Part 558: Demon Hawks Campaign Vote 1

Mercenary Company Vote

“It’s been a pleasure serving with you,” Lt. Alec Delwyn threw a smart Free World-style salute, then took a moment to smooth out the wrinkles doing so made in his blue dress uniform.

Duncan’s smile was thin, his return salute nowhere near as precise as Jason’s, but he felt it was respectful enough. “You’re our liaison officer—they’re pulling you away rather unexpectedly, aren’t they Lieutenant?”

Alec bowed his head apologetically, “Sorry, Duncan. It can’t be helped. That little raiding party we fought off was just the tip of the iceburg, the Clans made a big push and the Third Dragoons took some significant damage. My company took a hit and they need me back to fill the holes,” Alec’s head rose again, meeting Duncan’s gaze. The young officer was fighting to suppress a smile. “It’s Lokhagos now. Ah, ‘captain,’ I suppose. And the Republic can’t spare a captain as a company liaison.”

“Well, I suppose that just means we’ll have to recruit some of the independent mercenary companies and bring ourselves up to Battalion strength,” Duncan joked. What else could he do? It’d be a shame to lose Alec, the Demon Hawks could’ve been assigned far worse for their first liaison officer, but the kid’s loyalty was ultimately to his own unit. Duncan couldn’t really fault that.

“I hope that doesn’t mean,” Jason interjected coldly, “that the Republic’s planning on breaching our contract and folding us into a normal command?”

“Not at all,” Alec held up a hand, waving away Jason’s concern dismissively. “You’re heading to one of our deep supply bases to repair and rearm, you’ll meet up with your new liaison there. Those bases are being guarded by the Colonial Marshals, so you’ll likely be assigned a senior marshal unless there’s another unit nearby who can spare an actual officer.”

“Marshals,” Duncan quirked an eyebrow. “That sounds more like a militarized police force than a military command.”

“It is and it isn’t,” Alec admitted. “For one, they’re volunteers. In order to join the Colonial Marshals you have to serve a term in the RWA and leave in good standing, so they’re all veterans even if they haven’t necessarily seen combat. The Marshals are part military reserve, part police, and part tool to help integrate soldiers back into civilian life rather than just removing them from the army’s structured existence and leaving them to fend for themselves. Every Marshal here volunteered—”

“Yeah, we get it,” Jason clapped Alec on the shoulder. “You’ve put my concerns to rest. Congratulations on the promotion, Alec.”

Duncan couldn’t help but interject, “I promise we won’t do anything too illegal in front of the Marshals.”



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The battered, blackened Atlas, its crimson and white paint still visible in spite of buckled, warped armor plating and laser scoring, stepped confidently through the massive, armored gates of the Catherine Humphreys Memorial Staging Area. Built into the core of the Xohn Pinnacle, the only thing that really kept the CHMS Facility from being a Castle Brian was the lack of exterior gun turrets. Without them, it was little more than an oversized repair and storage facility, dwarfing the aboveground facility the Demon Hawks had been tasked to protect by several orders of magnitude.

The Atlas paused momentarily as though it were a man taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the interior darkness. Most likely the pilot was simply overwhelmed by row upon row of BattleMechs contained within. A bored ground technician waved a pair of traffic safety batons, catching the warrior’s attention and directing the Atlas towards the repair bays in the rear of the facility. With no small skill the pilot raised its left hand in a reasonable approximation of the Republic’s salute.

“Marvelous.”

“He’s not that good,” The second speaker crossed her arms, her expression souring slightly as she regarded the Atlas. “That pilot needs to do some serious drilling if he’s going to meet to Republic standards.”

“Come now, Marshal Romero, don’t be so judgmental. Captain Kalma is Inner sphere nobility,” the first speaker clapped his hands together, his lips curling into a rather vicious smile. “He hasn’t had the benefits of a proper military education. He’s the Demon Hawks’ diplomat and contract negotiator, if he were a brilliant MechWarrior besides I’d be very tempted to recruit him. In any case, I wasn’t talking about the pilot. I was talking about his BattleMech.”

“That,” the woman sputtered, her low, gruff voice suggesting she wasn’t the sort who ever offered undeserved praise, “rusty hunk of walking garbage? I’m surprised it can even walk. And its armaments make no sense! Light autocannons, a PPC, it’s like it was put together from spare parts by a schizophrenic madman.”

