Текст книги "Shrapnel: Fragments from the Inner Sphere"

CREDITS

EDITORIAL STAFF

Editor-in-Chief

L. Ross Babcock III

Senior Editor

Donna Ippotito

Editor

C.R. Green

PRODUCTION STAFF

Production Manager

Jordan K. Weisman

Art Director

Jeff Laubenstein

Book Design

Jeff Laubenstein

Cover Art

Jeff Laubenstein

Layout

Dana Knutson

Todd Marsh

Jim Nelson

Typesetting

Patrice A. Jones

Assistants

Tara Gallagher

Jonathan Marcus

BATTLETECH, Battlemech, Mech are Registered Trademarks of FASA Corporation. Copyright © 1988, All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America. SHRAPNEL is a Trademark of FASA Corporation. SHRAPNEL was published by FASA Corporation, 1025 W. Van Buren, Chicago, IL, 60505

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION                                                    Jordan K. Weisman

OLD MECHWARRIORS NEVER                                   Ken St. Andre

BLACK CATS CROSS YOUR PATH                             Tara Gallagher & James Lanigan

THINK LIKE A LIAO                                               Susan Putney

DANCE OF VENGEANCE                                          William H. Keith, Jr.

AND THEN THERE WAS THE TIME…                          Mark O'Green

DISPATCH                                                          Elizabeth T. Danforth & Michael A. Stackpole

LEGION TEAM                                                      William H. Keith, Jr.

WHERE LIES THE HONOR                                       William H. Keith, Jr.

NATASHA KERENSKY: A BIOMEDICAL REPORT            Tara Gallagher & James Lanigan

PAINTING THE TOWN                                            Mark O'Green

THE RACE IS NOT TO THE SWIFT                            Bear Peters

FINAL EXAM                                                        Bear Peters

JUDAS BLIND                                                       Michael A. Stackpole

CONTRIBUTECH                                                   George O'Dahjungle

INTRODUCTION

–Jordan K. Weisman

The BattleTech game, supplements, scenarios, and other related fictional products are all offshoots of an idea that came to me in 1984, when my own imagination was captured by the strong images that the Japanese had created for their animated television series featuring huge, walking battle machines. Though the graphics for these man-like and insect-like monoliths were fantastic, the Japanese storylines still left my Western mind unsatisfied. And so I set off to create my own fictional universe where men used fearsome. 10– or 12-meter tall monsters of destruction called BattleMechs to carry their endless struggles for domination across the stars.

What I wanted was a universe that had a taste of the alien, but that did not contain aliens. As in other science fiction, we produced this effect of strangeness combined with familiarity by changing only one of the basic premises we take for granted in the ‘real world.’ In contemporary society, new technology is automatically superior to what came before. That means a computer that is only five years old soon becomes completely obsolete. It was that premise that we turned on its head for BattleTech.

In the 31st century where our game is set. anything built 200 years ago is dramatically superior to anything that can be produced today. Indeed, many machines and equipment can never be replaced, for the technology to construct or even repair them has been lost as a result of hundreds of years of interstellar war. This single change creates huge societal repercussions in the BattleTech universe, from a natural tendency toward a scavenger society to more subtle effects such as the huge importance of hereditary rights.

In my view of history, a given political situation usually grows out of several hundred years of decisions and actions by numerous individuals rather than as a result of a single person's influence or power. Thus, I rely on historical events to inspire the backdrops of my fictional universes. For BattleTech, I felt that the struggle among the five Great Houses of the Inner Sphere and the ideal of restoring the glory of the Star League era were analogous to the fighting among the Roman city-states after the fall of Rome. This analogy helped us flesh out our history because I wanted all the sides in the fight to be shades of gray, as opposed to a conflict between good and evil.

House Kurita is a good example of what I had in mind. Though the enemies of the Draconis Combine may consider them to be bloodthirsty, war-hungry maniacs, the Kuritans have their own history, background, and motivations as well as their own perception of who they are. The same goes for House Davion, whose rulers may show up as knights in shining armor or conniving double-crossers, depending on who you talk to. We try to see that each book is written from the fictional point of view of someone in the 31st century. That means players must always pay attention to who is providing the information and then add the appropriate grain of salt.

Once I had a good outline of my history, society, and technology. I showed it to Pat Larkin.and the two of us spent considerable time discussing the ideas and how they could he fleshed out. When Pat and I felt we'd worked out the bugs, he went ahead to produce the excellent history that is included in the basic game. It was that early, original material that inspired you to want to know more and we at FASA to further develop the background of BattleTech.

