Battletech Death of the Author (SI)

[prinCZess]

Much of the rest of the morning passes in relative peace. I go through a short bodyweight routine a few minutes after breakfast that absolutely kills me for some reason, then get myself a bath in the largest, most luxurious tub I've ever seen. I don't even leave my room until it's almost noon.

It doesn't take long dealing with Gastocoui's shit before I grasp for any excuse I can find to leave the grounds. I find it quickly, and the drive to my dropship doesn't take long at all.

I stand at the entrance to the 'Mech-bay and stare.

She’s sexier than Gronley’s ‘Mech. Sexier than Gronley’s body! Certainly more sexy than mine! My big old beautiful Banshee is a work of art. The fact she’s a massive machine built for war and destruction only makes it better.

I'm transfixed, frozen on the dropship’s upper walkway, admiring the upper half of the bright-white, fifteen-meter tall ‘Mech that’s visible in the gantry. Just even with the railing ahead of me, extending out of the lower portion of the chest where her abs would be if she were a person, I can see the housing for the Particle Projection Cannon where it extends just out of the slabs of blocky armor. Barely-visible at the same height on the opposite side of the machine is the barrel of an autocannon. As a trade-off for how fast and well-armored she is, they’re the only notable weapons she mounts. Most of the internals are consumed by a massive engine that lets her move faster than any ‘Mech so large should, and most of her outside layered with plates of armor that are laid-on so thick she could take one hell of a pounding before she let anything come inside her.

I clear my throat to hold back an undignified giggle-snort at the thought and force my eyes further up.

The only exceptions to the ‘Mech’s white paintjob are a strip of black armor outlining the ‘jawline’ of the head and another paired across the centerline of where the cockpit sits that makes the head look vaguely like a Jolly Roger. The effect is spoiled slightly by the round focus for the small laser sitting in the middle of the ‘face’, and the lines of the armor don’t allow a perfect recreation. But with the ‘Mech is painted in a garish, almost eye-searing white across the rest of her entire body, the effect is close enough. It’s probably a good thing she isn’t in the path of the sunlight shining into the bay or else the reflection from the paint might actually be blinding.

She’s ostentatious and completely impractical. A relic of a bygone era. She doesn’t belong on a modern battlefield so much as she does in a display somewhere being cared for by a team of attendants as an example of failed designs. The engine is actually too big and the only real way she'd be able to properly crush opponents would be by closing with them and hitting them with one of its massive fists.

I love her and she’s perfect! I can’t help but grin at the mere sight. Partly from remembering how I’d won her, partly from a restrained excitement at the miracle of engineering she represents even as old as she is, and finally the once-again reminder that this shitty future isn’t so shitty. I mean, my God, it would let me punch the shit out of anyone I wanted and unlike hitting them with my own fists, hitting them with the machine's would actually do something! She’s powered by a fusion engine the same way a Mustang was powered by a gasoline one. It's so damn cool!

I’m a little tempted to change things up and repaint her so she’s some shade of light blue with burgundy hot-rod flames running down the sides. But I’ll never be able to do it. Besides being a disservice to the 'Mech itself, It would ruin another bad joke. What was that line from…Well, I think I remember it mainly from a Clint Eastwood film, but that line from the bible?

“Lo, I looked and beheld a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death…”

“What was that, m’lady?”

Yeah. I was glad I'd told her to cut the 'mistress' business. As fun as it is, I'm just not that--

I start, and jerk my head over my shoulder. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out-loud, and now Sarah is floating her eyes between me and the ‘Mech, visibly confused. But she’s probably too uneducated to catch the reference, and I had said it pretty quietly…

“Merely admiring my own impeccable taste, Sarah. What do you think of her?”

Her answer takes a moment to come, and she keeps staring at me oddly.

“M’lady she is terrifying.”

My grin abandons me. Now what is that supposed to mean? Was she talking about the ‘Mech or me?

Well, one passive-aggressive snipe deserved another. I offer a glare, “Yes. She is.”

That comment gains me a silence I’m both guilty and grateful for. Since I’ve dragged the other woman here with me without explaining why, it wouldn’t surprise me to find she was scared. Before I was…Me…Slaves that ended up on my dropship were there for punishment duty. They never left. But what I have in mind for her is far from punishment duty. Attitude is not very becoming in someone who works for me, either, even if it is hidden.

I growl and move on, crossing the walkway and then taking the ladder up until I’m standing at the precipice of the Banshee’s cockpit. Inside, a half-dozen screens flank the piloting couch, and the fragrant smell of dried sweat floats out over me. A cooling-vest is balanced over the top of the seat. On a small rack behind the couch, the neurohelmet sits and waits for me.

Like me, it’s a rather ugly thing. Like some kind of mutant love-child of one of those goofy-looking bicycling-helmets and a sombrero, with a half-dozen bundles of wires connected in series across it. I know some of the older, Star League models don’t look quite so ridiculous, but hundreds of years of technological regression has made them all but extinct. This one works. For now, that’s all that matters. After I make my fortune, I can probably find a better one that’s slimmer and more flattering to my head’s figure.

Still, I’m worried over more than its age and appearance. I’m not the same person I was the last time I’d piloted the ‘Mech. Worse, neurohelmets were designed to be keyed-in to specific brainwave patterns. I don’t actually know what might happen when I try to run through the startup-sequence. But that’s what Sarah is here for. If I pass out or…something…she’s about the most trustworthy person there is to bring me back around. Most of my other subordinates might take it as a chance to move up in the world, and even if I'm not his preferred demographic Arthur might take it as a chance to get himself up.

A slave is more trustworthy than my subordinates. Ain’t that just a perfect summary for this shithole?

I strip off the jacket I’d worn over my sports-bra and boxers to fend off the cold, toss it onto the walkway below, and go through a light series of stretches. The scabbard at my side gets in the way or bounces awkwardly against the edge of my leg a few times, and my holster on the other side rubs through the relatively thin fabric of my shorts. But it’s a small price to pay for enjoying the cooler air of the bay. It’s the last chance I might have for a while to actually be cold, because even when they were ‘idling’, ‘Mechs are exceptionally hot.

