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A Carver Homecoming
by David Wainio |
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Town of High Palms
Dorsal Islands,
Carver V,
Chaos March
September 26, 3057
Corporal Rohdam ‘Rod’ Washington entered the silent structure with his optic sensors on passive low-light mode and his assault weapon set on full auto. He had listened through a blasted out window with his armor’s parabolic mic for a full five minutes and heard nothing - but it always paid to be careful. Surviving six months of chaotic, three way civil war had taught him that much anyway.
Carver V was a world of small, scattered landmasses that had been fought over many times through history and most recently been part of the Federated Commonwealth after the Fourth Succession War. Rod had come of age during a peaceful and prosperous time amid neighbors who’s islander mentality placed little importance upon which House claimed their quiet planet. But always there were men and women who pledged loyalty to the Great Houses. Their passions had torn Carver apart as Laioist rebels backed by Marik mercenaries had trashed the FedCom garrison and seized what islands they could. Broken into smaller units and relaying on swift watercraft that the other sides had failed to deploy, the FedCom troops hung on. The official central government was a joke now. ‘Central control’ was an oxymoron on Carver V these days. Outside money and hired mercenaries were the only power now.
All of which played directly into Rod’s first visit to his hometown since he had left to join the FedCom’s Fighting Fifty-First. A merc unit of eight BattleMechs was due for planet fall in five hours. The Archon’s money had paid for them. They’d hit the Liaoist port facility on the other side of the island in support of FedCom rule over Carver V then fade back up into the stars on their DropShip. Rod’s job was to make sure the town was still abandoned or to call in the scant forces available to secure it if it wasn’t. Then it was the mercenary’s show.
Of course, the whole question of whether the remaining FedCom troopers were properly Steiner or Davion was still yet to be decided. Captain Jenners of his company wisely left that question alone for now. They had all the trouble they could handle already. Help from any quarter was welcome. But other elements of the 51st were already taking sides between the brother and sister rulers. The war threatened to become four way soon.
Properly speaking, Rod Washington was an armored jump trooper. However, the 51st hadn’t fielded an actual jump platoon since the Angels of No Mercy unit had spent weeks strafing the snot out anything FedCom that moved. Or looked like it might move. Or maybe moved once sometime in the distant past.
His jump pack enabled, composite armor suit was state of the art – about eighty years ago give or take. It was functional however, and the remaining armor sets had proven well suited to the scouting role they were used for now. Usually working alone, a jump scout would bound from the deck of a moving water skimmer onto an island shore and scout the area. If enemy presence made it too hot to land the boats, they would try a ‘hot-bounce’ out to one of the skimmers as it cruised by off-shore. It was a risky system, but risky choices were all the 51st had left open to them.
His helmet’s enhanced vision had no problem making use of the small amount of light that filtered through the high set windows from the afternoon sun. As his practiced eyes swept the single large chamber he ignored the targeting reticule that superimposed itself on his viewplate. It no longer designated anything. Like the other patrol scouts he didn’t use the arm mounted laser weapon designed to be linked to the eye tracking system. There were plenty of times a guy needed to shoot one way while looking another. Plus holding your arm fully extended and pointed at your target affected your running. These were more lessons the fighting had taught him.
Reassured that the circular building was indeed empty he moved in more casually and circled along an interior railing to his left. A round dance floor filled the center of the structure with tables and seats on a raised platform surrounding the dance area. Two bars were set on the wall equidistant from the main entrance. It was a design motif many centuries out of place but it was a familiar childhood friend to Rod. This structure was a replica of a like one once called ‘The Casino’ on a small island called Catalina on Terra. Rod knew this because he had read the official historic replica placard many times as a kid and later in high school. He had always wondered if Catalina looked anything like the Dorsal Islands. He rather doubted it. The few pictures available painted Catalina as much
less tropical. Why someone had decided to build a replica Casino on this particular world Rod had never discovered.
