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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 a
‘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.