While Pat was busy writing the fiction. I began to design the game system. As a gamer, I have always felt that the best systems were those where you could vividly imagine the action in your head while playing, as though the game were a movie, with the player as hero. To keep from destroying the magic of imagination, I did not want a game with rules so complicated they interfered with the movie playing in our heads.

BattleTech started as a simple system, and that helped to draw more and more people into the game. Of course, as players became more experienced, they began to want more and more details. Though we have expanded the rules far beyond anything I everimagined at the start, players can still stick with simplicity by playing with the basic rules, and choosing for themselves whatever additional rules they want to include in the game.

While producing all the new books and products for the popular BattleTech line, we wanted strong visual images that would help players feel that the game universe lives, breathes, and feels real. As a result, our BattleTech artists and designers have established new high marks for graphic quality in the adventure game industry. BattleTech was also the first line in the industry to include interior color art and it is the first to feature extensive uniform and vehicle painting schemes.

In addition to rules and striking graphics, the richness of the the BattleTech fictional background made it a natural for straight, non-gaming fiction. With fans of the game clamoring for more. I called Bill Keith to discuss the idea of writing novels related to the game and he jumped at the chance to work in a longer fictional form. The result was the exciting trilogy of the Gray Death Legion.

This year, with the major figures of the BattleTech universe moving their realms again toward another major interstellar war. I felt that the motivations of the major characters in this drama needed to be discussed in a depth that game material cannot hope to do. Thus was Mike Stackpole's Warrior Trilogy conceived. To begin this enormous project, Mike first had to become a world authority on BattleTech (excluding us at FASA, of course). Only then could he begin to craft the major plots we had designed, together with hundreds of characters and minor plots that he created, into a tale that would take the Successor States to a new stage of struggle, intrigue, and war.

Because we fell that BattleTech had spawned a wealth of beautiful and striking graphics, we decided to create Shrapnel, which is a collection of BattleTech short stories as well as a showcase for dramatic artwork such as the Jim Holloway painting shown here. For me, this painting isBattleTech. It portrays the action, the grittiness, and the scale that has made BattleTech so popular—and alt from the player's perspective. This image gives player the kind of ‘you are there’ identification that makes the game so real and therefore so much fun. As for the stories, all were commissioned specifically for this book, and are meant to show aspects of life in the BattleTech universe that have not been covered before.

This book is dedicated to the creative team, both in-house and free-lance, that has worked with me to create a universe that lives and breathes and feels real.

Enjoy.

J. K. W. Chicago, June 1988

OLD MECHWARRIORS NEVER

–Ken St. Andre

Hard times on Solaris VII, the gaming world, meant that not much was happening in the planetary arenas. With the galaxy at war. most of the best 'Mechs and all ot the best warrior-pilots were otfworld, slugging It out for keeps on a hundred different planets. A lot of the 'Mech-businesses had shut down. The city taverns were mostly empty. And the frequency of Mech combat in the various arenas of the gaming world was greatly reduced.

But there was still some demand for 'Mech combat and arena time, and as long as there was some demand, any man who could operate the giant war robots, no matter how poorly, need not starve in Xolara City. Also, there were still a few noble houses onplanet, namely the Tandrek, Zelazni. Blackstar. and Oonthrax. that had programs to test or young scions to prove in mechanized battle.

Trev-R came out of Arena headquarters with a 50-credit advance toward his next fight. Considering that his last fight had ended with his Mech reduced to a pile of smoking rubble– thank the galactic Spirit for last-second ejection pods—he had not done too bad. Still, it did not seem like enough money to tide him over for a month or more until the next fight unless he could augment it somehow.

He pulled his old plastic cowl up to protect his head from the stinging acid rain that was just starling to fall. Overhead, thick gray clouds blotted out the sky and obscured the tops of the city buildings. Underfoot, the road was half-gravel, half-quagmire. Trev-R lurched into a rapid and peculiar walk as he headed for Mode's Tavern His left leg pivoted in a half-circle from the hip and planted firmly in the mud ahead. Then he pushed off with his right toot and took a normal half-step. Then the left foot dragged around in another half-circle. And so on. For such a jerky and awkward gait, he made good speed. The left leg, along with certain other parts of the left half of his body, was an old mechanical prosthesis. The servo-motor in the knee had burned out a few months earlier, and he had not been able to afford a replacement.