“Precisely,” the man agreed. “The ingenuity of mankind—our stubborn refusal to lie down and die for a universe that hates and despises us—will always a marvel to behold. He engaged the Clans with that Atlas and walked away with his unit intact. He lost BattleMechs, but the Demon Hawks suffered only minor injuries and in the end the Clans actually quit the field rather than pursuing the engagement. There isn’t a single Republic unit on Andurien that has engaged the enemy and can boast of the same.”

“If the rest of his unit is as skilled as that Atlas pilot,” the woman snorted derisively, “they got luck—”

Her voice was drowned out by the roar of jump jets as a blue and gold Phoenix Hawk bearing the Demon Hawks’ bizarre logo touched down just inside the facility’s armored gate. There weren’t many pilots willing to risk jumping into a `Mechbay, but the Phoenix Hawk’s pilot landed his machine on a single flexed leg and turned the landing into a walk so fluid and casual it would’ve been impossible to tell he’d been rocketing through the air on a barely-controlled fusion explosion only moments before. The pilot didn’t waste a movement, simply following the Atlas before the stunned ground crew could direct him to do so.

The Marshal’s jaw worked for a few moments in silence, as though she wanted to find something to criticize but couldn’t. After a moment she coughed to clear her throat. “So that’s the pilot you’ve broken a Screamer out of mothballs for.”

“It is.”

“I still don’t like the idea of giving mercenaries current-generation equipment. We could drop back two, three gens and still blow the garbage they’re riding out of the water.”

An oddly re-designed Hunchback ducked through the gate, its pilot moving with quiet competence. They didn’t show off the way the Phoenix Hawk had, but if that pilot was any less skilled it was a matter of degrees. The Marshal’s companion raised an arm to point at it. “Those are salvaged Clan Ultra Autocannons. And the Phoenix Hawk’s Large Pulse Laser is also salvaged Clantech. No, the Demon Hawks are not run-of-the-mill mercenaries, Marshal.”

A perfect white smile split the man’s face and brought the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes into sharp relief. “Besides. What’s the point of being in charge if I can’t play favorites every now and then? They’re your charges now. Let’s go meet them.”



****************************************



Jason clambered down the leg of his Phoenix Hawk. As soon as his feet touched the ground he rolled his shoulders and threw his arms back, indulging in a few long moments of relief as he stretched his lower back. A technician tossed him a bottle of some electrolyte-rich local sports drink, and Jason nodded his thanks before taking a sip. Piloting a BattleMech was more exhausting than civilians credited. Even in normal operations a BattleMech’s cockpit almost never kept a steady temperature. Instead, the whole BattleMech heated and cooled at a semi-steady but irregular rate whenever the Fusion Engine decided the machine needed a little more power or a coolant pump failed to activate because the temperature hadn’t spiked quite high enough yet.

The constant cycle of quick heating and cooling was rough on the human body, but the air inside the Republic’s repair facility was almost frigid by comparison. Sweat rolled down Jason’s bare calves, leaving icy-feeling stripes on his skin. It wasn’t the first subterranean facility he’d been in, but in his limited experience they were all like this. One didn’t need to refrigerate the inside of a mountain, simply being cut off from direct sunlight by a few million tons of rock was enough to leave everything right around ten degrees Celsius. A facility of this size hardly needed an air conditioner, just an adequate air circulation system and perhaps a few heaters in the technician dormitories.

As if mirroring Jason’s thoughts, Duncan held his arms in front of a wall vent, letting the base’s heaters dry him a little. He turned, regarded Jason for a long moment. “Christ, Jason, did you see the size of this place? ComStar would tie themselves in knots if they saw all this hardware in one place.”

“The combined Industrial might of the past hundred years. Give or take,” A tanned older man with just a hint of a sunburn on his brow waved an arm towards the storage facility. Jason regarded the newcomer silently. He looked fit enough, but his salt-and-pepper hair wasn’t shaved at the temples and Jason doubted the man worked out as obsessively as most MechWarriors tended to. As if summoned by the man’s gesture, the BattleMech Recovery Vehicle carting around the company’s captured Copperhead pulled to a stop. He was flanked by a tall, severe-looking woman of Free Worlds Spanish descent, but she seemed content to let him speak his piece.

“Ah, your conquest. Lt. Delwyn’s report was very thorough—taken almost entirely intact,” the man continued, studying the lines of the Clan machine as though trying to commit it to memory. “Central Command was disinclined to let you keep it, having an intact Clan machine to study would be quite the windfall. But I suspect we’ll be swimming in technology to reverse engineer once the fighting’s done. One `Mech is a drop in the bucket compared to what the Snow Ravens and, ah, Sea Foxes? Are landing on our doorstep.”

