Battletech, p.1
BattleTech, page 1
BATTLETECH: MARAUDER
A BATTLETECH ANTHOLOGY
LANCE SCARINCI
CONTENTS
Foreword
Introduction
Marauder
Kindred Soul
Notable BattleMechs
Ravager
Notable BattleMechs
Ghost Hunting
Notable BattleMechs
BattleTech Eras
The BattleTech Fiction Series
Copyright
FOREWORD
I’ve read quite a few of Lance Scarinci’s stories over the years, and I’ve even had the privilege of publishing a handful of them myself, in anthologies and in issues of Shrapnel, the Official BattleTech Magazine. Lance writes memorable, engaging characters, and I always get excited when one of his tales hits my desk. But the stories of his that always stuck with me the most throughout the years were the ones about a rather unusual character: an all-black Marauder, a strange BattleMech that seemed to defy all attempts at understanding where it came from and what makes it work.
Even during my early days with BattleCorps, we tried to steer people away from sending story submissions that firmly fell outside the general aesthetic of BattleTech, such as stories of a different genre, where any BattleTech content was an afterthought. At the end of the day, the BattleTech universe is military sci-fi mixed with Machiavellian politics: it revolves around giant, stompy war machines and chronicles futuristic combat and the people who direct those conflicts. But can good BattleTech stories include elements of other fiction genres, like horror or romance? Absolutely. The pieces contained in this volume are a great example of this sort of idea: military sci-fi as seen through the lens of the horror genre. And it works. The ghost stories in this collection will certainly send a bit of a chill down your spine, and make you wonder just what truly drives the titular ’Mech.
The first story in this anthology—“Marauder,” first published on BattleCorps in 2010—certainly set a precedent for genre blending in BattleTech fiction, and its influence is still felt to this day, even among other BattleTech authors. (For example, Michael J. Ciaravella’s “Devil Take the Hindmost,” a story about an unsettling Atlas on Solaris VII, appeared in Shrapnel #2, and was specifically written to be a spiritual successor to the stories contained in this collection.) This collection also includes “Kindred Soul” and “Ravager,” both of which were also published on BattleCorps, in 2012 and 2014, respectively. The final story, “Ghost Hunting,” is a brand-new piece written specifically for this collection, and it shows the so-called Black Marauder having become a thing of legend, one spoken about in hushed whispers in fear of drawing its attention.
For those looking for future stories about the Black Marauder, look no further than Shrapnel, which will feature the brand-new story “Wolf Pelts and Raven Feathers” in issue #10, available Fall 2022. And beyond that, if you have the courage to write your own tale about the Black Marauder, I dare you contribute to the growing legend by submitting your story to Shrapnel here: https://pulsepublishingsubmissions.moksha.io/publication/shrapnel-the-battletech-magazine-fiction/guidelines
—Philip A. Lee,
Managing Editor of Shrapnel,
the Official BattleTech Magazine
INTRODUCTION
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to tell stories. Problem was, for the first three and a half decades of my life, I wasn’t very good at it. I had a lot of decent ideas, but getting them out was like passing a DropShip-sized kidney stone.
Around late 2009, I decided if I was ever going to make a go at it I’d better get started, or just give it up entirely. Luckily, BattleCorps accepted new writers for BattleTech fiction, so I dusted off an old journal containing a fragment of a story I’d scribbled down, and dared myself to finish it. In a few weeks, I had something workable. There was no magic, no sudden genius, just a lot of hard work, study, and revision. At the end of it, I had something passable, and Jason Schmetzer, the managing editor of BattleCorps, thought so too, because he bought it. That story was simply titled “Marauder.” It is the first story I ever wrote, the first I ever sold, and I’m proud to see it here, launching this collection.
