do a pretty good impression of a Wikipedia entry on BattleTech.  With a better understanding of what Steve wants to do, I start throwing out ideas:

The only book you really need to play is Total Warfare- which has all the 

combat and terrain rules.  Bruce and I both have that.  Sounds like we're 

talking 2950-3045 era.  If we pushed into the later portions of that (3039-

3048), we could start bringing back some of the old Star League mechs and 

have access to some Inner-sphere LosTech (double heat sinks, ER Lasers, 

Gauss Rifles, Ferro-fibrous armor, etc).  If you want heat management to be 

a real issue/tactical decsion, along with ammo/logistics, probably more 3025-

3038 is what you're looking for.

I could go for some 4th succession war stuff.  If you wanted to stay out of 

the big campaign we could be working the border worlds to free up troops for 

the 4th succession war.  

On the Davion side there is the spinward border with the Outworlds Alliance, 

which is seriously suffering due to the overall decline in technology, the 

government is unpopular and the ruler is a plodder.  There is also the 

rimward border with the Taurian Concordant; whose leader hates the Davions 

and is worried that the creation of the FedCom super-state means that the 

FedRats will soon turn their attention rimward.  In response, he is building 

up his military and bringing in merc units to shore up defenses.

On the Steiner side there is the Circinus Federation, which was just a bandit 

kingdom pretending to be a real star-kingdom until a series of treaties finally 

legitimized the Federation in 3020.  

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve K
To: Neil Ikerd; Bruce; JV; Brian
Sent: Wed, May 23, 2018 10:21 pm
Subject: Re: BattleTech Campaign?

Holy crap, you guys know WAY more about this than me.  I may have some reading to do...

I like the idea of 4th Succession War era.  If I understand it, most mechs are still "old tech" but some are getting back in touch with the re-discovered Inner Sphere tech.  Lots of fights going on all over the place, so lots of contracts for a small Merc outfit.  I figure a small mercenary outfit like yours would be all old-tech mechs until you manage to salvage/buy newer stuff and start getting established.  As you get bigger and better, you would be hired for more important missions.  If you get a good enough reputation, you might be hired as extra muscle in major assaults when a House needs more troops in one place. 

You could conceivably find yourself fighting both sides of the war, at different times, without ever breaking a contract. 

I think I see a Jenner and a Phoenix Hawk in this picture.  The other two I don't know.  One mech appears to be screwed.  That's all I can tell, but it makes me want to blow something up. :-)

You guys can probably tell me what unit the mechs are from, what planet they are fighting on, what their orders are, and what they had for breakfast that morning.

 I can’t tell you what planet they’re on or what they had for breakfast, but I can tell you that the Wolverine is a DCMS 2^nd Sword of Light unit, so we can assume that the Locust and Phoenix Hawk are as well.  That’s an Enforcer getting its head opened up, so that means AFFS, probably Davion Heavy Guards or possibly Crucis Lancers in field camo That puts this somewhere along the FS/DC border, probably 4^th Succession War, but I digress…

The picture of the 2^nd SoL ‘Mech got me thinking about the DCMS in the 4^th SW era, and that led me to think about Wolves on the Border and Takashi Kurita’s “Death to Mercenaries” order.  By the next afternoon I had written up a shell background for a unit that would give us 4 starting Mech’s, a very few pilots, a dropship, a commander that wouldn’t have to be one of the pilots, and enough role-playing hooks to make any GM salivate. 

Next entry:  The Regulators

Tales of the 1-I-Jacks #4

Tales of the One-Eyed Jacks

Prologue Chapter 4

Pleased to Meet You

By Neil Ikerd

22 July, 3039

Andalusia

Crucis March

Federated Suns

The man didn’t even look away from his noteputer as he reached over to hit the button to take the call.  He missed his days in the 42^nd Avalon Hussars, when finding parts had just been a matter of requisition orders and maybe greasing a palm or two.  “Di Biasi,” he replied; the ability to appear to be interested in a call while reading something else was one he had perfected while working as a corporate lawyer for Precision Weaponry at the home office on Tancredi IV.