I am reminded once again, however, that I am not. A few techs working on Arthur’s Shadow Hawk one ‘Mech-bay over take a renewed interest in it so they don’t even have to look at me. It’s discouraging—knowing you can’t even draw looks in underwear—but I can’t really blame them. I’m too tall and lanky, and my skin’s almost as bright and reflective as the ‘Mech’s. It’s too bad it doesn’t have any of the UV-absorbing properties the paint provides. I’ve already come close to burning because of it just out-and-about in the Tortuga sun, and more damage is the last thing my skin needs.

“Sarah? Won’t you join me up here?” I call down as I finish stretching.

She is clearly not enthused by the idea. It takes her longer than it should have to climb the ladder. But she climbs it. She might be a slave, but she’s quite the trooper as well.

“Is there something you require before piloting? Some water, perhaps?” Sarah asks when she reaches the top of the ladder, her eyes fixed in front of her and hands curled around the sides with a white-knuckled grip.

“Yes. I need a guide to point me the way to my mines and show them to me.” I say, reaching into the cockpit and sliding down the tiny jumpseat in the rear corner. “And you’re it.”

She doesn’t visibly react for a surprisingly long amount of time. She just keeps straight ahead at the armor of the Banshee’s head and flexing her wrists. The delay is honestly a little aggravating.

“I’m sure that Gastocoui would be a more suitable—“

“Sarah? Get in the giant robot. Gastocoui is an idiot and the idea of spending any amount of time confined into a small space with him in any degree of less than full-dress makes me nauseous.” I interrupt. “The only thing the man might be good for, if I could contain my revulsion at him doing it, is kissing my feet…Though I suppose he might make for a decent fertilizer.”

I laugh at the idea as I angle my way into the cockpit. Shrugging into the cooling-vest, I drop onto the couch and automatically position it so both my sword and pistol are readily-accessible to me but not my passenger. She’s been searched and I doubt she’d try anything, but there’s no reason I should take any risks. I suppose if she was really enterprising she could try to strangle me, unlikely as it might be. But that's why I'm keeping both weapons within reach.

I hear a very slow clammer as Sarah crawls in, but don’t hear her join in on my laughter. It is another point in her favor since a real suck-up would have. But it makes me see her as a little more severe than I had. There’s no accounting for different senses of humor I suppose? Because that was a funny joke.

Sarah’s eventually forced-in entirely when I pull the lever to cycle the cockpit closed. She seems oddly reluctant about the whole affair and I can’t figure why. She’s getting the chance to ride around in one of the biggest ground machines mankind has ever created. Where’s the excitement? The wonder? The gratitude? I try not to let it bug me, but a ‘thank you’, m’lady’ would have been appreciated! Even if I am doing it just so there’s someone immediately available to help me if something goes wrong.

I work my way through a quick checklist of the ‘Mech’s systems before anything else. A good number of more minor systems flash red or have yellow cautionary tags on them when I pull them up on the screens, but we don’t have the spare parts to fix most of them. Most of the important stuff works. The PPC reads as drawing the appropriate amount of power, and whatever shitty ammunition-feed caused the autocannon to jam when I’d last used the thing has been cleared by the techs. A cautionary code flashes over a screen dedicated to the engine, but it’s a service-life warning instead of anything important. It had been a good number of decades since a certified tech had looked-over the thing and had the necessary codes to clear the warning. Since it doesn’t affect performance, I don’t really care.

“Help me get this thing on.” I command, reaching back for the neurohelmet.

Sarah obliges. In a few seconds I have the bulky thing down over my head. A few experimental twists and turns make sure the pads with the neural sensors are settled on the small shaved patches in my hair where they can form a solid connection, and a few more untangle some of the kinks in my hair it produced. I could be more comfortable and might even see a modest increase in performance if I shaved my head entirely, the neurohelmet doesn’t like even the slightest bit of interference. But if I do that I’ll look even more like some kind of budget, post-apocalypse bitch. The hair stays, even if it makes piloting the ‘Mech a little more uncomfortable.

I run through the remainder of the pre-start sequence. It’s strange again, to feel simultaneously bored from something you’ve done dozens of times before and childish excitement at something brand new. When I get off this stupid planet, I’m definitely keeping the Banshee. Its hands might be useful for grasping things at dig sites and I could probably come up with a few other excuses with time to think about it so I can keep it around. But it’s the first thing I earned from my own work, I’m not going to get rid of it. Not even for something as useful as money.

After plugging in the security code, I flip the switches that will allow power through to the sensors and disengage the limiter on the reactor. With a deep breath, I finally turn the final master-key that takes the fusion engine below me from idle to full-power.

Screens around me flicker to life and numbers and coding I don’t understand the slightest bit of run over them for a few moments before they cycle into more readable displays of information. The panels beyond buzz to life and present me with a 360’ view of my surroundings that has been abbreviated into a smaller view. Waiting a beat to be sure none of the safeties are going to engage, I gradually test first the arms and then the torso movement of the machine. As I do, the ‘Mech shudders around me. Power flowing from the fusion engine at its center and into the myomer joints and junctions throughout that allow it to move.

I shudder along with it. My vision goes starry for a moment as a whole new wave of sensations push their way into my mind and then force their way out. My stomach drops, twists, and then tries to make its way out my throat and the other end at the same time. All total, it’s not really much worse than it has been every other time I’ve interfaced with her. So my brainwaves haven’t changed. I can still pilot my baby! I’m still me!

It belatedly occurs to me that such a thing might not say good things about me, but I force that burble aside. I am not a psychopathic woman-child that kills people for fun, dammit.

I’m not!

“Reactor online. Sensors online. Weapons online—locked. All systems nominal.”

I know the last line is a lie. But it’s easier to trick the computer into thinking that a bunch of systems being offline or improperly-repaired is ‘normal’ than it is to actually fix everything. If I sat and listened to the voice list out everything malfunctioning or improperly repaired on the Banshee, I might just go insane.