Duncan opened his mouth to reply, but Jason raised a hand to stop him. He swallowed, stiffening slightly and saluted the man who was ultimately his employer. “President Amaris. This is unexpected—I didn’t think you were actually on Andurien.”

The man’s escort quirked an eyebrow appreciatively. Amaris smiled. “See, Marshal? I told you they’re not your average mercenary company. You must be Captain Youngblood. I hear you’re quite the pilot, and I know Marshal Romero was impressed by your entrance.”

Jason held his tongue for a moment to master his tumultuous thoughts. “I’m nothing special, highness—”

“Oh no. No, no, no,” Stefan Amaris wagged a finger, then clapped his hand together, drawing Jason’s attention away from his thoughts and back to the man himself. “My family rejected the trappings of Inner Sphere nobility long ago. Sir is sufficient in public, and in private I don’t much stand on formality. Stefan is fine. Or Mr. Amaris if that’s too much for you.”

“Thank you, Stefan,” Duncan’s irreverent smirk told Jason he’d mostly recovered from the initial shock. “I think what my tongue-tied companion is trying to say is: we’re not certain we’re happy to find you here on Andurien. The Clans—”

“—Are here to kill an Amaris,” Stefan replied with a trace of anger. It was obviously a conversation he’d had before. “And if it comes down to it, I intend to let them. What my family has built out in the periphery is more important than my personal survival. Make no mistake, I have every intention to live a very long time. We intend to cripple their ability to wage war on the ground and keep the Clans contained here, on Andurien, but unless the Clans commit the bulk of their warships to Andurien’s gravity well winning on the ground may be a moot point. So for the time being, we’re fighting for a stalemate on the ground.”

Duncan blinked. “So. The grand plan is to drag this out until they get bored?”

“I think it’s to drag it out until they do something stupid,” Jason corrected. “Which only works if the first stupid thing they do isn’t nuking us all from orbit.”

Amaris nodded in agreement. “Notwithstanding, of all the forces I’ve assembled here, your little company is the only one that has impressed me.” Amaris held up a hand to forestall his escort’s protest. “Which isn’t to say that my forces are in any way fighting badly, Marshal. I’m simply not in the habit of rewarding mere competence. They are meeting my expectations and that is sufficient. I am,” he paused momentarily, turning back to regard Jason for a brief moment before directing his gaze straight at Duncan, “in the habit of rewarding those who exceed my expectations. Commensurately. Sell me your Atlas.”

Duncan coughed. “What?”

“It’s remarkable,” Amaris pressed. “I’ve always been something of a collector of tools, modified far beyond their designers’ original expectations. Your Atlas would be the prize of my collection—gutted by battle damage and scavengers and still returned to a condition capable of not simply fighting, but defeating numerically superior Clan force. It’s beautiful. In an admittedly grotesque way. It’s a walking monument to humanity’s determination and I love everything about it, right down to the utterly nonsensical armament.”

A massive form loomed out of the darkness, its body painted in the same crimson and white as Duncan’s Atlas. The grinning white skull of a face stared down at them with an expression that seemed purposefully-designed to be contemptuous. The `mech was huge, but sleek, lacking some of the sheer bulk of Duncan’s Atlas and the massive barrel of a Gauss Rifle—larger than any Jason had ever seen—jutted from the right side of its torso. The medium lasers he’d been expecting on the Atlas’s arms had been removed, and replaced with short-barreled weapons that shimmered like PPCs. It lacked the Atlas’s customary missile launcher—indeed it looked as though the `Mech had never been designed with missiles in mind. From what little he’d seen, the Rim Worlders seemed to prefer direct-fire energy weapons and Gauss Rifles to autocannons and missiles.

“The RAS-04a Atlas Mk. III,” Amaris’s companion began. “Derived from Kerensky’s own Atlas Mk. II, at close range the Heavy Gauss Rifle in the right torso can kill a Firestarter with a single shot to center mass. We haven’t had the opportunity to put it to the test, but our analysts think it would take a little more than three direct hits to cripple or even outright kill a Varangian. It’s backed by a trio of snub-nose PPCs. They lack the focus and some of the range of the PPCs you’re used to, but their wider beam makes them more accurate out to 270 meters or so. It’s also equipped with triple-strength myomer—”

“Which, in spite what the name implies,” Amaris interjected sardonically, “effectively doubles the machine’s strength.”

“Under certain conditions,” the Marshal finished. “Its armor is also a leap beyond the ferro-fibrous armor you’re used to. It’s roughly twelve percent tougher than any `Mech you’ve ever piloted.”

