BattleTech: A Tiny Spot of Rebellion: Kell Hounds Ascendant 2 (Kell Hounds Trilogy), page 1
Battletech: A Tiny Spot of Rebellion
A Kell Hounds Ascendant Short Novel
Michael A. Stackpole
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Sneak Peek: BattleTech: A Clever Bit of Fiction
The BattleTech Fiction Series
1
THE POWDER KEG
GALATEAN CITY, GALATEA
LYRAN COMMONWEALTH
15 OCTOBER 3010
Patrick Kell paused at the entrance to the Powder Keg. “I’m telling you, Morgan, I really think you want to take a more subtle approach.”
His brother, tall, with black hair and glittering brown eyes, rested both hands on Patrick’s shoulders. “I heard you. Subtle. Got it. Trust me.”
“Morgan, your idea of subtle is using a .50 caliber bullet instead of a 20 millimeter shell.”
Morgan spread his hands wide. “And see, I’m not even armed. C’mon, it won’t be that bad.”
Sighing, Patrick followed his brother into the tavern. Two steps in, he almost backed out again. The dominant feature was rust, and that wasn’t in terms of some fru-fru color an interior designer had chosen. Jagged metal edges just loaded with tetanus lurked everywhere. The bar, which had probably been a small repair shop once, had been gutted—by fire or a ’Mech assault—and never really cleaned up. In fact, Patrick guessed it had been a ’Mech assault, since a lot of the decorations were BattleMech parts nailed to most free surfaces.
The whole sharp-edged theme extended to the patrons. The Powder Keg was the place MechWarriors came to be seen. Sure. Survive an hour in here, and there’s no bug in the Inner Sphere that could kill you. The patrons wore uniforms from dozens of mercenary units, more than half of them no longer in existence, and most mixed and matched from several. They all looked hungry, lean, and mean—and not necessarily in that order.
Morgan, by contrast, looked very smart in his uniform. The Kell Hounds’ black-bodied tunic with red sleeves really stood out, and that didn’t make Patrick any less anxious. Men eyed Morgan. They laughed at his rank insignia. He was all of twenty-four years old and a colonel.
Patrick, for his own part, blushed as they read his rank as Lieutenant Colonel.
If Morgan noticed their scrutiny, he gave no sign. He marched straight through the tangle of tables toward the back, where a heavy-set man lounged in the shadows. The man looked Morgan up and down once, then smiled easily, running a hand over his unshaven jaw.
Morgan nodded. “Mr. Garlett?”
“Yeah, kid?” The man answered slowly, bringing his booted feet up to rest on the table.
Morgan pulled a sheet of paper from his back pocket. “You applied to join the Kell Hounds. Your log book said you served with the Fifteenth Lyran Guards on Hesperus II. Your commanding officer was Katrina Steiner.”
The mention of the Archon’s name made a few more people take notice of the exchange. Garlett pursed his lips and nodded. “That’s right, boy.”
The elder Kell shrugged. “She says you’re a liar.”
Garlett’s eyes widened with shock. He’d been found out. He’d been bragging that he’d join the Kell Hounds, get his ’Mech refitted, draw pay for a while and take off. He’d faked hunks of his log, never expecting the Kells to check and, somehow, foolishly, never expected his comments to get back to them.
And Morgan had called him a liar in front of his peers.
Garlett swung his legs from the table and came up, fists cocked. It really didn’t matter how ready he thought he was. It wasn’t enough.
Morgan’s fist arced in a roundhouse right too fast to follow. Garlett’s jaw cracked audibly. The man flew back into the wall, rebounded and collapsed his table.
Two yellowed teeth with bloody roots bounced off Morgan’s boots.
Morgan crumpled the paper and tossed it on Garlett’s twitching body. His head came up. Steel entered his voice. “Listen up, you ’Mech lice. My brother and I are hiring warriors, not chiseling vagrants who figure the Kell Hounds to be a paid vacation and a pit stop. You can join up and be part of something great, or you can sit here and tell others you could have been a Kell Hound.”