I take a moment to make sure none of the techs or anyone else is close enough to be caught by any movement I make. Seeing none, I gradually push the Banshee into motion and begin a careful walk down the dropship’s ramp. At first it takes a single-minded focus the likes of which I’m usually really bad at, but as I keep moving I slowly work my way into a rhythm that’s almost natural.

It’s kind of like dancing, actually? A steady procession of footwork paired with careful attention to my center-of-balance. Instead of balancing myself with my arms or tummy, though, I use my arms to control speed and direction with the controls at my side, and all the effort of keeping the ‘Mech upright and properly-positioned is sent through the neurohelmet and translated into action by bundles of myomer fibers and titanium joints.

Heh. It might have taken me all kinds of bullshit, but I’m finally using my head for something besides my hairdo!

I consult with Sarah briefly to make sure I set myself on the right road that leads away from the spaceport. That done, I briefly call Arthur to inform him I’d started moving. After the appropriate delay, he’d release Timothy from the mansion to come rendezvous with me in the Quickdraw I’d passed-on to him. The younger Mechwarrior was moving-up from a much smaller Spider I owned, and needed as much time familiarizing himself with the new ‘Mech as he could get.

Not that it’d matter since I’d be selling him out as quickly as I could. But there were appearances to keep up.

“So.” I say after the silence in the cockpit begins to wear on me, “What do you actually think of my machine?”

“I don’t like heights and I don’t like ‘Mechs.” She says. I can actually hear her squeezing her eyes shut and clutching onto the jumpseat with her hands in her voice. I can also hear the words she’d left off. ‘Today I’ve combined both’.

The comment couldn’t be any better-designed to make me feel like an asshole for enjoying myself if it’d been come up with in a laboratory. Instead of letting myself feel that way I increase speed to focus on just how relaxing it is to pilot the machine.

Running away from your issues becomes easier when it’s done inside 95 tons of military-grade ‘Fuck off’.

 

[Deleted member]

"Running away from your issues becomes easier when it’s done inside 95 tons of military-grade ‘Fuck off’. "

You are brilliant with the one-liners.

 

[prinCZess]

It’s only about two hours and a hundred-twenty kilometers later that a loud, undulating whoop over the comms precedes my new Quickdraw rising up from a ditch on the side of the barebones ‘road’ I’m following into the mountains. A pillar of blue-white, fusion-exhaust flame extends from the back, smaller ones extending from the feet and stabilizing the jump. While it’s far from perfect, it’s surprisingly good form for someone in a brand-new machine. But Timothy’s always been a natural at piloting. That’s what had earned him a place in my lance under Gronley piloting the only other ‘Mech I’d owned at the time.

“Boss,” Timothy says with the flat, disinterested tone he used for just about everything besides the wild screams he indulged in occasionally. “I like this thing a lot.”

It’s too bad he has also the personality of wet toast. The farmboy-turned-raider isn’t going to be winning any likeability contests anytime soon. Besides piloting he doesn’t do much but eat, sleep and read. Never even seen him do a woman—or a man. This is the most worked-up I think I’ve heard him outside of shooting at people or charging at them, and it’s not all that surprising it comes because of a ‘Mech. Dude’s weird.

“Just be careful. You break anything on it hot-rodding like that, you’re gonna have to buy it.” I respond. I’d earned six months of uncompensated work from him when he’d first joined because he’d ‘broken’ the leg actuators on my Spider. They’d been broken before he got in, of course. But he hadn’t known that and I’d needed a pilot. I’d try a similar scheme on the dumbass if I knew I might have to pay him anyways. Since I won’t be doing that…

“I do not have enough money for that.” The boy answers back.

He wasn’t wrong.

“How’d the techs manage on that thing? Gronley always was evasive on the old girl’s status.” I ask as I take the lead in my Banshee and continue towards the mines.

“SRM launcher out entirely. Two lasers lose focus if used while running a heat load of any note. LRM launcher is finicky, likes to jam-up every two or three salvos.” Timothy answers in a litany that sounds like he’s reciting word-for-word what a tech had told him.

“They say what the loss of focus was from?”

I can see the shrug even over the radio, “They said it could be warping in the housings, could be a computer issue, and could be a ghost in the arm they’re mounted in since it was salvage off a Shadow Hawk. Tech said something about how getting it to interface with this thing’s actuators was ‘an adventure’.”

“Hmm,” I bite my lip and hesitate, then jump at the opportunity, “Let’s try and narrow it down while giving you some target practice, kid. Follow behind me, keep your heat up, and focus your fire on the targets I shoot at. We’ll give the techs some data to look over to see if they can’t track down the problem.”

The Quickdraw would be more valuable the better shape it was in. Since I wouldn’t be paying the techs anything from the ‘raid’ we go on either thanks to handing them over to the authorities, if they can fix the thing it’s free money in my pocket! Plus, what kind of person would I be to skip out on the opportunity presented to shoot the shit out of stuff with guns bigger than I am? Because what’s the point of running around in a gigantic war-machine if I don’t even use the gigantic weapons it mounts?

Settling my hands more firmly around the controls, I slam my ‘Mech forward into a loping sprint that approaches the edge of its maximum operational speed. The up-and-down rocking that had been present intensifies, and the targeting reticule on the screens before me slides around in a half-mad vertical as the computer tries to compensate for the new movement as best it can. I twist my own head around first, and after spotting a large boulder off the right side of the path we’re on rotate the torso of the ‘Mech over to direct the weapons at it.

I stab down on the firing studs. There’s a roar and rumble underneath me as the autocannon belches, and a green flash of light stabs out at the same time from the small laser. After a moment of barely-detectable humming as it charges, an eye-searing bright-blue bolt surges outwards from the PPC and into the small cloud of dust that the boulders have already become thanks to the impact of high-velocity metal against them.