“Sir, I have just sent a young man from the house over to your office.  He said he was a ‘Mechwarrior and was told to look you up.”  Fred put down what he was looking at.  Mrs. Winters had come to him as part of the inheritance- she wasn’t an indentured servant or anything, but she had been house manager for his deceased uncle ever since he had bought this estate in the early 30’s.  She was a no-nonsense kind of woman, probably 5 or 6 years older than his own mother, but that was strictly a guess.  He was pretty sure Mrs. Winters was born with that perfectly coiffed white hair and stern expression.  “He was erect of carriage and stern of demeanor; seemed very professional.”

“You mean you liked him.”

“I didn’t say that, sir.”  Her voice sounded slightly shocked, like she was afraid she had overstepped her boundaries.

“You didn’t have to.  Do you like him?”

“I don’t think that matters, sir.  It’s not my place to say.”

“Lucille, can I call you Lucille?”

“No, sir.  My name is Mrs. Winters.  It makes sure that everyone understands the nature of the relationship, sir.”

“Very well, Mrs. Winters.  I think it should be your place to say.  This little endeavor needs someone capable behind the scenes.  I need someone that can handle book-keeping and payroll, can handle client reception, that can deal with minor issues, or can interface with vendors when I’m not available.  That person would also need to be able to take care of managing my schedule and occasionally run interference for me.  I need an executive assistant.”

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about BattleMech operations, sir.”

“Not asking you to.  I’m asking you to run the business side, so I can run the ‘blowing shit up and killing people’ side of the business.  Pay is 500 c-bills per month in addition to your pay for running the household, which will continue to come out of the estate trust that you so ably manage.”  There was a long moment of silence.

“I won’t take care of getting rid of your doxies when you’re done playing with them.”

“I know, Mrs. Winters, you made that very clear from day one.”

“Very well, sir.  Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome Mrs. Winters, and thank you.  Now, do you like him?”

“I think he’s exactly the kind of young officer you’re going to need if you’re going to make this into a proper mercenary company, and not a very expensive fraternity club.”  There was a brief pause, as though they were both waiting to see if thunder would follow lightning.  “He’s on his way to the hangar, sir.  You should probably meet him there.”

“Probably so, have a good afternoon, Mrs. Winters.”  She reminded him that a young officer would probably be more receptive to serious response than a friendly one, then wished him a good afternoon before he hung up.  Either he was a genius for hiring the old lady, or his life was about to become a living hell.  He stood and stretched, then checked his calendar.  Stephen was supposed to be over in a little bit as well, something about a pilot and crew.

Glancing at the wall display, he saw that it was a balmy 12 degrees outside.  The calendar might say it was the 22^nd of July, but that was Terran-standard dating.  The leaves hadn’t started coming out, and the snow hadn’t even started melting above 3000 meters yet.  Hopefully they could get their training done during the brief summer and be off this rock before winter rolled around again- maybe someplace tropical with girls in bikinis and umbrellas in the drinks.

***

Robert Monsoon was hard at work as usual.  He and his three techs were in dismantling the torso cavity so they could get to the cracked engine shielding.  Rather than repairing it, they were going to replace it completely.  “Gorilla,” Fred called across the echo-y hangar that was designed to hold four of the massive BattleMechs, not just one.

“Yeah, boss.”  The man looked up from where one of the younger assistants was securing the final straps of a lift harness so they could haul the engine out when the replacement arrived tomorrow. Except for the hair and the nose, his new boss looked nothing like his uncle.  That probably had to do more with life experience than genetics though.  Rob had always been a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy, and had openly mocked guys that dressed like his new boss; but Robert didn’t care how he dressed.  His money was yellow and spent just fine, and it meant getting back to repairing BattleMechs, not those glorified exoskeletons that people called “agro-mechs.”

“I know you don’t know much about avionics systems, but do you know enough to know a bull-shitter when you hear one?”

Robert considered for a long moment.  He knew tech-speak, and you could always pinpoint some that was bullshitting their way through tech-speak.  The real trick was not to get caught yourself when you were talking to a real expert.

“As a rule.”  Just like figuring out if someone was bullshitting their way through, most of the time it better to just shut up and let the other person talk.

“Good.  I’ve got a guy that wants to come by and give me a quote to get ‘The Crate’ running and supply a crew.  Since I know even less about dropship operations than I do about BattleMech operations, I need somebody there that knows their ass from a hole in the ground.”