Most of the patrons looked from Morgan to Garlett, grunted, and went back to drinking. One man, wearing a Hsien Hotheads jacket similar to the one Garlett had on, uncoiled himself from a table. As big as Garlett had been, this guy was bigger, with a broken nose, scarred knuckles, and half an ear missing.
“And why would I join a unit with a leader stupid enough to come in here alone and jack a pal of mine?”
“Morgan, subtle…”
Morgan snorted. “Thanks for sending your application. Rejected.”
Which was when a third guy in a Hotheads jacket slipped an arm around Patrick’s throat.
Without thinking, Patrick drove his head backward into the man’s face, then stomped down on the man’s right foot. His heel crushed bones. Blood from a broken nose splashed against the back of his neck. Reaching up, he grabbed the man’s thumb, snapped it back and spun, turning the arm with him. Patrick came around behind the man, locking his arm against his spine, then grabbed a handful of greasy hair and dropped, driving the man face first into the floor.
Adrenaline surging through him, Patrick rose above his unconscious foe and opened his arms. His breath came heavy and fast. He slowly spun, facing everyone down. “Who’s next?”
Morgan’s eyebrow rose. “What about subtle?”
“I don’t think they get subtle, Morgan.”
The giant took a step forward, but a red laser dot appeared on his forehead. He stopped.
Patrick turned. A long, lean, unkempt man with tired eyes held a pistol in one steady hand. Not a needler, an old slug-thrower. “Sit on down, Boris.”
“You saw what they did, Frost.”
“Garlett had it coming. You know it.”
“But—”
“Butt. Yours. In that chair.”
The giant sat.
Morgan turned, smiling, and stepped toward the man.
The laser dot shifted to the center of his chest.
Morgan’s hands rose. “Just wanted to thank you.”
The beam didn’t waver. “No need. Just wanted some quiet.”
Patrick smiled, his hands raised. “Are you a MechWarrior? Looking for work?”
The man’s eyes half closed. “Not a driver. Mudbug.”
“We have an infantry company attached and—”
Frost shook his head. “O’Cieran’s company.”
Morgan nodded. “Right.”
“Used to work for him. We parted over religious differences.”
Patrick frowned. In the last two weeks he’d spent a fair amount of time with Richard O’Cieran, and hadn’t noticed the man being religious at all. He glanced at Morgan.
His brother shrugged. “Thank you anyway. If you do want work...”
“Nova Royale. I know.” Frost holstered his pistol and picked up a noteputer. The screen backlit a gaunt, lined face above a brown beard with hints of grey.
Morgan turned, nodded toward the door. Patrick preceded him. He didn’t say anything until they’d left the alley and were back on a main street.
“We could have handled that better.”
Morgan sucked on a knuckle. “It went fine. Message delivered. How’s your head?”
Patrick reached back. He found a lump, but no open wounds. “Ice and drugs, I’ll be fine.”
“Colonel Kell.”
The brothers stopped. A kid came running down the street toward them. He wore an old Eridani Light Horse jacket, but it was two sizes too big for him. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. His white shirt and dark slacks looked clean and even recently pressed. His bright blue eyes shone and his blond hair had been cut close to his scalp.
“I was in there. The Powder Keg.”
Morgan frowned. “I don’t recall you…”
The kid smiled infectiously. “In the back, washing dishes. They let me. Name’s Jimmy Stanton. I want to join up.”
Morgan blinked. “I really don’t think…”
“No, please, listen, okay?” Jimmy swallowed hard. “My dad, he was a ’MechWarrior. Marcellus Stanton. Maybe you heard of him? Well, okay, no, but see he was here and had to get his ’Mech fixed. And Mr. Blizzard loaned him money. And my dad was fighting for him to pay it off.”