“And about twice as expensive as your own Atlas,” Amaris added with a laugh. “It’s a bleeding edge machine, at least comparable and very likely superior to the Clan machines you’ve faced thus far. It’s so new only a select few of our field commanders have been assigned one. If you accept, you may very well be the first person to pilot one in actual combat.”

“I,” Duncan muttered, “I’ll have to consider—”

“The offer also comes with a gift for your partner,” Amaris continued relentlessly. “I wouldn’t reward one of you and let discontent fester.”

“I don’t need a new `Mech,” Jason said in low tones. He didn’t—the Phoenix Hawk had been his father’s, it was almost impossible to imagine piloting anything else. “And I’m not looking to sell my—”

“I’m only interested in buying Duncan’s Atlas,” Amaris dismissed his concerns with an annoyed wave. “But if you’ll allow me to make a personal observation? I’m not Mechwarrior but even I can see that you’re stagnating in that Phoenix Hawk. You’ve pushed it to its limits but it’s not capable of pushing you to yours. You need something new, even if you decide to return to the Phoenix Hawk afterwards.”

Compared to the Atlas III’s hulking form, the gift Stefan Amaris had in mind for Jason looked tiny. It was long and angular, possessing some of the same lines as an Aerospace fighter, but it was clear enough to see this machine had never been intended to fly. It was too bulky, and the hips and retrograde legs looked more suited to a Marauder than a medium BattleMech. Its right arm ended in the barrel of a PPC, the left a pair of lasers, an armament very similar to the one Jason was familiar with.

“The SCR-3R Screamer,” Amaris’s companion explained. “A very old design that helped fight Kerensky on Terra. The SCR-3R is a production version of the SCR-1X Screamer Land-Air `Mech. This one lacks the disappointing land-air functionality. Instead of the delicate and fragile conversion systems, roughly twenty-one percent of the Screamer’s mass is devoted to ‘improved’ Jump Jets and a partial wing to provide enhanced aerial maneuverability. The Screamer will carry you farther and faster than any `Mech you’ve ever piloted. It’s faster in the air than it is on the ground.”

“I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s the single most dangerous BattleMech ever produced,” the woman paused for several long moments, “and it’s nearly as dangerous to its pilots as it is to the enemy.”

“Don’t frighten him, Marshal,” Amaris’s voice cooled momentarily. “It’s true that the Screamer demands respect and a skilled pilot, but its reputation as a ‘pilot killer’ is undeserved.”

The Marshal regarded Amaris’s back for a long moment. “No one `Mech should have that much power, Sir. In the whole of the Republic, there are only seven pilots certified to pilot a Screamer. So understand this is not a machine we give away lightly. It’s also very easy to keep in the field—in the event of damage to the primary armament the ER PPC in the right arm can be jettisoned and a replacement installed in a matter of minutes. Its armor, however, is several generations out of date. It’s only utilizing ferro-fibrous, which means you’ll need to take extra care to keep it intact.”

Duncan turned, shared a glance with Jason. Jason nodded in reply. It wouldn’t be the same as his Phoenix Hawk, but he wanted to give that Screamer a try.

“We accept,” Duncan replied, “while I’d much prefer a Shadow Hawk or a Warhammer, we need something capable of taking a beating—and as long as no one else is willing to take a hit or two for the company, that means I’m elected. We’ll reserve the right to trade the Screamer back to you in exchange for something else if Jason doesn’t like it; and seeing as we’ll be up a `Mech with no spare pilot, we’d very much appreciate it if you’d pay any storage fees and tell your techs not to monkey with it without Jason’s supervision.”

Jason smiled apologetically, “I finally got the command couch positioned just right.”

Amaris laughed, “Ever the bargainers. You mercenaries could teach the Clans a thing or two about ‘bidding.’ Done and done, if you don’t like it there’s no sense keeping it. Just try to return it in one piece, we haven’t built very many of them and the RWA always grumbles a little when they hear I’ve ordered a replacement.”

The man smiled, “Oh, and before I forget, let me introduce you to your new liaison officer: Marshal Romero. She’ll be serving alongside you and looking out for the Republic’s interests. You’ll have a little time to repair and rearm your machines, and for your people to familiarize themselves with the replacement machines we’ll be providing. I took the liberty of having all of your replacements painted in your company’s colors but our technical staff will be able to direct your pilots to the correct replacement machines.”