I’ve loved the BattleTech universe since I discovered it in 1989. One of my favorite aspects has always been the great mysteries hidden in the fiction. The Vandenburg White Wings, the Disappearing Battleship of Merope, the Minnesota Tribe. One by one, many of these mysteries were solved. With the Black Marauder series, I wanted to help refill that vessel while also delving into a part of BattleTech left largely unexplored: MechWarrior superstition. I wanted to give the sense that there are things out there in the deep, endless black that humankind is not prepared to meet, even with an army of BattleMechs. So I gave people a haunted ’Mech.
I wrote three stories chronicling the ’Mech I named the Dark One, but the fanbase has taken to calling the Black Marauder. Each story focuses on a different aspect of one overall tale. “Marauder” is the story of the ’Mech; “Kindred Soul” is the story of the man, Kevin Langstrom; “Ravager” presents the perspective of those standing in the Dark One’s shadow. I’ve been humbled by the fan reaction these stories. I’ve seen artwork and amazing miniatures based on them, and every year I still get several inquiries on where to find these tales. They’ve been unavailable since BattleCorps went offline, but now I finally have a place to point the curious. As an added bonus, presented here for the first time is a fourth perspective on the Dark One: “Ghost Hunting” tells the tale of those who would dare hunt this unholy beast.
I hope you find something inspiring in my stories, be it a nemesis for your tabletop games, ideas for your role-playing game, or just a desire to know more about the BattleTech universe. Maybe you’ll finally sit down and pound out your own story. That would make me happy. And if you get to the end and find yourself wanting more tales of the Dark One, well…you won’t be disappointed. I’d like to thank Jason Schmetzer for giving me my break so long ago, John Helfers for agreeing to publish this collection, and Phil Lee for being a good friend and editor. And Johannes Heidler, for all these years of encouragement.
Now my fellow BattleTechers, read and enjoy! And remember, BattleTech is a sci-fi setting grounded in reality, but what actually is real?
—Lance Scarinci
MARAUDER
PADISHAN FLATS
WARREN
CAPELLAN MARCH
FEDERATED SUNS
8 DECEMBER 3073
“Here we are,” Grange said as they rounded a final bend.
Kevin didn’t think “here” looked particularly inviting. Set against a large hill, the ferrocrete building looked more stable than anything in the wrecked town they’d just passed through, but not much. Its pockmarked walls blended smoothly into the natural rock, time and dust coloring them the same red as the surrounding desert. A pile of twigs that might have been a bird’s nest poked from the eaves, and boards covered the windows and single door, bleached by the sun until they resembled old bones. Some had split or fallen off, revealing the shadowy depths within.
“Sorry, Sarge, I didn’t hear you properly,” Kevin said. “I thought you said we were going to get a ’Mech, not a wreck.”
That’s what the trek was supposedly about. One BattleMech. A full battalion of them waited back at the garrison, most in good working order. Kevin didn’t think heading off into the godforsaken desert to get just one more was worth the trouble, yet here he was, bouncing along the remains of this road in a dirty old jeep, with a load of high explosives in the back. That made him nervous, especially considering the quality of Grange’s driving.
He hadn’t questioned the old sergeant when they’d loaded the cases up under the quartermaster’s watchful eye just before sunrise. Grange wasn’t the kind of man who invited questions. You either did what he told you to, or you did what he told you to with some bruises and an extra punishment assignment. Even as old as he was, Grange packed a mean right hook. Barracks rumor said he had perfected it during the Reunification War.
“Shut your trap, son,” the old sergeant growled. It was the longest sentence he’d spoken since they had left the base.
Although his long-winded war stories were the stuff of legend, today the old man had uncharacteristically hidden his rugged face behind a wrap-around visor and answered any inquiries with a disinterested grunt. After a while, Kevin gave up and entertained himself by counting the potholes Grange hit, giving double points for the ones the old man could have avoided if he’d bothered to turn the wheel. It was not an insignificant number.
They bumped over a set of tracks that led into a deadfall, and pulled up to the building. When Grange shut the jeep down, its engine pinged a couple of times, and the radiator hissed in relief. The early morning heat was just beginning to get uncomfortable. It sucked Kevin’s energy away, and he had been fighting hard not to nod off for the past few miles.