Eight years as a Tech and I can't fix my own leg.he thought disgustedly. Should have stayed a Tech. I'd have made more money. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to get back into Mech fighting as a warrior.Trev-R's thoughts were as gloomy as the weather. ‘Just one big score.’ he always told himself, ‘and I could leave Solaris. Ten years on this world is eleven years too long!’

As he turned into Rotten Alley. a shortcut between Arena HO and his tavern, Trev-R's right hand rested on the time-worn handle of his old 45 slug-thrower. It was an ancient gunpowder weapon dating back to 28th-century Terra—a replica of a 20th-century police weapon. It was the only valuable thing he had left, and it had been in his family for centuries. Over the years. Trev-R had taken care of it. even going so far as to handload his own ammunition, back in better times, and it had taken care of him. He had only two bullets left, and he did not want to use them. Rotten Alley was in the toughest part of town, though, and so he knew he needed to be ready for anything.

The local thugs, however, were busy with someone else Trev-R heard the muffled thud ot a body being thrown back against a wall, and a thin voice protesting weakly. He knew he should turn back and walk away before anyone noticed him. but old memories rose unbidden and he lurched on toward the scene of the crime.

Three figures loomed out of the rain as Trev-R approached. One was short, thin, and well-dressed in a blue pseudo-leather jacket and black slacks. Two larger men, covered with the standard gray plastic coats of the lower class had the smaller man backed into a corner. A short knife glittered at the victim's throat while the second robber rummaged through his pockets.

‘I've got his cash,’ said the second man. ‘Slit his throat and let's go!’

‘Don't kill me! I'm a nobleman,’ squeaked the youth.

‘Trev-R pointed the gun in their direction. ‘I'd leave quietly if I were you,’ he advised them in his most menacing tone.

The alleybashers looked annoyed but not intimidated. Trev-R knew they did not even recognize his weapon. The one with the knife spun his victim around in Iront of him to act as a shield. The other one started to grope inside his raincoat.

‘Blast outa this, grampers!’ sneered the knifeman. ‘Fly yer own spacelanes. and ye might live to see the sun come out.’ The second thug pulled out a slugthrower.

Trev-R shot them—one bullet apiece Very fast, very neat The double explosions of his pistol thundered loudly in the alley. Trev-R's bullet hit the knife-wielder right between the eyes, and blew him backward into the wall. The victim jerked free and threw himself down at the sound of the shots. He took only a slight cut across one cheek from the falling knife.

The second man had started to react. He squeezed off one shot, but the bullet flew wide. Trev-R's shot struck him in the nose, and blew the back of his head off.

Trev-R saw the boy lying in the alley mud like a corpse. ‘Get up. kid,’ he said. ‘We've got to get out of here.’

Trev-R did not waste any time This part of Xolara was as lawless as any frontier town in the galaxy, but one should not go around shooting people down. He checked the closer body first The dead man had a Mi-kari-22 in his hand It was a cheap four-shot far inferior to Trev-R's antique. He took it anyway, and scooped up the kid's 10 and money pouch. That took only about ten seconds. The second corpse had nothing worth taking but the knife. Trev-R left it.

The kid whimpered as he climbed to his feet and tried to stanch the blood flowing from the cut on his cheek. Trev-R ripped a piece of cloth off the shirt of one of the thugs and handed it to him. ‘Here, kid. Use this.’ The youth took the cloth and dabbed at his cheek, then did a double take as he got a good look at Trev-R's grizzled face. ‘I know you,’ he blurted. ‘You're Trev-R the Mech-Warrior. I've seen all your fights, but I never saw anything like what you just did for me. Thank you! Thank you for saving my life!’

Trev-R grabbed the babbling youth by one shoulder and half-carried, half-pushed him down and out of the alley. Trev-R glanced at the ID he had recovered. This kid was Vayil Oonthrax, the only son of Baron Irvxx Oonthrax. He had about 200 C-bills on him. Trev-R thought about keeping the money, but he did not. Handing the whole wad back to the boy, he said. ‘Wipe yer mouth. We're goin' in here.’

Here was Morte's Tavern, one of perhaps twenty such places where a man down on his luck could get a cheap meal and a room in the city of Xolara. Trev-R had called it home for over a year now. He had worked out a deal with Slainte, the tavern-keeper, to do chores around the place in exchange for his nightly meal and verminous bed. He guided Vayil over to a table near the fire and threw his plastic rain-protector onto a rack made for it. Their soggy clothing started to steam in the warmth of the fire as a puddle formed beneath them.

‘Don't forget to mop that up. Trev-R.’ yelled the barkeeper.