The temperature inside the cockpit swells and I open my mouth to breathe out heavily into the warm air. When things settle around the target, there’s only a very little bit of boulder left, the autocannon having eaten a massive chunk out of its side. What little there is has been scored a dark, burned-up black from the charged particles that hit it. It’s a pretty sight.

Only now do I remember to think about how valuable ammunition is for the autocannon. The PPC and the laser are negligible, since the only cost to shooting them is some wear-and-tear, but the heavy cannon requires ammunition that is a good deal more valuable and hard to come by. But even with that thought in mind, the destruction I’ve managed on the thing is immensely pleasing. Pleasing enough to inspire me into stabbing another PPC towards it before I move on to another as Timothy, belatedly, fires his own weapons at the thing. The man’s a good pilot, but he’s slow at shooting.

I manage to restrain myself on my next shots and rely solely on the pair of energy weapons I’ve got to mark targets in brilliant light-shows of destruction. Swinging about as I run on, I direct my weapons into targets on either side of the road, trying as best I can to change the distances they’re at to test myself further. Unlike other machines, my Banshee is relatively well-equipped to handle the spikes in heat the regular use of the weapons causes. Despite that, the cockpit still begins to feel like first a sauna and then the inside of a microwave on high as I continue on, firing left-and-right as I run.

“Now I know what a TV dinner feels like.” I pant to myself with a heavy giggle as I trigger another PPC-blast into the edge of a distant cliffside.

Seeing the combined impact of the weapons carve off a chunk of granite and send it tumbling down makes up for the temperature spiking again. Smiling, I take a slow breath of the blazing-hot, humid air and wish the vest of coolant wrapped around my midsection could extend across the rest of my body. My hair feels like a sweaty, disgusting cap pasted on my head stringing down my neck, and my legs feel like they’ve been set over a Bunsen burner to season. I can’t even imagine how much worse it’d be without the vest. It’s so hot I can’t even remember what trivid I’m stealing my line from. That can’t be good!

There’s a brush of air against my shoulder and then a hand drops onto it. “Mine…ahead. Right.”

The words are labored, coming out in struggled gasps that almost aren’t discernible over the mechanical rumbling of the cockpit. If their source wasn’t so close behind me, I almost wouldn’t be able to make them out. But I can, and they remind me that I’m being an idiot. My slave is in the jumpseat without a cooling vest! It—SHE—is not going to be able to direct me very well dying from heat exhaustion!

“Mine’s coming up on the right, let’s call it quits for now.” I order, straightening out my machine and turning slightly. The order lets me bypass the usual round of kicking myself the mental slip in referencing the woman behind me would bring on. I caught myself, that’s the important thing.

“How did I do?” Timothy asks.

Usually I’d berate the man’s poor gunnery. But this time around I actually hadn’t been paying any attention to his shots. I’d been too entertained myself to even notice someone in the cockpit with me, someone in another ‘Mech entirely hadn’t even registered.

“Positive enough for pirating work.” I answer as a compromise between insulting the man anyways and admitting I hadn’t actually noticed. “Should give the techs some better information on that arm at least.”

I get a very basic acknowledgement from the other man. He falls in more directly behind me from the more spread-out formation we’d assumed during the shooting, and we continue on towards the mine. Sarah mutters clipped directions as we go, directing me there as is her duty. The gradual way the cockpit cools down to a mere ‘sweltering’ from the previous ‘blistering hellscape’ it was when I was constantly cycling the weapons probably helps.

Soon enough we ascend to just below a gravel mining-road that curls its way further around the mountain we’re on. Following the road leads us up to a small, cliffside plateau, Almost two-dozen rusting, Quonset man-camps sit on top of the jut, baking in the sunlight. On another planet it might be a very unsecure and easily-escaped prison, but I know the cliffs the huts sit atop are a favorite nesting-place for the Tortugan scorpions that get me my nerve-toxin nail polish. Besides them, anyone who escaped would have dozens of kilometers to walk in sun-scorched near-desert with virtually no cover to save them from the sun or searchers. Slaves ‘escaping’ into either of those was a minor concern. They’d be found easily enough, and either tell stories that would discourage others from trying…or their body would do the same thing.

My eyes track off of the Quonset huts and towards the other edge of the camp where it leads into the mine. There the camp is set with a meters-high fence topped by razor-wire and a pair of towers on either end that hold lounging guardsmen. A slightly shorter fence stretches out from the centermost section into a v-shaped gash that’s been blasted into the mountain. Past that lies a truly massive pit that holds a dozen guard towers, small buildings, and pieces of heavy equipment that are arrayed about the roads that crisscross the mine.

Near the bottom of the pit there’s even the upper-half of an IndustrialMech digging into the dirt with its massive, bucket-hands. The reason it hasn’t been rigged into a makeshift raider that can steal more shit for us explained by it being mounted on a giant flatbed trailer. The machine would be completely immobile without the truck attached. It ain’t got no legs.

I wonder if it’s nicknamed Lieutenant Dan? It should be. Even if nobody else would get the joke…

I bring the Banshee to a halt near a large, central trailer Sarah tiredly points me towards and hunch it down as far as I can. After ordering Timothy to remain where he is on overwatch, I lock-out the ‘Mech’s systems and shrug off the neurohelmet. Unplugging the cooling-vest, I throw it over my shoulder then contort myself around in the cockpit and work my way towards the exit.

Commanding some of the reprobates underneath me in sweat-soaked underwear wouldn’t be much of a problem—some of the bastards would probably get off to it and I can’t bring myself to care about something as unimportant as modesty. But sweat-soaked underwear definitely doesn’t provide the protection that the vest does. It is bulletproof and even, to a degree, knife-resistant. My tits are pretty decent thanks to years of low-gravity on Tortuga, everything else about my appearance aside. But they’re nowhere close to being decent enough to stop a bullet or a stab like the vest. Hell, compressed down like they are, my girls wouldn’t even be all that distracting to a potential killer. I’m not about to turn down an advantage.

