He woke up in complete darkness. Reaching out, he found he could move, but he was in a confined space, which became more evident with the sound of his breathing and how it sounded close. Claustrophobia threatened to set in, but he quickly suppressed it by concentrating on his breathing for a couple seconds. Then he started examining his surroundings.
The surfaces around him were flat, and when he hit or kicked, they rang hollow, like plastic. He felt some contours, like ridging. And, then there were some depressions into which he could push his fingertips. If he worked hard enough some of those depressions widened into gaps.
Crates. He was inside a pocket, surrounded by storage crates or totes. He had no idea how deep the pile was, but he imagined with enough effort and time, he could free himself. Giving a tentative push, he found ready resistance in most directions except to his right.
Pushing and wiggling, he heard muted thumping overhead, which then bounced down the right and ended somewhere below him. As he continued to push and work, a few more repeats of the noise. Each time, the work and push became a hair easier.
After many minutes, light suddenly appeared. But, it wasn’t like a crack had opened up to let outside light in. It was as if a switch had been turned on and suddenly flooded in through an existing crack. He paused, letting his vision adjust.
“What the fuck?” a muffled voice mumbled outside.
Heart elated at hearing a voice, he called out to the stranger outside his prison. Come what may, he was about to be free. He could deal with the consequences later.
“Help!” he finally managed after a few wordless shouts.
“Hello?” the voice outside said, louder, sounding concerned.
“Hey! I’m stuck. Can you get me out?” he shouted. The noise of his own voice in the confined space irritated his ears.
“Holy -,” the outside voice muttered. “I hear you,” it said, clearly, though still muffled by the plastic crate barrier. It was decidedly male, a baritone. “Hang on! We’ll get you out. It’ll take a while.”
Entrance Exam
Stum’s Bar
Cross Road’s Oasis
Astrokaszy
31 October 3058
“Wait, wait, wait,” Darran said, his voice gravelly with age.
Darran Grinn was one of three other men that sat with Casey at a table near the Pod Pit in Stum’s Bar. The one-eyed veteran sat across from Casey at the metal round table, while Alius Cad’ver sat to Casey’s right and Ben Nimaj II sat on Casey’s left. Casey leaned back against a heavy metal railing that ran the edge of what used to be the town hall auditorium.
Stum’s Bar wasn’t just inside Crossroad’s Oasis’s town hall. It had taken over the building. According to local lore, a small, mysterious band of mercenaries had hauled in a dozen academy-grade BattleMech simulator pods a couple years back. Town hall was the only place in the entire town that could hold them. The town’s sole bar owner decided to use the Pods as an attraction, and moved his establishment to the town hall, taking it over. Except for the shape of the place, with the pod pit in the old amphitheater, Casey wouldn’t have guessed the building’s origin.
The light in the rest of the bar up and around the pit was dim. The place was packed. Being Halloween, this was one of the many days throughout the year that people could come, get on a list, and have fun with the free-for-all without having to pay out. It was reaching the point of Standing Room Only. A steady murmur of conversation filled the background, overpowering the noises of the current match. One of many rare excited outbursts erupted when something happened in the virtual arena.
Casey glanced up at one of the giant hanging monitors. A cinematic view of the current fight was playing out in full color before flicking back to the view of a Pod Pilot and the stats of his ’Mech. Below, one of the Pods quit moving, settling to rest.
Another contestant bought the virtual dust.
The other three men at the table had looked up, as well. Once they were satisfied, they each turned back. Three sets of eyes turned to Al, who had been recounting his arrival on Astrokaszy. He had just started before Darran interrupted the tale.
Darran’s one good eye twinkled in the dim light, glowing bright in contrast to his sun-darkened skin. The desert nomad wasn’t a local, his thick Davion outback accent a give-away of his off-world origin. The scar that crossed over his left eye, hidden under an eyepatch suggested he was a veteran of at least one conflict. Whether that was from his time on Astrokaszy, or prior, Casey had yet to learn. He hadn’t felt comfortable broaching the subject in the three years he knew the man. One day, it might come up. Or, it might not.