High Palms had changed hands three times before the local population decided to head for other islands. The forceful changes of ownership hadn’t done much for the property values of his hometown. Surprisingly, this particular building had survived unscathed as far as Rod had been able to tell. The scattered interior furniture left the impression that somebody left in a hurry but as a scout rather than a combat trooper he hadn’t been assigned in this sector back when the fighting last occurred. He had no idea who might have been last using the Casino. He wondered if they had cranked up the music system and used the dance floor – and if so what music they played. He’d always liked music; almost any type. It was funny he’d never learned to play anything.
Rod angrily cleared his mind and returned his thoughts back to the present. Not paying attention to business was a quick way to find your favorite body parts reduced to drifting red mist- armor or no armor. And Rod was partial to all of his body parts. His armor could take a few small arms hits but it wouldn’t do to put much faith in it’s protective qualities. It was built more for stealth and endurance. It somewhat qualified as ‘powered’ only in that it had isolated high pressure hydraulic systems along the legs attached to a carbon-fiber/steel skeleton with a few strands of myomer support. The set-up allowed the suit to support it’s own weight and absorb the impact of 90 meter jumps plus carry around 5 kilos of sensor gear, 10 kilos of weaponry and an extra 12 kilos of whatever else the wearer wanted to take along. In Rods case that was usually extra ammo and explosives.
When wearing it Rod could pretty well do most things he could do unarmored. But the Scout Suit granted neither great strength nor weapon invulnerability. Against a ‘Mech or even a true Power Armor suit he’d be a memory right quick. Luckily the former had difficulty operating on the tropical islands while the latter had never been seen on Carver V. Armored and prowling, here he was finally back home. Sweeping for snipers, enemy scouts and booby-traps rather than parading for cheering citizens or simply stopping by for a friendly visit with his folks. Even so, in a very unexplainable way, it felt good to be home. Or what was left of it anyway.
The Casino was on a hill that overlooked the cleared area of downtown and afforded a view of several strategic points within the city below. This obvious tactical value made it so surprising that the building still stood. Still, you take your favors where you can find them. That was another thing the war had taught him. Rod drifted towards one of the bars. He was back in the ‘zone’ now. His senses were keyed, his reflexes primed and his mind focused. He noted a personal noteputer left on a chair but did not immediately go towards it. Such a thing was a rather suspicious find and might be a trap or remote sensor. His presence inside had not caused it to explode yet so he figured it could wait until he had time for a careful check. The bars were big enough to hide behind and the closer one held most of his attention. He carefully crept up on it only to discover that it hid no enemies. This was far from a disappointment however. Rod would be very pleased to find no enemies this day- or any other for that matter.
He looked out across the floor to the second bar. It was hard to believe that less than two years ago he had attended his Senior Prom right here in this very room. Blazes but that had been a night. A raging public argument with, followed by public dumping by, his girlfriend. This lead to his first time totally stinking drunk; segueing into his face getting stomped in a stupid brawl that he basically started. Yep, a night to remember all right. Tame by comparison to moonlight fire-fights and weathering strafing runs but a night to remember all the same. Up to then he’d been mostly apolitical. Triple varsity athlete, decent grades, popular, prince of the beaches- he hadn’t had much time to worry about the growing Liaoist guerilla actions or Stiener-Davion politics. But Sirina certainly had the time and inclination to have opinions.
Why they ever linked up during their Junior summer was still a complete mystery to him. Their social circles loathed each other. She was an artsy anti-FedCom type from a long Capellean heritage that had taken to wearing black clothing to protest what she called the darkness of ‘The Butcher Prince’s society’. He was a letter jacket wearing member of the jock set who’s prime ambition was to be like everyone else in the group. Opposites attract he supposed. Rod couldn’t help but smile ironically as ghosts of themselves wisped across the dance floor in his imagination. Every little thing had seemed so important, so significant, in high school.
He could scarcely credit his own naiveté. How much had one embarrassing night influenced his life? He had enlisted with the 51st pending graduation mainly to spite Sirina. He spent that last two months of school flaunting his pledge-band in her presence whenever possible. He wondered where she was now. A refugee? A rebel? Attending an art
college off planet wondering why she had ever gotten so worked up about Carver politics in the first place? If he didn’t get his head blown off being a hero for the FedCom maybe he’d try to find out what ever became of her some day. Only to satisfy his curiosity of course.
