Shrapnel #17: The Official BattleTech Magazine by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pulse Publishing

TRIUMPH-CLASS DROPSHIP BONNEVILLE

IN TRANSIT

NOX

FREE RASALHAGUE REPUBLIC

5 FEB 3050

Brownpants knew the Singh brothers had—with the help of several enterprising young technicians from Solaris—set up moonshine stills. They were integrating leftover equipment, and even a few fluids, from ’Mech repair into the process, and people’s teeth were still turning a tell-tale shade of blue when their beverages were sampled. The major hadn’t ordered Brownpants to come down on it, though, so he let it slide. Idle soldiers needed a drink to break up the monotony of long, seemingly aimless interstellar travel. The Singh boys needed money. It worked out.

Also making a few C-bills during this extended downtime was Stringer, a steady old hand from the dusty Periphery. She’d been with Mountain Wolf BattleMechs for ages, had served as ranch security alongside Brownpants before that, and had brought with her, and introduced to the company, an old regulator tradition. Just like you branded cattle, you tattooed fighters. Stringer could doodle just about anything on just about anyone in exchange for some money or a favor.

The unit’s veterans—even Major Fox herself—had a special bit of ink, though, called the Hill Dog. Stringer had perfected the template over the years. At first glance, it was a mountain, half-covered in snow, meant to be Vendrell’s Monte Lupus, where the company’s HQ was. At a longer look, it was also the profile of a wolf’s head, the mountain peak actually the hunter’s ears up, wary and ready. A mountain, a wolf. Mountain Wolf. Hill Dog. More important than the novelty of the design was the prestige: you had to earn one, had to fight for the outfit for Stringer to ink you up and raise you into the highest echelons of loyalty and respect. It was a badge, a medal, and a scar all rolled into one.

Sergeant Brownpants had earned his dogging many times over, and every Mountain Wolf knew it.

His legal name was Ronayne Esposito, but for decades he’d answered only to Sarge, Brownie, or, most often, Brownpants. He was in the thick of his favorite joke, half perched on a crate of ’Mech-sized lugnuts and with a crew of a half dozen gathered around, all in the orange-on-gray jumpsuits that were the Wolves’ default garb aboard the Bonnie. His jumpsuit was notably worn and topped off with his signature weathered, wide-brimmed leather hat, while theirs were notably pristine.

“So Doc and his Concordat Commando company—hah, say that three times fast?—the scouts come in with some news, and Doc, he says, ‘How many Davionistas are there?’ and he gets back, ‘Oh, it ain’t but a squad, sir!’ So Doc grins real big and says, ‘Lieutenant, bring me my red shirt!’ His lieutenant brings it, Doc dresses up, they fight, and they win!” Brownie’s far spinward drawl, marking him as distant Periphery, born and raised, was perpetually intensified by the big pinch of Joshua Leaf he kept tucked in his bottom lip.

Brownie knew Doc hadn’t led a company back in the Taurian Concordat, mind, and hadn’t even been an officer.

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