“So, you’re telling me that you don’t know how you got aboard the dropship?” Darran asked, his drawl thick with skepticism.
Al’s blue eyes glinted. He observed Darran for a few seconds, a strange look of excitement and mirth only hinted at in his features. With a very faint tilt of his head, he said, “I have some ideas. But, no, I don’t exactly know how I ended up on the Dragon’s Rose.”
Nimaj Junior stirred. While he was the son of a nomad tribe’s chieftain of the same name, the young man wasn’t much older than Al, somewhere in his mid- to late- twenties. Nimaj’s only sign of sun exposure was on his face. The young nomad kept himself nearly completely covered while outside, so his European heritage showed in his very pale skin, and freckles. His dark hair and eyes were the only thing about him that could be remotely considered Arabic, in spite of his name.
“Dragon’s Rose,” Nimaj said, a hint of the local accent marring his words. “That’s the name of the DropShip which crashed out in the desert.”
“The one he was inducted as a member of the crew,” Darran added. He shook his head. “So, tell me about your trip from Terra, again. There’s something you did to impress the captain enough to bring you into the fold.”
“And, make you part-owner of the vessel,” Nimaj concluded.
Al’s subtle amusement turned to muted exasperation. With a flustered shrug and sigh, he said, “There’s really not much to tell.”
And, there really wasn’t. This wasn’t the first time the subject came up, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. When people had learned that Al was the owner of the wreck he had arrived in, and had sold it to a salvage team for a tidy fifteen million Cs, the people closest to him wanted to know more. That so happened to be the three people at this table.
The event in question was only months ago. But the crash had happened about three years prior. Al, himself, hadn’t even known until the only other crash survivor showed up and told him. The fact that Al hadn’t started as part of the crew came as a shock when he related his tale. But, the only thing Al could recount was simply being a good person, and doing what he was assigned aboard ship to the best of his abilities. Maybe Al’s moral and ethic conduct might have been enough for the Captain of the Rose. Casey suspected there was more to it. But, without the captain saying something, his decision was a mystery. Being dead, the Captain wasn’t likely to say anything on the matter.
“Either you’re spinning a good yarn,” Darran said, “or you’re the luckiest sonofabitch I’ve ever met.”
Nimaj hissed. “Language.”
“Sorry,” Darran replied with a slight deferred nod at his superior.
Al’s muted mirth returned. He stared somewhere at the table while quipping, “I take it you’re not a believing man, Darran?”
Darran was taken aback. “Well, uh,” he stammered, collecting his thoughts.
Before he could say anymore, Nimaj perked up. Eyes on the door to the bar, he softly backhanded Darran on the arm to catch the other man’s attention. Darran looked over, prompting both Casey and Al to follow his gaze.
“That’s them,” Nimaj practically hissed.
“The owners of the Pods?” Al asked in a suddenly quieter bar.
“Talk about your Halloween surprise,” Darran muttered.
The place hushed as three people spread out from the door. Hearing Nimaj’s affirmative answer to Al’s questions, Casey’s heart skipped a beat. His chest tightened with anticipation as two men and an Asian woman worked their way to the pit entrance. A line had formed for the next twelve combatants, with the current match just now finished, but all twelve gave way to the trio. Once at the pit, the entire bar had gone completely silent except for the odd sound of shifting feet or drink.
The tall handsome one spoke, while the other two flanked him, silently eyeing the crowd. His voice was deep and smooth, very much complementing his curly dark hair and swarthy skin. The man was a poster perfect specimen, and Casey could easily see himself following his every order, within reason.
“You know who we are. You know why we’re here. Are there any challengers?”
This was it. This was the group Casey had come to Astrokaszy to find years ago. This was where he was told to find them. According to Nimaj and Darran and many, many others, this was how they made contact. The very people who had brought the pods also used them as a recruiting tool. Where they had been all this time was anybody’s guess. But, now they were here, and Casey had his chance.
The place was silent for a few good seconds. Giddy with anticipation, Casey’s breath was shaky. He could feel slight trembling in his hands as he moved to stand up.