I have to squeeze past Sarah by sliding along the far side of the cockpit. The slave-girl is sprawled out on the jumpseat, arms hanging limply at her sides. Her head is tilted off the edge so it’s not leaning against the worn-through pad that’s there to hold it and her eyes are closed as she takes long, slow breaths through her mouth. She looks like she just went through a shower with her clothes still on. Probably has heat exhaustion of some kind, I’d seen that in people out river-rafting a few times. It’s no joke.

Something makes me hesitate when I reach the exit. I stare forward at the metal that separates me from the outside, some stupid impulse trying to make me look back. Why? I know it’s just going to make me feel guilty, even when it shouldn’t! I am not going to run the risk of getting killed on this crapsack planet just so I can temporarily pretend to be some kind of noble, kind-hearted bitch instead of just being the self-interested kind of bitch that I am! I’ve killed people. Enslaved them! Someone I own being uncomfortable should barely even register on my conscience.

I squeeze my hand around the vest. I need it. As much as I need the laser and sword on my hip or the ‘Mech that I’m inside. I need it to be safe. My own safety takes priority over someone else’s comfort, dammit!

”There’s water in the left-hand cockpit-compartment. Get yourself some.” I order. Sarah probably wouldn’t look if I didn’t order it. So little initiative.

I cycle the lock and climb out onto the small series of footholds that are setup on the outside of the ‘Mech, leaving the door open behind me so there’s some airflow. Not that it’ll help much. The outside air is almost as hot as it was inside the cockpit after the heat-sinks had time to dump some of the waste produced from running the weapons. The mine is in a high desert, and it’s just now getting into the midday heat. But at least the air doesn’t stink as bad and moves.

I could crawl down if I really needed to. There are enough footholds and divots in the armor I could make it to the ground by hand. But I’m lazy and since I haven’t been in combat I can be sure the much easier alternative is in working order. I feel about with my right foot until I can unfold a small stirrup from where it’s tied onto one of the footholds, and after securing one arm around the cabling it’s attached to set the small electric winch to lowering me to the ground. Since a trio of people have started towards me from the trailer, I take the chance provided by the descent to the ground to get into the vest.

“Captain Paula Trevaline, My honorable Dame Murderess Extraordinare! Welcome to my humble operation.” One of the men calls out to me as he approaches, waving a wide-brimmed hat over his head for a moment before putting it back on.

I wait until he’s very close before very coldly correcting him on the matter of who the operation belongs to. The slavedriver is much less familiar with me after that, and much more responsive to my only half-caring inquiries about the mine and its operations. It’s truly astonishing how good fear is as a motivational tool. Maybe after I make my fortune I can give talks to boardrooms of Fortune 500 companies around the Inner Sphere about how the trick to increasing productivity was making employees think they might be murdered for failures!

I don’t find the joke as funny as I know it is.

 

[Deleted member]

Ahh, the corporate motivational speech. I am trying to think of which Power that would be popular with from an ex-pirate...

 

[dreese55]

Ahh, the corporate motivational speech. I am trying to think of which Power that would be popular with from an ex-pirate...

maybe the Capellans?

 

[Deleted member]

maybe the Capellans?

Too totalitarian to let in outside ideas, though...

 

[Ganurath]

Too totalitarian to let in outside ideas, though...

On the other hand, Paula Trevaline canonically came to power in 3015. With enough hustle, she could get stuck in the climax of Anton's rebellion and make a strong impression.

 

[Deleted member]

On the other hand, Paula Trevaline canonically came to power in 3015. With enough hustle, she could get stuck in the climax of Anton's rebellion and make a strong impression.

Aye, but there's a lot of other things to do with the caches of Star League tech she knows now. Rasalhauge comes to mind....

 

[Ganurath]

Aye, but there's a lot of other things to do with the caches of Star League tech she knows now. Rasalhauge comes to mind....

In her neck of the woods? Anton's rebellion was already a stretch, but going for Rasalhague means going from the FedSun's Periphery into the Combine. Better off looking into the Argo, or whether or not any of the wreckage of the Tripitz can be salvaged. If even a tenth of armor and/or heats survived atmo entry, it'd be worth the trip. If the computers survived...

 

[Deleted member]

In her neck of the woods? Anton's rebellion was already a stretch, but going for Rasalhague means going from the FedSun's Periphery into the Combine. Better off looking into the Argo, or whether or not any of the wreckage of the Tripitz can be salvaged. If even a tenth of armor and/or heats survived atmo entry, it'd be worth the trip. If the computers survived...

I meant as a longer term objective.

 

[Laskar]

So... your guide is suffering from heat exhaustion, has probably sweated a few pints in two hours of travel, and all you're offering her is a bottle of water?

That's cold. That's so cold, I wonder why you need the cooling vest.

 

[Deleted member]

So... your guide is suffering from heat exhaustion, has probably sweated a few pints in two hours of travel, and all you're offering her is a bottle of water?

That's cold. That's so cold, I wonder why you need the cooling vest.

I would assume that it's a liter with electrolytes if it's the emergency pack on a 'mech.

 

[The Whispering Monk]

I am having a good time with this myself! Keep at it, as I'm really curious where you're going to take THEM!

 

[prinCZess]

The dirty bastard was setting me up for failure! He was getting in the way of everything!

I squeeze the trigger twice in quick succession, enjoying the total lack of kick or report the laser pistol produces—so different from the old ballistic kind part of me is more used to. Twin beams of off-red coherent light spit out one after the other and sear into my target a few dozen yards—meters—from me. I know it’s there, but underneath the ear-protectors I’m wearing I can’t hear the soft crackle-snap that is produced by the super-heated air in the wake of the beam.

I probably don’t need the things. I hadn’t used them Before. But wearing the polarized shades that protect my eyes without the pressure of the ear protection over them feels weird now. More than that, putting them on lets me ignore everything around me and just focus on the enjoyment of shooting the laser-pistol.

It’s a fricken’ laser. A no-shit, melt-things-it-hits, carry-on-my-side laser. There is a lot to enjoy there.