There was no one else in the place this evening. Slainte, a white-haired old troll of a man with abnormally developed arms, came over to see if they wanted anything. Trev-R ordered a bottle of Cthonian whiskey for himself and another of R-thing Cola for the kid. Along with drinks, he ordered two plates of grits and pseudoburgers as a meal. ‘You're buying, kid. O.K.?’

‘ It's the least I can do.’ Hero worship gleamed in the young man's blue eyes. ‘I'm. uh. Vayil Oonthrax, and I'm going to be a MechWarrior someday, too, Mr. Trev-R.’

‘Just Trev-R.’ The old man gave a mocking Arena warrior salute with his artificial left hand. The smooth, cool plastic of the fake hand just did not fit with the grizzled features of the man.

Vayil Oonthrax, nobleman of Solaris VII. could hardly believe his eyes. The character across the table from him could have emerged from any docu-drama or vid-cast about space pirates or MechWarriors. He saw a man of average height, but that was the last average thing about him. His face and skin had that peculiar sun-burned glaze acquired only by exposure to many different suns and some of the hard ultra-violet of space. A mane of bleached white hair grew low on his forehead and was cut in such a way that it padded the top and back of his skull but could never fall into his eyes. His deeply lined face showed an old burn scar running from chin to hairline on the left side. Where his left eye should have been, a white patch, apparently fixed in place with some super adhesive, covered the socket. He squinted out of a pale blue, almost colorless, right eye. When the other man spoke, Vayil noticed that one of his bottom incisors was missing, and the remaining teeth were stained yellowish-brown with age. He wore a ragged blue tunic and trousers, but a good pair of old brown boots.

‘Where's yer bodyguard, kid?’

‘He's ill with Kentares flu. I didn't think I'd need him just to get over to the 'Mech-stable and back.’

‘Well, that was yer first mistake. What were you doin' at the 'Mech-stable?’

‘'Mech practice,’ Vayil explained. ‘I'm in training.’

‘Ya don't look it, kid,’ growled Trev-R. ‘Ya make too many mistakes.’

‘But I've got to be one!’ Desperation entered his voice. ‘It's what my family does. My father is spending a fortune to make a MechWarrior out of me. If I let him down, he'll kill me!’

‘If ya make mistakes in a 'Mech, you'll kill yerself.’

The food arrived, and Trev-R dug in. Vayil only played with his.

‘Yes, I do make too many mistakes.’ Vayil admitted, hanging his head, but it popped up again as he had a thought. ‘Maybe you could help me...be my tutor. I could make it worth your while!’

‘Is that a bribe, kid?’

Vayil looked embarrassed.

‘Say, yes.’ laughed Trev-R, ‘and I'm your man.’ A new source of income had just appeared to him.

‘Yes! Yes! Consider yourself bribed’ Vayil bobbed up and down like a happy puppy. ‘How about 50 C-bills a week?’

As they ate the cheap but nourishing food that Slainte had brought, they tound themselves talking about many things. ‘Why did you save me?’ asked Vayil.

‘I can't stand muggers.’ explained Trev-R. ‘Thirty-odd years ago my brother Bill-R and me were ambushed in an alley on Acter by four thugs who'd have killed us for loose change. They beat us with clubs after taking our few C-bills, beat us into unconsciousness. I woke up in a hospital. My brother never did wake up. The bastards killed him.'

‘Gosh, Trev-R.’ blurted the kid. ‘I'm sorry. But thanks for helping me!’

‘Forget it, kid. Yer payin' for dinner It all works out.’

‘So when can I have my first lesson?’

‘Let's start tonight. D'ya know about the private MechWarrior radio frequencies?’

‘No What do you mean?’

‘In combat, we MechWarriors sometimes like to talk to each other. Ya can't do it on a public band, or ya might give your position away, so every warrior has his own special channel. Mine is the third down from 100 Megahertz.’

‘That would be 99.7 Megahertz.’ calculated Vayil.

‘Ya got that right Remember it! We might need to talk some day.’

‘Tell me about some of your adventures,’ Vayil demanded.

‘All right. Just keep the Cthonian whiskey flowin' and I'll talk yer ears off,’ said Trev-R with a laugh. ‘I mind me of the time I was with the Second Stives Lancers back in ought two. We were pinned down by superior forces on Pinard...’

Solaris City is the capital of Solaris VII. and the place that everyone thinks of first when Arena 'Mech combat is mentioned, but there are half a dozen other arena cities on the planet Though places like Xolara were definitely the minor leagues, they could put on a pretty good fight once in a while. When the rumors started that Xolara would stage a major Mech battle between an Atlasand a Warhammer.The MechWarriors and gamblers of all Solaris took notice.