But, to his sudden shock, Al was already on his feet and answering. The young man’s sandy brown hair glinted with sun-bleaching as he rose into the full beam of a lamp. He looked and sounded almost casual as he said, “Sure. I’ll accept your challenge.”
Plopping back down in his chair, Casey felt numb. Then he felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he found Nimaj staring at him with an earnest look.
“Stand up. You’ll get your turn.”
Understanding hit Casey like a thunderbolt. Elated, he shot to his feet.
“I also accept your challenge,” he called, a brief quiver in his voice.
The three waited a few more seconds, not acknowledging anyone. Finally, the leader turned to Al and Casey. “All right. One at a time.”
The leader turned and started down the stairs into the pit.
Casey and Al exchanged glances, unsure what to do. After a nod from Al, they both made their way toward the pit. At the stairway entrance, Stum stopped them. A thickly built man with a large, shaven head, Stum didn’t look like someone lazy with riches. He dressed well, but modest, when he was working the bar proper. He scratched at his goatee a moment before speaking.
“Gentlemen. The rules are first come, first serve. Al, you spoke up first. You get first shot. Then you, Casey. You’ll be facing them one at a time in a gauntlet of duels. I don’t know what the order is. That will be the surprise.”
With that, Stum opened the gate to the stairs, gesturing Al to enter.
“Let’s see if that insane luck of yours holds out,” Darran called.
Casey sat at a table nearest the pods occupied by Al and the three mercenaries. A ring of displays hung overhead for everyone to see. Each was rigged to a cinematic A.I. which changed vantages from cockpit views of the pilots, to views from the cockpit, to sweeping shots of the battlefield. As a mere program, it was very good at what it did, and made a lot of matches quite entertaining.
However, for those interested in what a particular somebody was doing, each pod had a dedicated monitor right behind it up on the balcony. Thankfully, all four contestants had set up side by side, and Casey was free to watch fixed footage on monitors affixed to each pod which displayed both the cockpit interior and a view over the ’Mech’s shoulder.
The simulator library was extensive. It had a dozen different terrain archetypes, which were always randomized. It also happened to have the more popular Solaris Arenas. However, the arena maps in the simulator had a glitch. Most Solaris arenas were only one hundred and twenty meters wide or long, with most having a long side around two hundred meters.
Not these simulators. Somehow, the rendering program extended the length and width of the fields to quadruple the size. The map for the last match had shown what was supposed to be the Boreal Reach arena. Instead of getting a sharp, rock strewn, snow covered shoulder overlooking a deep narrow gash in glacial ice, spectators and competitors were presented with a windswept flowing tundra, broken by sharp bedrock outcrops with a draw leading to a huge glacial crevasse. All twelve contestants fought in a kilometer by half kilometer rectangle.
In spite of the origin for the graphics, the rendering program did a great job of making it look natural. Nothing looked oblong. Even places with natural vegetation didn't get distorted. Instead, more plants were rendered to fill the gaps. Places with large boulders saw more boulders.
The current, randomly selected map was the famous Steiner Stadium. No fancy obstacles were in place for this fight. It was flat and open for nearly half a kilometer in each direction. The digital audience was packed into the now extensive bleachers that ringed the field, protected by the famous blue shield which glimmered near the emitters.
Out in the middle, nearly a quarter kilometer apart, was Al and his first opponent. Al piloted a Warhammer. The coloring was tan with brown torso boxes and a few other highlights on the right shoulder launcher and left shoulder flood light.
The opponent was the Asian lady in a Jenner. Casey couldn’t help wonder if she didn’t have Combine origins. All four contestants had turned over a data card to the SimTech, Phil, so each of the ’Mechs being run were real. But, she had also gone with one of the stock color schemes, a tan with white highlighting along the round shoulder/hip sections and along the visor on the domed head out front. If she were Combine, she wasn’t showing any pride in the colors of her past.
On the digital field, the Jenner started running forward.
In no hurry to close, Al’s ’Hammer opened up with its particle cannons. Both struck the Jenner, which danced side-to-side under the beams. Only one beam actually registered damage on the appropriate monitor near Casey, showing a sharp change from green to yellow.
