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    BattleTech: Red Khopesh: BattleTech Novella
    BattleTech: Red Khopesh: BattleTech Novella
    BattleTech: Red Khopesh: BattleTech Novella
    Ebook127 pages1 hour

    BattleTech: Red Khopesh: BattleTech Novella

    By Steven Mohan, Jr.

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    About this ebook

    LIFE ON THE EDGE...

    Life in the sparsely populated periphery is rustic—and dangerous. Small settlements means small defense forces. No wonder the outer worlds often fall prey to piracy. So when Mark Castor shows up on the World of Randis with relief aid in tow and an assault 'Mech to protect it, the locals are overjoyed to see him.

    But Castor isn’t at all what he appears to be—and before he’s done he’s going to turn the entire concept of privacy on its head. Follow the twists and turns of Castor and bombshell Tracy Malfont in “Red Khopesh” and “The Bitter Taste of Hope.”

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCatalyst Game Labs
    Release dateApr 30, 2012
    ISBN9781386750208
    BattleTech: Red Khopesh: BattleTech Novella

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      Book preview

      BattleTech - Steven Mohan, Jr.

      RED KHOPESH

      New Hope, Southern Continent, Randis

      Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery

      6 February 3066

      The man who called himself Mark Castor walked through the charred and blackened ruins of the neighborhood to remind himself why he was about to do this terrible thing. Gray ash swirled in the light breeze brought by twilight, coating his polished black wingtips and staining his cream-colored slacks, lending the air the taste of soot.

      Castor walked amidst the broken and collapsed buildings, eyes down, searching for something in the burnt wreckage that had once been someone’s home. He didn’t know exactly what the thing he sought looked like, but he’d know it when he saw it.

      He always did.

      He kicked aside a blackened timber and orange sparks flew up into the purple sky. The traces of wood that had survived the inferno still smoldered, even after four days. Something stirred in him at that thought, but it wasn’t enough.

      He kept looking. 

      The bitter stench of smoke clung to everything, no doubt he’d have to toss the slacks and the blazer later. Not to mention his tie. It was impossible to get the smell of smoke out of silk.

      He frowned, feeling churlish and put-upon, which wouldn’t do at all.

      And then something caught his eye.

      It was really no more than a scrap of fabric, oddly shaped and singed at the edges, but it was exactly right.

      Mark Castor looked down at the little scrap of pale pink cloth, the blue button eye, the half-smile left over from when the doll’s face had been mutilated. He felt his insides cooling to absolute zero, his guts turning to an ice stronger than steel.

      He knelt down and picked up the scrap, handling it tenderly, as if it were a treasure of great value. Then he shoved it into his pants pocket and turned to go, ready now to do what had to be done.

      The bar—Ronnie’s Place—was only six blocks down and three over from the nineteen homes that had been destroyed during the pirate’s raid, close enough that Castor decided to walk. By the time he reached the bar, dusk had given way to night and the temperature had dropped another ten degrees.

      Castor shivered and pushed his way inside.

      Ronnie’s Place wasn’t well lit, but it was cheery. White tablecloths covered the small tables, candles flickered in sconces on the walls, a polished bar slick with moisture sweated off the translucent green bottles of chilled beer.

      This time it scarcely took Castor a second to find what he was searching for.

      Amidst the quiet murmur of the regulars, the clinking of glasses, the dance of golden light, he saw her at a booth in the far, back corner. A booth with a nice view of the door and situated (he guessed) not more than five meters from some kind of exit.

      Tracy Malfont.

      Her low-cut black tank top revealed plenty of cleavage and hinted at the absence of a bra. Skin-tight black leather pants covered long, slim legs. She was a dishwater blond, hair cut short, mouth set into a tight, hard line, gray eyes that were all calculation.

      She was sexy as hell, but she wasn’t pretty. She was the kind of woman men would fall over themselves to sleep with, but wouldn’t look at twice if she hadn’t been showing so much skin. Castor thought maybe she had been lovely a long, long time ago, and the thought made him sad in the same way that finding the doll’s torn face made him sad.