While not the most inspiring speech ever given, at least his boss had the good sense to know that he didn’t know what he didn’t know.  That was really rare in a ‘Mech-jock.  It didn’t give him great hope for the longevity of the new startup merc company, but the money was the right color and there was enough of if it to make it worthwhile for now.

“When are they supposed to be here?”  His crew was at a good stopping point, but the ‘Mech was by no means ready to be viewed by anyone that wasn’t deeply involved with its restoration.  He wiped his large hands on the rag he kept in his pocket, then put it back. 

The boss glanced at his gold watch.  “Soon.  Are you guys at a point where you can take a break?”  He glanced at his watch again.  “Or maybe you could let them go home early today if you’re at a good stopping point.”

“Full pay?”  Robert liked this crew.  They were young, but they had good sense and listened well.

“Sure, it’s only 2 hours to quitting time, let them head out early if you think it’s alright.”

“Thank you, sir.  The men will appreciate it.”  Robert glanced down at his coveralls.  “I’ll need about 10 minutes to wrap up and change.”  With a nod, he headed back over to where the ancient Whitworth stood in her gantry and called up to the crew.  There was a fair amount of whooping and hollering when he told them to put away their tools and they could head home early.  He waited until they were putting on their coats to drop the other shoe on them. 

“Tomorrow’s going to be a bitch of a day.  There’s nothing worse than pulling an engine out of a cold ‘Mech.”  That wasn’t exactly true, but these greenies had no way of knowing that. “Any of you numb-nuts shows up crawling out of a bottle and I’ll hang you from the gantry myself.  Clear?”

“Crystal,” they all replied, if not enthusiastically.  He dismissed them with a grunt and went to change out of his coveralls.  He didn’t want to look like a tech if he was going to be grilling one.

***

Fred glanced up from his tablet at the click of the far door, but was careful to keep his head down.  Through the fringe of his bangs he watched the man walk across the hangar.  ‘Erect of carriage,’ as Mrs. Winters had said.  He walked like an academy graduate, standard 30” step, heel-toe, hands swinging 60/30, Fred wondered if he even realized he was doing it.  Fred’s ROTC instructors hadn’t been overly strict about marching, but he definitely remembered having done it.

Another door opened and a small group entered.  It took a couple of seconds for him to recognize Stephen, the consultant he’d hired to help him get legal as a mercenary and find pilots and crew.  He had his suspicions about who Stephen really worked for, but the background checks had all come up clean and Stephen hadn’t led him afoul of the law- yet.  He realized the people with him must be the restoration and repair crew from Kessel Interstellar.  The lights came on across the hangar as Gorilla exited the locker room and headed toward them.  The lights illuminated his inherited Whitworth in all its battered glory.  Fred thought all it really needed to complete the look was an old 4-wheeler up on blocks.

“What a hunk of junk!” Fred snapped around to see who had said it.  Sure it was ugly, but it was his ugly baby, and only he got to call it a hunk of junk.  He glared at the young man that had come in alone.  In turn, the young man turned to look at a guy in an old flight jacket with distinctive military lines. Fred didn’t recognize it, but the blue color looked pretty standard for Lyran Commonwealth uniforms.

“It’s not that bad, just needs some work.”  Fred looked back to the young man.  His bearing said louder than words that he was ready to throw down on the loud-mouth that had insulted the half dismantled ‘Mech in the gantry.  He seemed to take a deep breath and turned, “Leftennant Jonathon Wilkerson.  I am looking for a job.”

“Pleased to meet you Leftennant.” Fred extended his hand and shook firmly.  “Fred di Biasi, owner of… this little lash up.  We don’t have a name yet, because ‘Fred’s Furious Fighters’ sounds pretty stupid to me, despite what Stephen thinks.”  He extended his hand and indicated a slender man with a wary expression.  “Stephen is a consultant I hired to help me locate crew and other necessities.”  Stephen and Jonathon shook hands, and Fred was pretty sure Jonathon had suppressed a look of recognition, but Stephen had been cool as an Andalusian spring day.  He was starting to get a sense of collusion that he was going to have to look into.

Stephen indicated the group he was with. “This is Lewis Davis, Szymon Kukowski, Ramla Zein, and Bonnie Michel.  They’ll be the core of the crew handling your drop ship and getting her back online.  Jonathon shook each of their hands in turn. 