Casey winced. He glanced over at a small crowd seated around a steel table, distracted by the noise of their surprise. They weren't the only ones surprised by the range of the particle cannons. Most of the local yokels may have heard of some of the latest advancements filtering through the Inner Sphere since the rediscovery of LosTech. Very few of them had ever seen it in action. Except Casey.
"Look at how cool the 'Hammer's running," someone commented. "But it's firing both particle cannons non-stop. How's that possible?"
"I've heard of these new freezers that they've been puttin' into 'Mechs, Terra-ward. I bet that's what it's mountin'," a woman said.
"But, these pods are old! They don't have data for that kind of gear," another man protested.
Turning back to the display, Casey leaned his elbows on the table in front of him, and clasped both dark hands in front of his chin. He smiled, amused by the ignorance of the crowd around him. This kind of tech had been proliferating in the Inner Sphere for more than a decade now. It showed the kind of backwater world Astrokaszy was.
Moment past, he focused on the duel portrayed in front of him.
Indeed, the Warhammer was able to keep very cool while firing both particle cannons. But, in spite of the crowd's amazement, the fire wasn't very effective. Thirty seconds of continual fire, three shots from each cannon, and the Jenner still had a decent amount of armor across most of its body. To Casey, it was an equal indication of Al's gunnery, as well as the piloting skill of the light pilot.
Still, the Jenner was now in range to fire its own weapons and wasn't wasting time. Watching the battle as a spectator, the next twenty seconds happened too quickly. As a ’Mech pilot, Casey knew that if he were fighting, that time seemed like an eternity. The Jenner had ‘alpha’ed, firing everything it had once in optimal range. So had the Warhammer, stepping forward to meet its opponent. It was a spectacular light show of burning red lasers, and blue particle beams.
"Why didn't the big one fire its shoulder rockets?" a woman asked from somewhere behind Casey.
"Look at the weapons layout. It doesn't have rockets," her partner replied.
"But...! Then why does the ’Mech have that shoulder box?"
Casey smiled a close-lipped smile, again, at hearing a spectator's confusion. It widened into a grin when he saw the results from the fire exchange. The Jenner was running hot, and so was the Warhammer. The big difference was that the Warhammer didn't have any big holes in its chest, or anywhere else. The Jenner's front armor was compromised and the engine was pouring out waste heat, according to the internal heat indicators on display. During a cinematic shot in Infrared, both ’Mechs glowed. The only indicators. In the digital environment, the armored hides of both ’Mechs simply darkened where the beams hit.
It was all the Jenner's radiators could do to bleed off what poured out of the engine shielding. With no way to compensate for any other kind of action, the only way the light 'Mech could cool off was to idle down. To her credit, the Jenner pilot went for one more exchange of fire before shutdown alarms blared. Then she had no choice.
One of the pods near Casey’s table stopped. Overhead, in the virtual environment, the Jenner shut down and disappeared. She gave up.
Around him, many of the spectators cursed or booed. They hadn't expected this. Nor wanted it, judging by the ferocity of some of the curses. Some people had lost a good deal of money on this particular exchange.
It was understandable. Al may have worked his way up to a simulator champion, here at the Crossroads. But that didn’t mean much considering the general skill level of any of the local opponents Al faced for the past three years.
These mercenaries were legendary in this region. There were extensive stories about their dealings with the local nomads and a few sultans. These three people were largely responsible for keeping the pods where they were, in spite of some interesting odds. Most people believed those legends.
From the inside pod display, Casey watched the well-toned, graceful form of the merc woman remove her bulky neural helmet. Her neck-length black hair was matted with sweat, and her Asian features were slightly contorted in anger. With hasty motions she popped the hatch.
Casey couldn't help a small chuckle.
Then, on screen a new opponent appeared. Casey's smile disappeared, and anxiety tightened in his gut at what he saw. It wasn't the Phoenix Hawk that had him worried. It was impressive enough, the custom scheme looking like the humanoid ’Mech was hollow, a doorway to a raging inferno. The psychedelic holographic look forced Casey to do a double take after confirming what he saw on Al’s monitor.