As everyone knows, the AS7-D Atlasis the biggest BattleMech in the galaxy. It is usually reserved for generals like the Draconis Combine's Vasily Cherenkoff. For a place like Xolara to even own one was unprecedented. It went without saying that this was an old. old machine, one that had been destroyed and rebuilt time and again Still, it might have remained a frontline unit somewhere if Baron Irvxx Oonthrax had not spent a major fortune to buy it for his son Vayil.

Family Oonthrax was one of the newer MechWarrior houses, less than a hundred years old. The family patriarch was McJames Oonthrax. who had bet the family estate against clear title to a WSP-1AMech in a high-stakes game of Galaxy Poker. His four novas had been sufficient to beat the red giants and white dwarves of the foe. When he took his 'Mech into battle with Reilly's Armored Cavalry, winning a decoration tor bravery. House Oonthrax became part of the minor 'Mech nobility that dominated so many worlds. Since that time, a dozen family members had fought their Mech units all over space, some dying, and some doing well. Now Irvxx Oonthrax dreamed of glory for his only son, Vayil. and had beggared his estate to acquire the Atlas.

He hoped to get some of that money back in the games on Solaris while waiting to see what Mech troop would offer the best commission to his son. He also hoped to start off big with what should look like a notable victory for a rookie warrior. That was why he was in the office of Kandar Kant, Arena Master of Xolara, shelling out a substantial bribe.

Baron Oonthrax counted each thousand C-bill as he placed them in the comptroller's pudgy hand. ‘.. Nine ...ten thousand. Now, you're sure you can fix it so that my son can win next month.’

‘No problem,’ the Arena Master said with a sly smile. ‘I’ll pit him against my worst fighter, an old sot named Trev-R. He was a pretty good MechWarrior ten years ago. but he's over the hill now. He's lost so many fights, been shot up so many times, that he's more of a cyborg than a man. I think more than half of his body is prosthetics, and half of that doesn't work right. It he was a racehorse, they'd have put him out of his misery years ago.’

‘Good, good,’ gloated the Baron, taking out two Centauran dope-cigars and offering one to the Arena Master. ‘Still, you say he has a lot of experience, and Vayil has only standard training. Could this old guy get lucky and hurt my boy?’

‘No way! Not a chance! Sure, we're gonna put him in a Warhammer.which is a pretty tough heavy 'Mech, to make it look good. But it's an old and decrepit Warhammer.Half the offensive systems don't work. The main engine is old and half-blown, and delivers barely half power. The armor is paper-thin on the front torso. All your boy has to do is hit him a couple of times to win. Furthermore. I'll be at the arena controls If it looks like your boy is having any trouble, I'll lower all the barriers to give him a clear field of fire. He can't lose!’

The two men lit up their dope-cigars and shook hands, still laughing. The fix was most definitely in.

Trev-R had been waiting for over an hour to see the Arena Master. Kan-dar Kant had sent for him and then kept him cooling his heels. It did not look good, and Trev-R was wondering if despite the advance he had scored a few weeks ago, he was out of a job. When he was finally allowed into the Arena Master's office, he was ready for bad news.

The smile he got from Kandar Kant was not reassuring. It was the kind of piranha smile that made Trev-R feel that lunch was served and he was it Trev-R lowered himself into an uncomfortable steel chair and waited for the axe to fall.

‘You haven't been doing too well in your last few fights, have you. Trev-R?’

‘Been doin' the best I could, sir. I been kinda outmatched, and the equipment isn't very good.’

‘Don't blame it on the equipment! Maybe it's just loo much Cthonian whiskey. I hear you're over at Mode's Tavern every night sucking it up like water. Too many dead brain cells? You know the neurohelmet has got to have a brain to work with if the Mech is going to fight well.’

‘I'm not drinkin' that much.’ Grumbled Trev-R. ‘Can't afford to on your pay.’

‘Lost your last five fights in a row.’ continued Kant. ‘When you punched out last month, you cost me 50 big C-bills.’

‘That scrap-heap I was ridin’ was done fer anyway.’ Trev-R argued. ‘No point in me gettin' killed. Are ya tryin' to say yer lettin' me go?’

‘I ought to. I realty should.’ said the Arena Master, bul I'm going to give you one more chance—a really good chance to rehabilitate yourself. You made a lot of money for the Arena during your first couple of years here. How would you like to pilot a Warhammer inyour next fight?’