Grange leaned on the steering wheel, sucking in a huge breath and expelling it through puffed cheeks. He looked the way Kevin usually felt after one of the sergeant’s own workouts. Maybe the heat was getting to him, too.
“So, what’s this place?” Kevin asked.
“A graveyard,” Grange said.
“A what?”
“Not in the literal sense,” Grange said with a wry smile. He climbed out and walked to the back of the jeep, where he removed a pry bar from the kit box. “More in the sense it’s a place you put something you want to forget. Something you want to bury, and hope it stays buried.”
“Sounds promi sing,” Kevin said. To him, the whole world of Warren was a place where things went to be buried and forgotten—like his career. But that’s what happened when you graduated in the bottom third of a class from a second-rate academy. You don’t get to go to the Brigade of Guards or the Avalon Hussars, you get to go to the Capellan March Militia and guard the Warren Polymorphous Defense Zone, in the backwater of the Federated Suns.
Kevin hated this world, hated being stuck here. War with the Capellans, the Blakists, and now the Taurians had distracted the powers that be, and all his applications for transfer, all the recommendations from superior officers had been swept under the rug. New recruits from respected universities replenished the ranks, while the militia stayed put. Only an act of God was going to get him recognized, give him a chance to get off this rock and into a real unit.
The people he vented his frustrations to were no help either. Most told him this assignment was his own fault. He could have studied harder, not spent so much time goofing off, or wrapped around the girl of the moment. He could have applied to a real academy like Warrior’s Hall, or maybe even Albion. None of that had seemed so important back then, but five years as MechWarrior Corporal Langstrom, Second Battalion, Third Company, Warren Capellan March Militia, reporting to Sergeant-Major Grange, had changed his mind.
Kevin was savvy enough to hide his resentment from the people he served with. He was smarter than this outfit full of inbred Outbackers and retirees, better than them. Few of them knew it, but Grange did. He treated Kevin differently than the rest of his charges, showed him a little more respect. Maybe the old man recognized his wasted potential and tried to make up for it in his own small way, or maybe Kevin really did remind him of his long dead son, as one old hand had suggested.
Grange took a few more items from the kit box, including a pair of tiny flashlights and a smaller pry bar, which he gave to Kevin. “Gotta lot of work ahead. Let’s get started before this damned sun gets too hot.”
“Well, I hope you packed lunch.” Kevin hefted his pry bar, walking alongside Grange to the boarded door.
“Rations,” Grange replied, digging his bar into the old wood.
Of course. The old man lived on the damn things. They were probably the only thing he’d eaten for the past fifty years.
The last board slid off its nails with a dry squeak. Grange tossed it aside and studied the battered door. The outline of an old, faded logo was barely visible, its colors bleached away by the desert sun long ago. Dulled graffiti and even a few bullet holes added to its character.
“This used to be a gold mine back in the Star League days,” the old sergeant said. “Then the vein played out some time in the twenty-ninth century, and the company shut ’er down and abandoned the place. A lot of people were put out of work. The town faded away not much later. People pretty much forgot about it, except for the occasional kids looking for a hangout. A local gang staked it out as their personal turf about forty years ago. Ran their own miniature crime wave out of here, until the law had enough and burned them out.
“I used to come here when I was a kid, hoping to find traces of gold for myself, but there was nothing to be had. Nothing but dust and memories.” He smacked his hands together, removing the dust. “Nobody comes here now. Few people even remember it exists, and that suits me just fine.”
Sand had frozen the lock, so they broke down the door with a makeshift battering ram. It collapsed off its ancient hinges after just two heaves. They entered a dingy antechamber that may once have been a reception area. Grange lit his small flashlight and led the way through a complex that extended into the mountain. Graffiti covered almost every surface, broken occasionally by scorch marks and the odd bullet hole. Debris, some of it identifiable as office equipment, crunched underfoot. Several walls had collapsed, and the ceiling buckled alarmingly in some places. Still, the place had a sense of dignified history. Fortunes had been won here.