Casey was worried by the fact that the Warhammer hadn't been reset. It was still hot from its last exchange, and the damage still scarred its form. This was a gauntlet. They were sending Al straight from one duel to the next.
According to Darran, any challenger wanting to get hired by this mercenary unit only had to beat one 'Mech. Al had already done that. Still, that didn't ease Casey's mind. In a lot of ways, he had a lot riding on this fight.
He wanted Al to give a good impression. It was Casey's training that had gotten the kid this far. If he didn't fare well after a fight with a light 'Mech, what did that say of Casey's skills? It didn’t help that he was out in the periphery, looking for work to begin with, and this group was the only one he was told he could trust with his unique background. If Al didn’t impress, then how much harder would Casey have it when his turn came? In spite of Darran’s assurances, were the rules for this entrance exam rock solid?
Casey tried to calm himself. Ignoring the chatter around him, he took a deep breath and focused on the duel to come. Al had handled himself admirably, this far, in spite of the glaring difference in skills. Surely he would be able to beat a second ’Mech.
Gasps and cries of surprise erupted when Al's hot 'Hammer took off at a speed uncharacteristic for that chassis. Considering his heat monitor was almost a third full, Casey understood the shock. A nervous smile twitched the corners of his mouth.
Then, the Phoenix Hawk brought its own surprise to the game, beyond the custom holographic Gateway to Hell look.
Normally, the Pixie had a matching set of laser and machine gun in each wrist. Instead, this one fired missiles. A pair of SRMs flashed out from each wrist, in addition to the large laser beam from the hand-gun in the right fist. The beam struck harmlessly off the left torso while the Warhammer jinked in its forward rush.
The missiles, on the other hand, flashed into giant balls of fire which splashed and covered the Warhammer. The burning fluid quickly spread to cover as much of Al’s machine as gravity would allow. The flames burned all over, many little dancing tongues of orange and yellow and white flickering in the simulated air.
Casey heard Al laugh before saying, "Thanks for the light!"
Al fired his own weapons, a strange mix of a single particle cannon and some of the lasers.
"What the...! Why the lasers?" someone asked, incredulously. "They're hopelessly out of range!"
Casey smiled.
In spite of the fire cooking all over Al's ’Mech, its heat barely fluctuated, staying where it was. This Warhammer was ingeniously designed. It was a testament to the technician team which built the design that it worked as well as it did with Triple Strength Myomer, or that they managed to find the specs to manufacture their own. But, Al had been the one to come up with the general specifications, which surprised Casey. How did such a young man know that such performance was possible when the technology was still relatively unknown and new?
Could it be from his time on Terra?
The young sim jockey was using the Inferno fire to his advantage, selectively firing certain mixes of lasers and Extended Range PPCs to keep the TSM in its sweet spot. From the reaction on the Pixie pilot’s monitor, the opponent knew it, too.
Then the fight was over. In the seconds it took the crowd to comment, both ’Mechs had closed, the Pheonix Hawk switching to standard SRMs. His mistake.
The Warhammer closed in at an inhuman pace, firing all six chest lasers, consisting of two ER mediums and four standard smalls. Coming up on the Pixie's right, Al swung the cannon barrels which made up either lower arm. Like a club wielded by a ball-player, the right arm swung up and wide, flattening the Pixie's head along the way. The follow-up punch from the left arm speared the forty five ton ’Mech through the back.
Showy and unnecessary, but since each was a split second apart, it was effective.
The crowd around Casey was stunned silent. It even took him a moment to register that this round was over. Not even a third of a minute had passed.
When he did understand, a heartbeat later, elation filled through Casey's chest, making his head light. He slumped back in his chair and openly laughed. Al had passed Casey's test.
People around him were reacting differently. Some muttered appreciation at the final attack. Some booed or complained loudly, not understanding how such an attack was possible. Casey understood. Even a Phoenix Hawk had enough head protection to survive a punch from a Warhammer. No single punch from any seventy ton 'Mech could cause such complete damage the first time. But, Casey also knew that with the right equipment, such an attack was possible.