Neither shot I fired hits exactly where I wanted. The first goes too low and the other breaks low and to the right because I’m still expecting recoil that never comes from the laser. Old habits died hard. Not even imagining Bar-Dyness face on the targets can counteract that.

The last few days had gone well enough. Sarah’s hesitant, ever-halting explanation of the acres of plantation under cultivation, the trip to the mine, and briefly looking-over all the people I now owned had spared me from having to deal much with Gastocoui and taken up much of the first few days. Cobbling together a set of Articles of Agreement laying out exactly what the pirates who signed-on with me were expected and entitled to once we supposedly got our yo-ho-whoring on occupied another day, and solidified for me how useful Arthur was for the time being. Kept busy enough as my number two he didn’t have time to even ask for my indulgence of his…habits.

Admittedly, I had also spent another day being completely selfish and having fun stomping about in my Banshee. But I’d made a trade-off for it! I’d opened-up the estate’s cellar-full of stolen or Tortuga-brewed liquor and, over Gastocoui’s objection, divvied it and a good deal of Gronley’s more plebian possessions like clothes and amenities out to the slaves. It was kind of amazing how much a real pair of pants that didn’t fit could make some of them look at me as if I were some kind of goddess.

I sigh. That had been worth it, even if it was a financial loss. Most of the shit wasn’t valuable enough to bring with me to sell, I’d be gone quickly-enough I’d never have a use for all of the stuff, and it gave me an early taste of the adoration I knew would be coming my way eventually. Damned if I didn’t enjoy both marching around in a BattleMech for no good reason and listening to a bunch of people endlessly toasting to my greatness and health, even if only half-sincerely. Combined with taking my laser-pistol out to the range to play, soaking in the tub, and talking Sarah through how to perform some basic hand, foot, and skincare for me, that had definitely been a pure ‘me-day’.

My hands tighten around the grip of the laser-pistol as if it were a neck I could squeeze. I already feel like I need another day of relaxing or I’m going to do something stupid and foolhardy that I’ll regret.

I shift my aim to the set of thin metal scrap that’s set up closer to me and squeeze the trigger again. This time I hold it down, letting the beam slowly eat into the top layer of the metal. As close as I am, it still doesn’t quite have enough of a focus to cut through like it would if I were next to the stuff, but it does begin to melt off small bits of slag that run off the bottom in white-hot droplets.

The pistol’s beam fades into nothingness in an instant, and I feel more than see or hear the power-connection lock open. Even on the insulated grip below the venting at the top of the pistol I can feel the heat it releases into the air. Bringing the pistol closer up so it’s just in front of my chest, I tap the release with a thumb and let the drained power-pack drop down onto the sand below me. Taking another of the batteries from the table in front of me, I ram it into place and cycle the power-connection back into battery so it’s ready to fire.

Now if only I could use the thing to commit battery—and worse—against that jackass Bar-Dyness, I’d be able to appreciate the wordplay!

It was bullshit, is what it was! Bar-Dyness had called the Council of the Damned to their first meeting since I’d killed Gronley. It should have been nothing more than a formality! A collective grab-ass and drinking session where we briefly listened to the man list off targets and recommitted ourselves to giving him a proper cut of our takings.

Instead, he’d accepted the usual bullshit from most of the other lords and then committed me to a ‘special mission’ retrieving a bribe from a Federated Suns duke for him. It didn’t matter, since once I left I wasn’t coming back anyways and it gave me the possibility of shaking-down some corrupt asshole for everything I could without feeling guilty about it. But it was the principle of the thing! He’d told me not only what to do, but how to do it as well! I shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of ordering me about!

It had been embarrassing. The man had treated me like a child who needed to be coddled and wouldn’t be able to offer enough loot on her return to justify allowing me out to play! He’d questioned my competence and my freedom both!

The only consolation was that he’d treated Lord Mason even worse than me. The man hadn’t even been thrown a bone of being allowed to raid off-world. Instead, he’d been tasked with the unenviable job of hunting down escaped slaves in the mountains on Tortuga—a task where whatever meagre loot he might take off the corpses would default into Bar-Dyness’ hands.

How does Mason keep his position or his life? Someone in his company should’ve axed him years ago for never earning them any loot. I certainly would have if I had to work for the arrogant do-nothing!

I sigh. With Mason as an obvious example, at least I know it could be worse. Since I’m not coming back, whatever shit and difficulties Bar-Dyness’ heaps on me doesn’t really matter. The real trouble is my crew doesn’t know that, so they’re being assholes.

I squeeze the trigger again and send another bolt of coherent light into the half-melted metal scrap in front of me. Even if it’s not as bad as it could have been, it’s still aggravating. Destroying something makes me feel better, and being off in my own world free of everyone else while I do it makes it better. I just wish it was Bar-Dyness’ torso I was liquefying instead of inanimate metal. The man is an insufferable jackass!

Emptying three more power-packs into the targets helps me calm down. By the time the connection locks open on the last, much of the scrap has drooped into a smoking mass of semi-liquid goo and I’ve settled down to a seething rage I think I can control instead of a burning desire to choke somebody I’m worried I can’t. I set the laser pistol down and remove my shades and ear protection.

 

[Deleted member]

That read like an episode where you were very much not you but instead the other person who is now part of you in ways you have trouble keeping track of because your frame of reference has changed, if you get my drift.

 

[prinCZess]

That read like an episode where you were very much not you but instead the other person who is now part of you in ways you have trouble keeping track of because your frame of reference has changed, if you get my drift.

Good to hear actually, because that's somewhat been the goal over the last few portions--that 'I' am retreating into an overly-narrow and overly-selfish focus that leaves what 'I' do and how 'I' think more driven by the holdovers of crazy pirate-bitch. That might get worse before it gets better (though maybe not too much worse because I dunnow if I'm up for maximum-edge darkness writing in what is meant to be more of a lighthearted excuse for puns...But, then, I have a bad habit of melodramaing crap up so the silliness I shoot for ends up fading into the background )

Also, as a note...I still dislike the feeling of self-inserts like this. Thinking of 'me' in a story just feels wrong in a way I can't really describe. I like to think I've succeeded in making 'me' as Lady Death more of a character in her own right though.