“Call me Solo,” Lewis said as they shook hands.  “I’m the captain, and leader of this merry band of rapscallions.  These are my pilot, lead gunner, and ship’s doctor, who also doubles as engineer.”  He indicated the same group Fred had just shaken hands with.  “I understand you have a Leopard we’ll be running for you.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”  Fred said with a smile.  He was going to cut the legs out from under this guy.  There was only room for one hot shot in this outfit, and since Fred was paying the bills, he got to be that hot shot.  “It’s over this way.”  He indicated a door in the far wall from where everyone had come in.  Gorilla fell in behind the group as they trudged across the hangar.  “Solo, your boss said he understood the ship needed a little repair, and that he’d send someone over who could get it up and running in no time flat.  I have high hopes for you.”

Fred smiled to himself as he hit the button to open the hangar door.  The lights came on and illuminated what was supposed to be a Leopard class dropship.  Repair panels were open or missing across most of the nose and visible port side.  The tail assembly had been removed and one of the left side thrusters was actually sitting on a small army of the cinder blocks.  With a flourish and grand announcement like he was the proudest father in the galaxy, he crowed, “I give to you Spare Parts.” 

Solo’s face collapsed.  Fred smiled to himself as he watched the young hot shot try to quickly pull himself together. 

The piece de resistance though was when Gorilla clapped the man on the back and said with as much excitement as he could muster, “Man, am I excited to have you around.  The avionics in this ain’t nuttin’ like the circuits in daddy’s old crop duster.  Imma tellin’ you, I couldn’t figger out where half that shit went when I was a done takin’ it out.  Pretty sure we still got all the parts though, they ‘round here somewhere or other.”

“So, Mr. Solo, your boss assured me you could have it back up and running by the end of the month.  You ready to jump in?”  Fred watched the man assemble a brave façade from obvious disappointment.

“We’ll take inventory and do diagnostics in the morning.  It’ll probably take a couple of days to get a handle on it, but we’ll… we’ll take care of it.”  That was what Fred had really been looking for.

“Good, because that’s not the ship you’ll be flying.  We call it Spare Parts for a reason.  Mr. Hutch told me it would probably cost ten to twenty million to get that thing back in the air.  The Crate doesn’t look like much, but I understand she’s got it where it counts.”  He led the small group over to another door and opened it to reveal an old, but serviceable Leopard sitting on the pad.  “I was leasing it to a local transport company for sub-orbital transport up until about a month ago, so we know it was air and space-worthy at least that recently.”

“Whew, that’s a relief,” Solo said as Fred closed the door.  “Hutch said you needed a pilot and crew, not a miracle worker.  Not that I couldn’t get it back up and running,” he hastily added.

“Good for all of us.  It’s going to cost me enough to get my ‘Mech online and find some more pilots without trying to resurrect that pile of parts.”  He led them back into the ‘Mech hangar and closed the bay doors behind them.  “It’s getting late, how does everyone feel about Chinese food for dinner?  There’s a good place about 20 minutes from here.”

“You buying?” Stephen asked with a smile.

“You’re the vendor, Stephen, aren’t you supposed to be buying?”

“Sure, I’ll just bill you for it.”

“Then in that case, I’ll buy and save myself 10%.”  Stephen protested his innocence, but given the volume and length of his defense, they were all pretty sure that was exactly what he would do.

Tales of the 1-I-Jacks #3

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 2^nd 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.”

Tales of the 1-I-Jacks #2

Tales of the 1-I-Jacks

Prologue Chapter 2

A Change of Direction

By Neil Ikerd

Federated Suns, Crucis March

Andalusia

8 June, 3039

Frederick Thomas di Biasi looked outside and made a disgusted sound.  It was snowing, again.  It had snowed on and off everyday for the five days he’d been back here on Andalusia.  When he’d graduated from the Andalusia Academy of Arts and Letters almost 18 years ago, he’d promised himself he’d never end up somewhere this cold again.  He’d gone to university on Gambier just to find some place warmer.  For the hundredth time he glanced at his phone, no new messages.  Frustrated, he shoved it in his pocket and headed down stairs.