“We’ve also done an analysis of the Komodo,” Marshal Romero interjected. “With your pilot’s permission, we’d like to modify it to make it more effective against Elementals. Our technical staff think they can enhance its armor and give it a bit more long-range bite while they’re at it. It probably won’t be much, but anything beats praying the Clans won’t tear you to pieces before you get close enough to shoot back. The Tempest and Enfield are total losses—we don’t have the parts to repair them so we’re going to need to replace those machines, and,” she paused a touch sheepishly, “the Republic hasn’t built a twenty ton BattleMech in over a hundred and fifty years. I don’t think there’s a single Locust on Andurien—so we’ve found something else for your scouts to pilot. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“It should be fine,” Duncan agreed. “We’ll discuss it with them. If they don’t like the replacements we’ll let you know before you throw us back into the fight.”



****************************************



“I’m sorry, Captain, but I’m out.”

Duncan rubbed his eyes. It hadn’t been unexpected, a man didn’t earn a callsign like ‘heat sink’ unless there was something wrong upstairs. Duncan and Jason had hedged their bets on a hot temper, but Barna had cracked in the battle with the Clanners. Duncan couldn’t say he was surprised, but all the same it was disappointing.

“I’ve already spoken with the Marshal, the Republic will repair my `Mech once the fighting’s over and they’ll give me a job driving a loader `Mech in the meantime, so I’m not going to starve.” Barna grimaced, unable to meet Duncan’s gaze. “So. I’m done. I’m not even going to ask for severance. I’ve been in combat before but it was never like that. I don’t want to go through that again.”

Duncan nodded, “I understand, Barna. I can’t force you to stay, so take care of yourself alright?”

The man nodded and turned, walking away without a second glance. Duncan massaged his forehead with his fingers—they still had twelve pilots, but it was disappointing. Against the Clanners he’d rather have had a little leeway, something they wouldn’t necessarily be expecting. A technological edge wasn’t enough, and Duncan was always ready to resort to dirty tricks. Even having a single extra `Mech in the company would be enough to throw most enemies looking for twelve targets for a loop. If there were thirteen, then there must be another company—or even a full battalion!

“Marshal, this is Demon,” Duncan leaned on the intercom switch for the office the Republic had loaned him for the duration of their repair and rearmament. “I’d like to hire another pilot. Have any of the other mercenary units dropped below effective combat strength?”

“Looking to poach someone?” She sounded more amused than surprised. With Amaris gone, she’d relaxed considerably. It probably hadn’t hurt that Jason had simply taken her apart in the simulators. She seemed like the type who was a bit too caught up individual piloting skill to see the real big picture.

“The 1st “Galatea Irregulars” pulled a fast one on our negotiators,” she admitted. “Three independent lances banded together to take our contract without any clear idea who was in charge or whose orders to follow. In their first combat outing they were a disorganized mess, and they’ve lost all three lance commanders. There’re only seven of them left now, none of whom are especially happy with one another. They’re all currently looking to join up with other outfits. I’ll send their files over. Just let me know who you want and we’ll fold them straight into your contract.”

Duncan nodded, “Thank you, Marshal.”

He let go of the intercom, settling back into his chair. That was one crisis averted, assuming any of the pilots in the Galatea Irregulars were up to snuff. Of course, if he hired none of them there’d be more money for the pilots remaining, but he’d be giving up his psychological ace-in-the-hole. His computer beeped as the files arrived and he started winnowing out the ones he knew Jason would reject instantly. In the end he marked three for further review and forwarded them over to Jason’s station with his notes appended. They all still had their original machines, which Duncan preferred. There were enough Demon Hawks who’d be stuck familiarizing themselves with new machines. A replacement pilot would have enough to worry about just trying to fit in.

Jason would help him figure out which of his four choices were cowards and which among them had just proven smarter than their lance commanders. He expected at least one would be cut, and then a final interview would winnow out the rest.

“Now I just need to figure out what to do with the Copperhead.”

“Well, that’s simple,” Bethany leaned against the doorframe. Duncan had no idea how long she’d been standing there—probably quite some time. “You’re putting me in charge of Battle Lance, right? I can pilot it.”



Hiring Vote
A) Teri LeRoy (g4p4) - BSW-X1 Bushwacker
B) Shin Metis (g4p5) - CRD-5S Crusader
C) Gordon Franklin (g3p4) - CLN-7W Chameleon
D) None of them

Pilot Reassignment Vote
A) Give Bethany the Copperhead, sideline Noretti
B) Give Noretti (g3p4) the Copperhead, leave Bethany in the Hunchback
C) Give Bethany the Copperhead, allow Noretti to pilot the Phoenix Hawk
D) Let Bethany pilot the `Mech of her choice, turn Noretti over to the Rim World Republic