Patrick nodded slowly. Haskell Blizzard had been an underworld boss on Galatea until recently. He had manipulated the black market so it became impossible for mercenaries to repair their ’Mechs, loaned them money to make the attempt, and ran a series of arenas where fighters could work off some of their debt. Patrick had won an arena duel with Thomas Volmer, and Blizzard had been financially crushed in paying off the bets on the fight.
“But my dad, see, he died. And we got a message saying his ’Mech would be sold for his debts if we didn’t claim it. So I came east from Peterstown. The ’Mech’s been in his family for a
Morgan folded his arms over his chest. “Jimmy, this isn’t going to be like in the holovids.”
“I know that. But I have obligations. My mom. My brothers and sisters. Geez, Liza’s not even a year old. My dad never saw her except in holo.” The boy held out a datacard. “I did some fighting for Blizzard. I did good. And I’m checked out in the ’Mech. It’s a Centurion.”
Patrick stepped up and took the datacard.
“Patrick, don’t.”
“He just wants a chance, Morgan.” Patrick studied the kid. “I’ll look at this, Jimmy. No promises. No real hope, okay? But I’ll look.”
“Thank you. God bless you.” The boy’s face brightened. “You’ll see. It’ll be okay. Thank you. I’ll remember you in my prayers.”
He started to back away, then came to attention and snapped a salute. The Kells returned it, then Jimmy turned and ran, holding back a loud “Wahooo!” until he’d disappeared back into the alley.
“Patrick…”
“Morgan, I know.” Patrick tucked the datacard inside his jacket pocket. “I know we can’t put him under arms. The idea is immoral and repugnant, but we have to do something because someone else will use him. If the kid’s got any promise at all, maybe we can call in a favor or two and get him an appointment to the Nagelring. That would keep him out of trouble and get him training that will keep him alive.”
Morgan looped an arm over his brother’s shoulders. “Okay, it’s a plan, but it’s one you have to stick with. We’re not keeping him around as a unit mascot, even for a little while. What we want to do means we might take in people with rough edges, but we can’t bring a kid, a totally green kid, into that sort of environment.”
“Ah, Morgan, technically I’d be one of those ‘totally green kids.’”
“Sure, who graduated at the top of his class at the Nagelring, and who’s been driving a ’Mech since before you mastered a bicycle.”
Patrick laughed. He actually had more scars from bicycle riding than anything to do with ’Mechs. “Okay, point made. Now do you think we’re going to get any of the guys from the Powder Keg?”
Morgan glanced back, then shrugged. “We should. With Blizzard’s organization falling apart, we’ve snapped up the best techs on the planet. That has to make us look good to a lot of folks. Many pilots won money betting on you, but buying repairs for ’Mechs doesn’t come any easier, since all that money is chasing a handful of parts. With our access to a factory, we also have the parts they need.”
“But, do we need them?”
“That’s the big question.” Morgan sighed. “It’s a balancing act. We want experience, but we don’t want so much of it that someone gets inflexible. We want independent thinkers, but we also want folks to take and follow orders. We’re looking for an elite bunch. As much as they were an unsavory lot, there probably were a handful who have what we need.”
Patrick sidestepped an unconscious pilot snoring away in a pool of vomit. “What about that Frost guy?”
“Don’t know. Really old eyes.”
“Not terribly sociable.”
“At least he wasn’t trigger-happy.” Morgan scratched the back of his head. “You know that’s the odd thing about warriors and how we make them. Take a kid like Jimmy. For him, it’s a tradition. I’m sure there’s romantic notions all mixed up in there. Chances are, if he gets some training, he’ll be brave, he’ll serve with honor, and he’ll pass the tradition on to his own children. But that training, that’s the weird thing. That’s where we prepare for the worst, and break down that last taboo. We put young people into a position where we tell them it’s okay to kill their fellow human beings.”
“But we have to, Morgan.”