      A regret for something lost.

      He slid into the booth next to her, blocking her exit.

      Castor felt the tip of a blade prick through the white broadcloth of his shirt, dimpling the skin just beneath the ribs.

      She smiled at him. No one invited you, she said in a low, menacing voice.

      Castor didn’t look at her. Instead he waved the waiter over. "Do you have sake?"

      The boy’s furrowed.

      Castor sighed. A scotch, then.

      The boy’s face lit up, and he went to get Castor’s drink.

      Maybe you didn’t hear me, said the woman, putting a little more force behind her short blade. "You are not welcome." The smile never left her face.

      You’re not up for a little fun? said Castor, letting her think she knew what he was.

      She laughed. Not with you.

      The stab of pain told Castor she was pushing harder. The trickle of moisture told him she’d drawn blood.

      The boy returned with his drink. The kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen and obviously not very bright. To make matters worse, his attention was focused more on the woman’s chest than on what he was doing.

      Castor bobbled the drink as the boy handed it to him, spilling most of the scotch and drawing the woman’s involuntary attention for a crucial second.

      Castor’s right hand darted down, grasped her wrist, and twisted.

      Something gave in the woman’s wrist and she gasped.

      Her knife clattered to the floor.

      Just as he caught the falling shot glass in his left hand.

      Ah, what a shame, said Castor to the boy. (He still hadn’t turned to face the woman.) Could you bring me another?

      Of course, mister, said the boy, bobbing his head obediently, pulling up the damp rag he’d been sopping up the spilled liquor with, and scuttling away.

      Castor and the woman passed the short time he was gone in silence. Once, she shifted her body subtly, probably angling for another weapon. Castor employed a sharp downward jerk of her wrist to persuade her that that was not a good idea. Afterwards she lapsed into stillness.

      The boy returned and set the drink down on the table with a loud clack.

      Castor smiled his thanks, carefully snared the shot glass with his left hand, and sipped the amber liquid.

      He sighed again. That really is bad.

      The woman said nothing.

      I plan to deduct the price of a new shirt from your pay.

      The woman blinked. What?

      Blood stains, said Castor. They’re just about impossible to get out.

      She shook her head. No, I meant the part about the pay. She opened her mouth. Wait. You’re not Castor are you?

      Castor offered her a sharp smile with plenty of teeth and released her hand.

      She snatched it away from him, cradling it against her chest while she massaged it with the other hand.

      I’m glad to see you’re not irredeemably stupid, said Castor.

      You might’ve told me, she muttered.

      I find this approach gives me a better idea of who my employees are.

      So did I pass the test?

      Oh yes, said Castor, sliding a card across to her that listed a time and a place. You’re exactly what I hoped you would be.

      Her eyes flickered down for a moment. So tomorrow, then.

      Castor nodded. Turns out you and I are going to have some fun after all.

      New Hope, Southern Continent, Randis

      Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery

      7 February 3066

      Castor deliberately arrived fourteen minutes late to the meeting. Partly it was because Brother Richard Kittrick was a punctilious prig and Castor just couldn’t resist tweaking him. But mostly it was because Malfont’s crew was going to be there, and Castor was well schooled in the art of primate dominance politics.

      Power meant never having to be on time.

      So he made them wait.

      When he stepped into the dark warehouse in the commercial district he found Malfont and the rest of her lance lounging around the cargo area, two women and two men, three of them leaning against the boxes stacked to the rafters, the fourth draped over a low wooden pallet, eyes closed, maybe asleep.

      Primate dominance politics right back at you, Castor thought.

      Kittrick of course stood in the middle of the group, practically at attention, but trying to look like he was not at attention, clipboard tucked neatly under his left arm. The man looked up and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Mr. Castor. So good to see you. I thought you might not be coming.

      Castor chuckled. I apologize Brother Kittrick, I was just enjoying the considerable charms your world has to offer. He said it with enough enthusiasm that Kittrick had to wonder if Castor were making fun of him. Randis was not bad for a Periphery world,

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