“Morning, sweetie.”  He looked across the room at the older woman sitting at the kitchen island, reading a letter as she sipped a cup of coffee.  She had aged well, her blonde hair had streaks of grey in it that made it look more ash-blonde than the honey blonde it had been when he was a boy.

“Morning, mom.”  He walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  It was nice to see his mom again, it had been almost six years since the last time he’d seen her.  That was the harsh reality of interstellar empires, travelling to see relatives that lived 250 light years away was a major undertaking that took weeks of travel.  “Who’s the letter from?”

“Ramage, do you remember him?”

“He was the tall guy that walked you down the aisle when you and Devin got married, right?  Wasn’t he your sergeant when you were in infantry?”

His mom smiled at him.  “Good, I’m glad you remember him.  You’re right, he was.  He was writing to tell me he just retired, 35 years.  He said after being Command Sergeant Major of the 2^nd Davion Guards RCT, anything else would have just been a letdown. The only place for him really left to go was central command on New Avalon, and he never wanted to be a command staffer.  He and his wife are settling down to run a coffee plantation on Fomalhaut.”

Fred poured himself a cup of coffee, added one sugar cube and two tablespoons of cream since it was just a standard French roast, and sat down at the island. “I never stayed in contact with any of the people from my unit.  There were a few folks that I was friends with there, but nobody I wanted to stay in contact with.  Certainly not anybody I’d ask to be in my wedding if I ever got married.”

“You weren’t in a combat unit,” she added as though it explained everything.  “When you have to rely on each other to stay alive when bullets are flying, you get a lot closer.”  She pointed to his phone, “Any word yet?”

“No.  Kind of pisses me off.  I had to take a damn sabbatical so that I could travel here to sign the paperwork.  Don’t get me wrong, it was nice to get out of the office.  I’ve had about all the employee and union complaints I ever care to deal with, but I can’t seem to break into the governmental contracts group.”  When his mom inquired further he told her about his frustration and his belief that the AFFS people from the IG’s office that were always around were part of the reason he was having trouble.  He suspected that reviews referring to his ‘ability to procure luxury goods’ and ‘positive relations with senior supply managers’ were not the kind of references the IG’s office wanted to see in the background of lawyers for their vendors.

When his mom asked about his personal life, he relayed the story of how the girl he’d been with three nights before he left to come home had thrown coffee in his face because he’d called her by the wrong name.  “It was probably time for me to take a vacation anyway,” Fred commented, “but I don’t even know who the hell Rob di Biasi is.  And now I have to travel 250 light years so that I can sign for the inheritance he left me.” Fred blew out a frustrated breath and took another drink of his coffee.  “By all rights I should have been able to sign the paperwork and just transmit it back through ComStar.  I know enough about inheritance law to know that there are only three or four reasons that I would have to travel here personally.  I seriously doubt that this Rob guy left me anything like that, since I doubt he even knows who I am.”

“He’s your uncle.”  That brought Fred up short.  He didn’t have any extended family he knew of.  He thought his parents were both only children.  “Your father and his family had a serious falling out when he was younger.  He hasn’t spoken to his brother in almost 40 years that I know of.”  She grabbed her tablet and opened it up.  “I met Rob once when your father and I were dating, then I didn’t see him again until well after Ted and I divorced.  As a matter of fact, I think it was after you headed to Tancredi that he looked me up.  He settled here on Andalusia after he left the mercenary unit he’d been with.” 

She turned the device so Fred could see it.  The picture showed his mom and a guy that looked like an older, skinnier, more weathered version of his dad.  Fred studied the picture minutely.  He had the same nose, and their hair line seemed to be the same shape, though the older man’s was distinctly shorter and darker.  He had a long scar that ran across his forehead and hooked on the end.  His eyes looked a little bleary and Fred noticed three long necks on the table.  His mom reached over and flicked to the next picture.  The man’s hair was a little longer and going gray.  His nose appeared to be a bit red and swollen, he was smiling though, and toasting the picture taker with an amber colored beer.  He flipped through more pictures and watched the man age atrociously fast.  In every one he had a beer in his hand, sometimes in a glass, others in a can, and most frequently in a bottle. 

“Cirrhosis of the liver?” Fred asked as he looked at the last picture of the man in the hospital.  He looked to be in pain, even in sleep.  His nose was swollen, red, and pockmarked.  His skin was sallow and discolored, and he looked gaunt.