 

[prinCZess]

“Don’t see why you bother with those ear things. You never used to.”

I jump a little, but it’s only Arthur. I’d sent off the slave who’d accompanied me to the range to recharge a power-pack and he had yet to return. Sloppy. Slow. He might need punished. What if I wanted to shoot more?

Arthur grumbles, and the barrel-chested man pushes himself off the lean-to he had propped himself up against to wait. He stretches his shoulder out. He’s not as smooth as I am and my old sword I’ve given him to symbolize his spot as my second clatters against the lean-to for a moment before he catches it and moves his hips out of the way.

I was wrong. The burning desire for violence is still there and a stupid comment has brought it back full-force. The only problem is I’ve used the last power-pack and Arthur is significantly bigger than me, so killing him would be a bit tough.

Though I could still do it if I can scratch him deep enough to get the venom on my fingernails into his bloodstream. The fluorescent-colored Tortugan scorpion-venom concoction seems to be surprisingly good for more than just murder. Apparently the secret to a polish that provided strong, healthy nails but that I didn’t have to worry about if I got it onto my cuticles was deadly poison. Who would’ve thought? I probably wouldn’t be able to market it, because building up a tolerance to the stuff had been miserable. But now my carbon-fiber enhanced nails are enhanced even further. They’re bright, shiny, gorgeous AND horrifically, horrifically deadly.

What more could a girl ask for?

“The quiet helps me think, and I’m a little busier than I used to be if you haven’t noticed.” I answer pushing down a fantasy of turning the man into a frothing, convulsing corpse I don’t want to let myself have. “What’s the word from DuPont?”

I grit my teeth at the name. It belongs to the captain for both my dropship and jumpship—and now the de facto head of operations underneath Arthur. But it also belongs to a chemical company from a millennium ago. I hate the conflicted confusion that clash causes in my head. At the same time…It’s like a bowling ball or a life-preserver that I know is very important I hold on to. This shouldn't feel normal...right?

“We’re going to need some basic muscle for dropship-work. Even with the promise of a larger share off of future takes, there’s not a lot who want to join when the company’s slated with a milk-run for Bar-Dyness as its first target.” Arthur hesitates, “The MechWarriors have also come out and told me that if they have to be stevedores, they’ll walk away, and the contractors will take their machines elsewhere.”

I lock my eyes on him, “All of them?”

“Just telling you how it is. I’ve got more important things to do and Michelle brings us a good deal of firepower.” Arthur shrugged, “Timothy didn’t demand anything. But he’s so happy to have that Quickdraw loaned out to him he’d stay on no matter what terms you gave him. Hell, he’d probably be willing to pay for the privilege.”

I snort. That attitude was not exactly common. MechWarriors had a bad tendency to be preening prima donnas who demanded the best of everything for their service, despite being the more easily-replaced part of a MechWarrior-BattleMech pairing. It only got worse when they possessed their own ‘Mechs.

I had expected, and Arthur had warned me, that the necessary first target Bar-Dyness had forced on me would make it hard to actually attract enough crew for basic duties. I hadn’t expected it to be bad enough that if I couldn’t find more my raiding force would walk away to greener pastures as well!

It was a problem. I was depending on selling or collecting some kind of bounty on at least a few of the other pirates ‘Mechs after I kicked them all off to the authorities for a pardon. That seemed like the best way to get enough seed money to make the trip across the Sphere as an independent trader. Jumpships and transportation were almost always in some kind of demand, so once I got to that point I was probably free to do as I pleased. But if the pirate Mechwarriors walked away, I was down to just the Quickdraw, Michelle’s Spider, and my Banshee that I personally owned. Selling the first two just wouldn’t bring in enough.

I refused to sell my baby. I’d gotten it after killing the man who’d raped and murdered one of my mothers. Poisoned him then promised him the antidote if he gave me the codes to activate it. He broke down and gave them up. I broke my promise and kept the antidote. It had been a good night. I couldn’t sell the Banshee! It was too much fun, and full of too many fond memories.

Memories of murder.

I probably shouldn’t be so pleased with those.

“We’ll have to find some more muscle then. Any suggestions?” I ask, distracting myself by checking-over the pistol once again.

Arthur shrugged, “A sign-on bonus is usually the way to go.”

I don’t need to say anything for him to recognize my refusal of that. I refused to drop a fat wad of money or pass out slaves to a bunch of scumbags before I’d even gotten any work from them! And not when it’d jeopardize me getting a pardon. One of them blabbing about how I’d handed out slaves to get crew would end me right-quick in the minds of anyone law-abiding, and I refused to get slapped into the ass-end of a cell somewhere—even if I might be able to leverage everything I know to make it a very fancy cell.

“If we opened ourselves up to first-timers we could meet our needs. There’s enough solid crew aboard they could show ‘em the ropes, and cherries are always cheaper to hire-on anyways.” Arthur continues.

“I don’t want a bunch of fresh meat coming with us and making a mess of things.” I respond, as I had before when he’d proposed the idea.

It isn’t actually a bad idea. Even tempting in its own, money-saving way. Maybe there’d even be a handful of random assholes who weren’t complete pieces of human refuse. But it butted up against the potential benefit to me that a more experienced, and thus more well-known, crew could provide and came out looking less promising. Fresh faces wouldn’t have a record with the authorities in the Suns and not have any bounties attached to them. I want to have enough of those kind to turn in they would be willing to grant me a pardon.

Besides, I still need money. Each man with a bounty in my crew was that many more C-Bills in my pocket. Maybe that was a little greedy of me. But who said I couldn’t be a little greedy when I was doing a public service by getting a bunch of pirates out of circulation? I was doing a public service, the least I deserved was a reward for it!

“Let me think about it. I’m not going to start making promises that’ll be expected in the future.” I finally say.