‘A Warhammer?’Trev-R could not believe it. Many MechWarriors never got to pilot a heavy Mech. He had fought against Warhammers15 years back, and he remembered them as awesome.

‘I didn't know Xolara had a Warhammer.’said Trev-R.

‘Just got it last week, sent down from Solaris City. It needs some work before it will be ready to fight, but you used to be a Tech. You and JoeBob work on it, and see if you can't have it ready to fight in two weeks’

–What do I have to fight?’

The Arena Master gave him a shrewd glance. ‘Does it matter? Well, you have to fight another heavy Mech. of course, to make the battle interesting. How'd you like to fight an Atlas?I've got it set up for a planet-wide telecast. The Arena should be able to make some pretty good money on this one if we play it right.’

‘Sheeee-itt!’ whined the old fighter. ‘If I wanted to commit suicide. I could just shoot myself and get it over with. A beat-up Warhammeris no match for an Atlas,and you know it.’

‘If you're chicken. I can get Delaney to do it. I just thought I'd give you one more chance.’ said Kandar. ‘Besides...’

‘Besides what?’

‘Besides, you haven't heard the whole deal yet. If you win, you'll get the 20 megaC-bill prize—enough to buy that passage back to Acter that you're always talking about.’

Fantasies of escape from Solaris flashed through Trev-R's mind. ‘But I can't win against an Atlas.Nobody could.’ Reality reared its ugly head.

‘Yeah, everyone will think that, so the betting should be pretty heavy against you. I'll lay some third-party bets to make us a lot of money whether you win. lose, or draw. All you'd have to do is hold out for ten minutes or more. And I'll be controlling the movable obstacles in the Arena, t can rig it so that you get all the protection, and the Atlasdoesn't get any. Surely, you could fight him to a draw, at least, with me helping you.’

‘Reckon I could do that.’ Trev-R agreed. ‘O.K., I'm your man.’

Kandar pulled out a contract for Trev-R to sign, and a blue security pass that would get him into the Mech hangar at the edge of town. ‘Take this down and see JoeBob. You've got some work to do. The fight is in two weeks.’

Trev-R signed. What else could he do? He shook Kandar's oily hand, and allowed the Arena Master to thumpJiim on the back. ‘You won't regret this. Trev-R,’ the Arena Master said heartily, knowing that he would not live to regret it.

Damn straight!thought Trev-R. I intend to win this fight, one way or another.

As soon as the old warrior left the office, the Arena Master put through a call to the Oonthrax estate. When the Baron appeared on the screen, Kant gave him the thumbs-up sign and reported that Trev-R had fallen for it.

After talking to Oonthrax, Kant called the arena motor pool and got JoeBob, the head Tech, on the line. He told the grease monkey to cooperate with Trev-R in fixing up the old Warhammerthey had just acquired, but not to use any first-class material. If the machine guns jammed after a couple of bursts, that would be O.K. If the lasers burned out prematurely, not to worry about it. JoeBob said he got the picture.

Trev-R came late to Morte’s Tavern that night, wearily dragging his mechanical leg. He found Vayil Oonthrax buying rounds for everyone in the place. MechWarriors. arena workers, merchants, laborers, thugs, prostitutes—the whole gameut of poor Xolara citizenry—crowded round to shake his hand and rub his head for luck, and lo each one he gave the drink of their choice. Trev-R shoved his way through the mob. accepted a glass of Cthonian rotgut from his young friend, who had seen him coming, and then dragged the kid off to his private table. Four mean-looking bruisers got up and left when Trev-R gave them the evil eye (and Slainte flourished his neural whip from behind the bar). They grabbed their drinks and mumbled something about making a place for the young hero.

‘What's this all about, kid?’ Trev-R asked as they settled down.

‘Great news, Trev-R,’ burbled the kid. ‘I'm scheduled for my first arena fight as a MechWarrior in two weeks.’

‘But yer only 16,’ argued Trev-R. ‘You couldn't get a license to fight at that age.’

‘Maybe you couldn't,’ bragged the kid, ‘but I'm a noble of House Oonthrax. A little money in the right place’—he made the sign of the bribe, rubbing thumb and index finger together—’and the record-computers think I'm 18 and have three fights to my credit already. Pretty neat, huh?’

‘Damn dumb, I'd say.’ growled Trev-R.

‘What's the matter, Trev-R? Can't get any more fights of your own? I thought you'd be proud of me.’

‘Yer not ready, kid. Ya need at least two more years of training afore I'd let ya in a 'Mech for real.’