“Yeah,” his mother said, an obscure kind of sadness in her voice.  “He knew he had a problem, but his solution was just more of the problem.  Beer made him a happy drunk, but he was still a drunk.”  She flipped back a couple of shots to one where the two of them were sitting on the back deck in long sleeved shirts while the sun set in a cold, gray sky behind them.  They were obviously laughing about something, and Rob had both hands in the air and both feet off the ground as he leaned back in his chair.  “That’s my favorite picture.  Rob told the funniest stories.  He’s telling me the story of how he got the scar on his forehead from his neurohelmet smashing in to it after he slipped trying to turn a sharp corner running down an icy street.”

“He was a ‘Mech pilot?”

“Yes, he served with Carter’s Chevaliers for almost twenty years after doing a ten year stint in the AFFS with 34^th Avalon Hussars.  He was mustered out of the 34^th after the disaster on Halstead Station.”  She was about to continue when Fred’s phone buzzed.  He flipped it open and answered.

“Mr. di Biasi, this is Vince Mahon of MacCann and Mahon, the firm representing your uncle’s estate.  We have the last of the confirmations we’ve been waiting on and we were wondering if you would be available to come in after lunch today.”  Fred replied he could since he was just cooling his heels.  When the lawyer asked if he was in contact with his mother, Charlene Fontaine, formerly Charlene Angela di Biasi, he said that he was and handed the phone over.  There were a couple of non-committal ‘uh-huhs’ and then a confirmation she would be at the office at 1:00 PM as well.

The city was quiet compared to life on Tancredi IV, but he knew that was in part because there were significant underground walkways and subways here in the city.  With as much snow and cold as it got in the winter, it was easier and safer to travel underground, so really there was only vehicle traffic on the surface and most of the buildings above ground were living or office space, most shops were either underground or inside the larger office and apartment complexes.  Fred pulled into a parking garage adjacent to the building they were going to.  They stopped for lunch at a sushi bar, which Fred was grateful for because most of the fish on Tancredi had to be thoroughly cooked to kill off various toxic bacteria that were native to the fauna there.

The conference room they were led to was small and richly appointed.  Shortly they were joined by a stout man with silvery hair that introduced himself as Johnny MacCann.  His demeanor was serious and somber, and Fred was instantly on edge.  In his own office, senior attorneys only adopted that tone when there were serious problems or very bad news.

“Mr. di Biasi, Mrs. Fontaine, it is with deep regret that I inform you that six days ago our office received word that Theodore Allan di Biasi, his wife Kaileen, and their two daughters Lily Abigail and Rose Marie were killed aboard the passenger drop ship Carnivale in the Bryceland system when the ship was attacked by pirates on the 14^th of April this year.”

Fred leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.  While he believed his father was a philandering prick and an asshole to boot, he was still his father.  More importantly, he had loved his step-mother and his half-sisters.  Lily had been a bright spot in the universe for him.  She was smart and kind, she’d just graduated from the NAIS in December with a doctorate in planetary engineering, and a masters in water ecology.  Rose had been like his younger self, a party girl, but she was insightful and had a good eye for design.  She had her own interior design firm and was supposed to be getting married later this year.  Kaileen, his step-mother, had been very much like his own mother, loving and caring; she weathered his difficult years following the divorce and treated him with the same affection as she had her own daughters.  When he went away to boarding school, she had seen him off when his father couldn’t be there, and made sure he got care packages from home just when he needed them most.

The next couple of days were a blur for Fred.  His mother, being more emotionally separated from what had happened handled the paperwork.  He’d signed his name to several minor documents, but had the presence of mind to know not to make any important decisions or sign any permanent binding legal documents until he’d had a little time to clear his head. Three days later, he was again sitting in the small conference room with Mr. MacCann, a legal secretary, his mother, his step-father, and a woman that was introduced as Lucille Winters who was caretaker of the estate.  Fred was glad he’d brought the others to back him, because when the will indicated that he had inherited a BattleMech, two semi-functional dropships, a 500-acre compound with a private launch pad and small ‘Mech storage facility, and enough funds to keep the compound running for 2 years, Fred about dropped his teeth.  He was then informed that Mrs. Winters was under contract to maintain the trust and the house; he had the option to buy her out or keep her on.  He opted to keep her on, he had enough monumental decisions to make that having someone around that knew what was going on would be more than helpful.