An irregular shape, small, dark and shiny, caught his attention just a few steps away. It looked like a decorative pin or clothing button. Sirina had had an entire collection of hand made bead or shell jewelry type items she’d often sported. The odds were fantastic …still… on impulse Rod eagerly dropped down to one knee and knelt down to grasp the small shell in his gauntleted hand.
Fffzzzaammm.
The crackle of the weapon discharge and the flash of the beam puckered his rear end as a laser stream passed through the space his head had been occupying a moment before. His reflexes kicked in to do what his brain had been lax about – staying alive. Immediately he was moving, pushing forward off from his feet to summersault across his back toward the bar’s edge to get some cover. Repeated drill had automatically started him counting as he sought cover. Most hand carried laser weapons had about a three second recharge between shots. If no-one else fired on him he’d have at least that long to seek cover and try to pinpoint his attacker. The sparse choices available almost assuredly placed his tormentor behind the opposite bar though. Using his bar for cover, Rod raised himself into a firing position and poured high velocity slugs into the other one. This was a reason he favored slug-throwers over laser rifles. No refractory period. Just pull the trigger and watch your ammo. The enemy sniper knew what Rod knew however. In a one-on-one close quarter battle the assault rifle had the advantage. Rod swore to himself as a green and brown armored figure bounded up onto a table and through one of the high set windows before he could track his rifle onto target.
Damn that guy had been fast. Rod hadn’t seen a jump pack. His attacker was probably wearing light ballistic body armor. He’d had a good set up though. The broken mirror over the far bar allowed him to watch the dance area, waiting for prey to stop and examine the noteputer. Then zap. The table had undoubtedly been left where it was to facilitate an emergency escape.
Rather than rush for the nearest exit to that side, Rod ran out the one he had entered through and carefully rounded the building. Movement many meters away caught his attention as the sniper ran behind a strand of palm trees and into the streets below. Rod brought his rifle up but held fire. It’d be a waste of ammo at this range. Checking the outside doorways he spotted the explosive charges set by the doors. Wonderful, he was dealing with a sniper that liked booby-traps. What other nasty surprises had this guy set up?
Rod keyed his comm as he made a low, short jump to put him down by the buildings on a parallel course to his sniper friend.
“Jolly Roger, this is Scout. Advise that zone gamma is booby-trapped against infantry. One enemy trooper discovered. No signs of ‘Mechs or vehicles. Over.”
“Scout, this is Roger. Trap report noted. Determine extent of enemy forces. Search for ‘Mech traps. Liberate town if possible. Over.”
“Understood Roger. Wilco. Out,” snapped Rod.
Liberate the town? These people had already suffered too much liberating and bugged out months ago. There wasn’t anything left to liberate. What the Lieutenant meant was kill the other guy if you can. Why neither the military or mercenary types ever talked plainly still annoyed Rod slightly. If he was supposed to risk his butt chasing some sniper around then why didn’t the Lieutenant just radio back something like “see if he’s alone and kill the prick”?
Would the mercs attacking the Liao port be liberating it too?
Focus, focus, focus, he reminded himself as he edged along a building wall. His breathing sounded hideously loud in his helmet and his heart pounded like a piston. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he engaged in one of these little dances there was always an initial period of jitters. The zone, he thought as he consciously slowed his breathing, find the zone again.
He extended his mic probe around the corner while his eyes intently searched the nearby rooftops in the opposite direction. He picked up the crunching sounds of a man running on gravel and risked a peek in time to see his sniper finish crossing the parking area of the town park and slip into the foliage within. Toggling on the infrared lens in his helmet he was treated to the silhouette of his foe retreating further into the park. The other soldier had to be alone. Why bother with traps when you could more easily have someone waiting to shoot at any idiot fool enough to chasing him. |
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