Casey prepared to stand, expecting to be called over for his shot at the trio. However, the simulation kept running. Instead, the third opponent took the field while the Phoenix Hawk vanished before hitting the ground.
The fight wasn’t over. Nor was the damage on Al’s ’Mech reset.
The new opponent was something long lost during the Succession Wars, only to be revived recently. It also outweighed the seventy ton Warhammer by twenty tons. A Highlander BattleMech could easily be one of the forces behind the legends. This one sported a stock olive drab scheme, honoring its Star League origin. Judging from the readout, it was a vintage 732, which carried the rare and powerful Gauss Rifle. A lucky shot to the cockpit on any ’Mech was a game-ender.
The next 'Mech was a real worry, but Casey no longer cared. A damaged heavy ’Mech versus a pristine assault ’Mech like a Highlander didn't stand a chance. Even more so, if that Highlander was manned by a veteran with decent gunnery. Casey assumed this one was.
Leaning back, his mind was numb while he took in the match. The questions that raced through his mind didn’t retain his focus. It didn't matter. Al performed to Casey’s expectations. Casey wasn’t willing to speculate at the intentions behind the continued gauntlet. He had to trust in Darran’s words. Al would be hired as soon as this match was over, win or lose.
Watching idly, Casey could see that the mercenary commander Al now faced was very much a good marksman, putting landing shots with both the legendary gauss rifle and the large, twenty-rocket, missile pack. Al's armor was taking heavy damage all over the place. Al’s skills were good enough that the Warhammer kept its footing while marching forward under the barrage, landing intermittent shots with its own PPCs.
Then the unexpected happened.
The Highlander took an unexpected fall. Casey looked up, taking in the stats from the different displays, trying to understand what just happened. Then he saw the gyro was completely knocked out on the assault ’Mech. The Highlander's armor was hardly damaged, but it was already crippled. Al had, with more uncanny luck than any real skill, found a weak spot in the Highlander's chest plate.
Excited, Casey jumped from his chair, whooping, striking a fist at empty air.
Noticing the mixed looks from sour and condescending faces, he quickly took his seat. A minute passed while, missing an arm, Al worked his Warhammer into a position where the Highlander could never return fire while it was on the ground. It was quickly shot and kicked to pieces.
From across the bar, Casey heard Darran drawl out, “Unbelievable.”
Down in the Pod Pit, Casey held the disk containing ROM Data and specs for his personal GRF-3M Griffin. A relatively new design, it also featured some advanced technologies that the Pod’s general database didn’t have. While handing it off to Phil, he observed the interplay between the mercs and Al after he got out.
The Asian woman and second man were unreadable. But, the leader looked openly happy and amused. He stepped close and slapped Al’s bare arm.
Each of the Mercs, as well as Al, had changed into shorts and tank tops. Even Casey was less dressed than he had been up on the balcony. The academy-grade pods simulated almost everything about a BattleMech to a ‘T’. That included the general heat output of so many computers in close confinement, which required something stronger than strict air-conditioning to keep the pilot cool and comfortable. Everyone in the pit, except Phil, wore coolant vests, which hooked into the appropriate simulator. The AC piped into the pit to help cool the mainframe running the pods was almost a little too cool for comfort.
“That was amazing,” the merc leader said with a laugh. “I haven’t seen anything like that in a long time. Sorry to put you through all that, but I was itching to get in a little sim-time, too. The rule stands, though. You only needed to beat one of us. Wait up for us while we run a match with the other guy.” He pointed to Casey.
Al nodded and turned to leave.
“It wouldn’t change anything to tell you I taught him everything he knows, would it?” Casey quipped while stepping toward his pod.
When all three mercs looked at him, he smiled. He meant it more as a joke, to help keep things light, and was surprised when the merc leader took him seriously.
“Is that so?”
Al paused, and replied, “More or less.”
“I can vouch for that,” Nimaj’s voice called down from overhead.
The merc leader eyed Nimaj, then studied Casey for a moment.
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