“I know. I’ve killed. You’ve killed. It’s changed us in ways we can’t even imagine. All the training in the world can’t prepare you for that. It can’t direct your reaction.”
Patrick frowned. “But wouldn’t our background determine how we react?”
“Sure, more than likely that’s the end of it. You and I have had a solid foundation. Good education, religious training, we have a framework for understanding what we’ve done and the consequences of it. Sounds like Jimmy has that going for him, too. But, you know, there’s one reaction I don’t think any foundation can prepare you for.”
“What’s that?”
Morgan’s expression tightened. “When you find out you like it.”
Patrick slowly nodded. There were times it happened to almost any warrior. They called it Blood Fever. You got into combat and all you wanted were kills. You became the hunter, merciless, invincible, and just went out there and destroyed things. If you were lucky, the battle ended before you ran out of ammo or were killed yourself. Then you calmed down and after the battle you rationalized things. You were out there protecting your friends. You thought about those you were avenging.
That rationalization allowed you to sleep at night.
But some warriors never came down from it. They were always the hunters, never able to turn it off. They liked killing. They hungered for it. Sometimes Patrick wondered if that sort of bloodlust had been the source for legends about vampires and other creatures that survived on blood.
“I’m glad I’ve not been there.” Patrick looked over at his brother. “Have you? I mean, you’ve never really talked about the time you were away with Katrina and Arthur.”
A smile lit up Morgan’s face. “Don’t worry about me, Patrick. I’m fine. I’ve not been there either, but you have to wonder. What would you do if you looked into the future and only saw blood?”
“That’s what our future is likely to be, isn’t it?”
“Not if we do our jobs right. We pick the right people, the right equipment, the right battlefields, and we’ll be able to beat people without having to fire a shot.” He nodded. “When war costs too much, folks will stop waging it.”
“I agree.” Patrick slapped his brother’s back. “So we’ll pick the best recruits, put an end to all war, and retire undefeated.”
“Amen, brother, amen.”
2
GOVERNOR’S MANSION
GALATEAN CITY, GALATEA
LYRAN COMMONWEALTH
16 OCTOBER 3010
Morgan Kell had never liked wearing the uniform of the Galatea Garrison, but while he’d been in temporary command of it, he’d had little choice in the matter. His assuming command of the garrison had been critical in ousting General Volmer, the former commander. That, in turn, had contributed to the downfall of Haskell Blizzard, without which the Kells would not have had any success in recruiting mercenaries to their unit. The arrival of the new governor called for a reception being held in his honor. The fact that the man brought an officer to replace Morgan meant Morgan could return to the Kell Hound colors.
The Governor’s Mansion, which had been designed in a very Mediterranean style, with stucco and tile in most places, marble, mosaics and fountains in others, struck the right note on a dry world like Galatea. It was a welcome contrast to the scrap-metal décor of many places in Galatean City—remnants of failed industrial efforts, or reactions to the elegance of new buildings like the mansion. Morgan found himself envying the governor’s living quarters, even though the Nova Royale hotel was equally opulent.
Not so much envy as begrudge. Baron Lawrence Bonham had been incoming to take command of the world even as General Volmer was being brought low. Bonham had gotten the position as a sop to Alessandro Steiner, the former Archon, who retained a great deal of power on the Isle of Skye. Alessandro had been a despot whom Katrina Steiner supplanted. Morgan, Arthur Luvon, and Katrina had even fled the Lyran Commonwealth for a time to elude Alessandro’s assassins, so Morgan wasted little love on him or his agents.
Even so, he stopped himself from bristling as the Governor approached bearing two glasses of wine. The man moved easily—the gait of someone who had never labored or been achy in his entire life. Painfully slender and taller even than Morgan, Bonham’s thinning brown hair had been raked across his scalp to cover, but not with the precision that would have marked extreme vanity. The man’s brown eyes were lively and wide, which set Morgan a bit at ease.