That afternoon he met in a larger conference room with Mr. MacCann, Mr. Mahon, three legal secretaries, four lawyers he didn’t know, five of his father’s business partners, his mother and step father, and a pretty young brunette that was Mr. di Biasi’s executive assistant.  While not as jaw dropping as the first meeting, it was a great deal more tense.  His father owned 20% of a multi-million c-bill interstellar optical research company that had just signed a contract with Precision Technologies, a wholly owned subsidiary of Precision Weaponry, his own employer.  His inheritance of 100% of his father’s shares screamed “ethical concerns” louder than anyone in the room really wanted hear.  Within 24 hours he would accept an attractive buyout option from the partners and place the funds in the living trust that now included his father’s house and 80% of his worldly possessions, along with all those of his step-mother and half-sisters.  It seemed 10% went to his mother per the terms of the divorce; and another 10%, plus his luxury hover-car, went to his father’s buxom young executive assistant.  He was glad Kaileen hadn’t been here for that, but his mother’s expression had spoken whole volumes that only reinforced his opinion of his father as a philandering fuck-toad.

The next few days passed in a flurry of planning and memorial ceremonies that the young executive assistant had been politely but firmly denied access to.  Friends he hadn’t seen since boarding school stopped to wish him well and express their condolences.  Kaileen’s extended family, most of whom he hadn’t seen in almost 20 years was suddenly everywhere.  Friends of Rose and Lilly that still lived on Andalusia showed up in droves.  It was several days before he finally made arrangements with Mrs. Winters to see his new house and compound.

The house was surprisingly modern, being that it was referred to as a ‘compound.’  He had half expected some survivalist shack in the woods with a giant underground bunker full of weapons and rations.  The house was an open design and large enough to accommodate a large extended family or a small military unit.  Most of the house was closed off and sealed up.  Mrs. Winters maintained a residence in a separate wing of the house that was intended to hold a small army of servants or assistants.  His uncle’s suite included a very well stocked bar and several partial cases of booze from all over the inner-sphere.  A little poking around revealed that the bar/liquor storage was actually supposed to be a library/study with a wet bar that had been added recently. 

A tour of the compound led him to a massive hangar.  Inside the hangar was something that looked like a Leopard class dropship, except for the fact that it was half-disassembled and surrounded by crates with no labels.  A second Leopard was sitting by a massive bay door.  It looked a bit worse for wear, but Mrs. Winters informed him that there was currently a contract for use by a local shipping concern; it was used once or twice a week and the shipping company handled the maintenance.  When he asked about the contact at the shipping company, she assured him she’d get him the info when they got back to the house, but there was only a couple of months left on the contract.  He nodded and she led him to the adjacent hangar.

It was cavernous, and the lights only lit one of the four gantries.  In the one that was lit stood a 10-meter mass of servos, wires, weapons, and armor known as a Battlemech.  Its humanoid appearance was interrupted by the lack of hands on the arms that ended in the barrels of laser cannons.  Its chest had 10 holes on each side that Fred recognized as LRM launch tubes.  A hole in the middle of the forehead also resembled the laser cannons on the arms.  It took Fred only a minute to recognize the machine from his years of playing “Immortal Warrior” or even the time he had spent in the simulators when he was logistics officer for the 42^nd Avalon Hussars: it was Whitworth.  Forty tons, packing a mix of medium lasers and long-range missiles, it was slow for a medium ‘Mech, but had a fairly good long range punch.  Jokingly referred to as “The Worthless,” to Fred it was more than just a robotic killing machine, it was the key to changing his life.  Almost before he knew what he was doing, he walked up to the giant machine and patted it on the leg.  “For you Lily, and for Rose, and for you too Kaileen.  We’re going to find those pirate motherfuckers, and they are going to pay.”

He turned back to the sharp eyed older woman that was his housekeeper and the manager of one of his estates.  “I need to find somebody that can make sure this thing is in working order.  Did my uncle have someone that did that for him?”

“I have a couple of names and contacts,” the old lady responded, and Fred thought he might have heard approval in the clipped syllables of her reply.