Grange led Kevin to a room set far back from the entrance where the sun didn’t reach. Stale air pressed in, and his tiny flashlight felt woefully inadequate. On one wall stood a door more modern than the rest of the complex: solid looking, like a vault door, with large hinges and a long metal handle. A security keypad glowed red on the wall beside it.
Grange grunted in satisfaction. “Generator’s still running.”
The keypad looked very out of place amid this seemingly worthless devastation. It piqued Kevin’s curiosity. “That’s some heavy security, Sarge. I thought you said no one came here anymore.”
“Nobody I know about. Doesn’t mean I know everything. Last thing I want is someone just stumbling in here.” Grange blew on the numbers. Dust swirled, and Kevin covered his nose.
“You remember the combination?” he asked, only half jokingly.
The old man grunted again. “Some things you don’t forget, even if you try.” He pressed a few buttons. The sequence meant nothing to Kevin, but the pad beeped, changing from red to green. A dull clunk sounded from within the wall.
Grange turned the long handle and dragged the door open to reveal a deep, black cave. It grated loudly as it moved, the noise echoing back from inside. Cool, dry air fluttered around them. As it worked into Kevin’s lungs, he found he didn’t really want to explore the depths it came from.
Grange groped along the wall until he found a power switch. When he flipped it, a series of dim sodium lights flared, pushing back the endless dark. They were in a cavern, a vast, man-made edifice hewn from the heart rock of the mountain. The decrepit series of rails they’d crossed outside continued here, emerging from under the deadfall and disappearing into the depths. This was unmistakably the old mine’s main entrance.
Signs of ancient habitation were present in the form of fire-blackened barrels ringed by crates and large rocks, the remains of makeshift campsites. Old food and beverage containers littered the floor, and a pyramid-shaped can of Pharaoh beer sat on the end of a rail cart as if someone had just placed it there. The air was still and oppressive, the cave very empty.
Almost empty. Off to one side, something lurked in the shadows where the pools of light didn’t seem to reach. It drew Kevin’s attention with a sudden spike of adrenaline. He squinted, but couldn’t quite make out what it was, save that it was huge. It remained little more than a shadow, black against the charcoal of the walls.
Grange strode straight toward the object, stepping carefully through the detritus. Kevin followed hesitantly. It was cold here in the bowels of the earth, colder than he would expect for a desert summer. The slightest footfall echoed in the dark, and he trod softly where he could. He’d heard the term “silent as the grave” before, but only now understood its meaning. It was a revelation he could have lived without.
At the set of rails, he stopped. There had been a sound, but it was gone now. He tried to think, but couldn’t quite recall what it had been. A whisper? He must have imagined it. But Grange had also stopped, staring intently at the hulking shadow, his face unreadable. Unease clenched his stomach. The barracks suddenly seemed a long way off.
As they drew nearer, Kevin saw that Grange hadn’t been joshing him: the hulking form was a ’Mech. He expected the dim light would reveal a LoaderMech or even an old MiningMech, but never this.
It was a Marauder. Not one of the new-style chassis, but one of the classic GM MAD- series.
It looked pristine—that is, what he could see of it did. Its paint was a flat black that melted into the shadows. No matter what angle he viewed it from, Kevin couldn’t quite see it clearly, as if the machine conspired to keep some part of itself hidden. The more he did see, the more his unease gnawed at him. The ’Mech was wrong. Its angles were too smooth, its proportions not quite right. It was too sleek, yet its bulk terribly imposing.
Once, when he was a kid, Kevin’s father had taken him to a zoo, where some kind of big alien cat was kept in a pit. Looking down at it he felt safe, leaning out over the rail to point, until that cat had looked back at him, and he knew that if he fell in the pit, he would most definitely not be safe. He never forgot the way he felt when those yellow eyes met his, never forgot what would happen if the old rail snapped.