I could compromise and offer something less tangible that’d still attract experienced raiders? Promising the crew I’d divvy up slaves after two or three raids instead of at the end of the voyage as was typical would probably be enough. I’d never have to fulfill the promise either if I turned them in and went legitimate before having to fulfill the promise. So, really, it was the best way to go.

But that still felt like a compromise. I hate compromising. It means I’m not getting everything I want! There has to be a better option, I just need to think of it.

“Of course, boss-lady. Now about the ‘techs Gronley had in his service…”

Arthur and I continue on in that vein for a few minutes. Him updating me on the various minutiae of preparing the company for a sally out into the Sphere, me settling—or trying to settle—the handful of questions and points of order he brings up. It’s weirdly clinical and corporate for a profession where the primary products involved are illegal goods, other peoples’ things which we steal and, when convenient, those other people as well.

I don’t have an Evil Empire. That’d be more fun to run! I have an Evil LLC…Complete with these boring ass board-meetings.
The impromptu business-meeting is interrupted by the slave who had accompanied me to the firing range earlier running up to me. He’s pale and breathing hard, but immediately bows at the waist and holds his palms out. There’s a power-pack in them.

“I apologize for the delay, my lady. There was an incident.” He says, his hands twitching as he doesn’t quite keep himself from shaking.

I kind of miss Sarah, even if she was growing more difficult to tease into a similarly enjoyable state of absolute terror. Unlike this one, she was beginning to realize I wasn’t going to shoot her for showing the slightest bit of initiative so it took more than just running a finger along my pistol to make her nervous. But Gastocoui had retained her for the day to help him audit the items remaining in the mansion after my jolly-good bash where a bunch of it had gone shirt-cannon style to whatever slaves I could find. After the last few days she’d spent assisting me in his place—including not getting to join in the revelry with the other slaves of the manor because she had been taking care of me—she had deserved a break.

“As you should. Your tardiness might have been inconvenient to me.” I say simply with as much severit as I can muster. It ends up being quite a bit.

I try to drag a name out of my mind for the man, but I just can’t remember. I know I’ve heard it a couple times, but it doesn’t jump to me. Something with a J? Jacob? Jeremy? Johnson? Once I’d been really good with at least being able to pretend I remembered hard enough I usually did. Now I can’t. Doesn’t really matter. I probably won’t see him again.

I take the pack from him and slide it into the pistol. He actually flinches when I automatically finger the connection back into place. I try not to be too satisfied by the reaction.

The pistol slides back into its holster at my waist, and I direct him to the range by pointing over my shoulder, “Collect the rest. See that they are charged and get taken to my room with the evening meal.”

I don’t have to threaten him with the prospect of what will happen if one is missing. His delectably terrified face tells me he already realizes quite well without the reminder.

I start my way back to my mansion, unable to keep from smiling. It fades quickly with my thoughts. While I don’t like admitting it, and I’m still looking forward to it because it will mean a great deal more freedom for how I can act, it’ll also be a little disappointing to lose that automatic and ingrained fear in the people around me. That instant recognition on their part that I am important. That I hold their life on my own whim. I desperately want to hold onto it, really. But I know I shouldn’t want to. It’s…Complicated. I know it’s incorrect, but I also know it’s satisfying and right. The only thing more satisfying, that gets my breath racing even faster just thinking back on, is when I ran Gronley through and hot, wet—

I drop one hand and squeeze the grip of the pistol, using Arthur’s presence behind me as a cudgel to beat my own mind out of that particular rut. I’m still satisfied with Gronley’s death. He’d had it coming. But I wasn’t going to let myself revel in it. It would bother me more than his death!

And isn’t that just about the most self-centered reason not to be a psychotic bitch that I could possibly have?

“You okay there boss-lady?” Arthur asks.

I need to get out. I need to find my sister. Need to start new, not get dragged into this insanity that’s around me. Inside me.

”Upright, breathing and six feet above the ground when I could be the opposite of all three, so I really can’t complain.” I snap back automatically.

“Six…Feet? Why would you have six feet?”

Oh screw you metric future!

A distant mutter of voices and yells I can only half make-out peaks my interest and gives me a reason to ignore Arthur’s question. As I jog closer to the mansion I see a small crowd of the house-slaves assembled in the central courtyard, their focus turned on something at the center. I give Arthur a questioning glance, but he only shrugs.

“Three!”

I’m close enough as I reach the edge of the crowd to hear a distinct snap that follows the word and a restrained gurgle of pain afterwards. I’m taller than most, but there’s still a few men in the crowd who block my view. After forcing the first of the house-slaves out of my way, the rest seem to be broken out of a spell and dutifully make a path for me, occasionally urged-on by those behind them. I’m glad they do, as it gives me an unobstructed view of Gastocoui bringing a neural whip back behind him for another strike on Sarah’s exposed back.

“Fou—“

“Tornori!” I yell before I have the chance to think about it and before the man has a chance to complete the movement.

 

[Deleted member]

@prinCZess now you have to either execute Sarah or Gastocoui methinks....

 

[Ganurath]

Ho boy. Time to find out how the biggest suckup on the planet deals with being in trouble and not being able to understand why.

 

[Laskar]

Oh, this is going to be interesting. I mean, the SI isn't so far gone that she is completely amoral, and she remembers Sarah's name. I don't think she's going to let Sarah get whipped for even a good reason, but it'll be fun to see her stay in character.

Good to hear actually, because that's somewhat been the goal over the last few portions--that 'I' am retreating into an overly-narrow and overly-selfish focus that leaves what 'I' do and how 'I' think more driven by the holdovers of crazy pirate-bitch. That might get worse before it gets better (though maybe not too much worse because I dunnow if I'm up for maximum-edge darkness writing in what is meant to be more of a lighthearted excuse for puns...But, then, I have a bad habit of melodramaing crap up so the silliness I shoot for ends up fading into the background )

If it's any consolation, the melodrama is still quite good, and the silliness doesn't fade too far into the background. In fact, the two complement each other rather well. This would be a very dark read if it weren't for little jokes about running an Evil LLC, or the confusion about putting someone with six feet under the ground.