C.S.V. Dreams of Avarice

[Captain Benjamin Maxwell]

Massing nearly ten thousand tons, the Overlord Class DropShip is the ultimate space combat vehicle still existing in the Successor States. As the Succession Wars drag on and the number of Overlords decreases, they are even more highly prized by the warring Great Houses.

The Overlord delivers large complements of BattleMechs and aerospace fighters into battle. It can carry a full battalion of 36 BattleMechs and six aerospace fighters, easily enough to invade a planet with a small garrison force.

The massive vessel bristles with weapons: six heavy PPCS, six Class 5 autocannons and two Class 20 autocannons, three LRM launchers, twelve medium lasers and six large lasers. This awesome array of weapons easily outguns any other type of vessel in space. The intricacies of atmospheric tracking, combined with the Successor States' inability to repair the more delicate Star League-era target acquisition components when they break down, limits the use of the Overlord's weapons on the ground or at low altitudes, but this ship nevertheless remains a formidable opponent in space combat.

Though vulnerable to enemy fire at low altitudes, the Overlord has less trouble than the lighter Union Class DropShip if one of its six Imsoll attitude jets is destroyed. The Overlord's pilot can usually shut down the engine opposite the damaged one; the four remaining jets are enough to keep the vessel stable. The loss of one jet drastically increases the Overlord's descent rate, however, and without a talented pilot at the helm the ship may hit the ground at disastrously high velocity.

Forced to work in the cramped, foul-smelling interior of the ship, the crews of Overlords are accustomed to the pressures and tensions of combat. Crew quarters on the Overlord are somewhat roomier than those of the smaller Union, but not much. The forty-three regular crew members live in two small bunkrooms, as do the thirty-six MechWarriors and six fighter pilots riding aboard the DropShip as passengers. Above these four bunkrooms are the executive officers' quarters (four officers to a room), and the captain's small private stateroom. As with Union Class ships, the air is almost unbearably foul, though individuals assigned to such ships claim that they eventually get used to it to the point that unpolluted air "smells funny."

Throughout the long centuries of the Succession Wars, the complex 'Mech delivery systems on most Overlords have been jury-rigged into unrecognizable jumbles of miscellaneous machinery. The sleek, efficient, and quiet original drop units have been replaced by unreliable, lumbering monstrosities that often frustrate Overlord crews by breaking down in the heat of battle, forcing the DropShip to land and discharge its 'Mechs on the planet's surface.

In keeping with Crayven Securities, Incorporated standards, however, the C.S.V. Dreams of Avarice remains in immaculate condition. The ship is one of the most pristene surviving examples of Star League-era technology, and holds the record for the most reliable vessel in the Crayven fleet.

[Assassin Saburo Kintaru]

Crisp sunlight sliced through the small, barred window and filled my holding cell as fine, minute dust particles dance there dance and glistened in the golden ray of brightness. My dazed and shallow thinking mind was captivated by the simple sight - or so any passer-by might have thought. In truth, my mind was far, far away from this plain of existence. Deep within the bowls of my poisoned mind, a battle was taking place. My dark, tiny eyes twitched as they struggled to keep focused. I had to stay awake. It was as simple as that. It was the only way I could keep this stalemate. It was the only way I could keep Mr Chingely from taking over my body and mind. I shuddered very sharply at that thought. It seemed as if the room had turned as cold; I could feel a killing presence. The beast inside me needed his next feed for it’s blood lust had not been satisfied. I pulled my knees in tightly towards my chest as the room seemed to fill up more with that cold, killing feeling that was becoming all to familiar.

“This is the same feeling I had felt when I was in that cockpit…”

A day had passed since I had been taking into custody by Charles Maxwell and Adam Wolf, but it had felt like an eternity to me. During my time in captivity I had a lot of time to think. During that long, terrifying night of sleepless rest, I had become soaked in unrest. All through the cold, harsh night, Mr Chingely’s clown like laughter ringed in my ears - never stopping - never changing. Utter insanity plagued my fragile mind as images of the slain innocent I had discovered in that wicked shelter the previous day flooded my vision, forever taunting me.

Several times during that (cold) night I had contemplated suicide… however that now familiar feeling had sunk in and stopped me from biting my own tongue off and choking to death. This feeling was the will to live, the will to keep going on and finding another way to stop this evil fucker from stepping outside of the walls that were the barrier of my mind. There had to be a way to stop him, of that I couldn’t be more certain.

My arms tightened their grip as they grabbled onto my shins, pulling my knees into my chest to try and comfort me.

“There has to be a way…”

I was so lost in my thoughts I had barely noticed that my cell door was open and the small room had suddenly filled with two, large framed men.

“Will you be coming with us the hard way… or the easy way?” said the tall African man who held a pair of hand cuffs in his hands. At first I stayed put, catching one more glance at that dancing dust.

“There is no easy way on the road of life…” I muttered, a dumb daze struck across my face. The tall man looked at his partner confused, perhaps signalling him to prepare for the “hard way”.

“But in answer to your question… I do not wish to cause you any harm… I shall be coming along quietly…” I spoke, barely above a whisper.

I was soon lead down a long corridor with the hand cuffs wrapped around my wrists and both men standing closely behind me. I was then placed into a larger, lime green coloured room. In front of me sat a table and two chairs that faced each other on opposite sides of the desk. The one I was told to sit at was much further away from the table. This was perhaps deemed “most wise”. I slumped into the chair, that same calm, dumb daze plastered across my face as I waited and waited for something to happen.

After hearing the door behind me locking, and muffled voices behind a large magic mirror that sat to my left, the door in front of me opened to reveal a small, petite young woman. The woman adjusted her glasses and her brunette hair before sitting down at the desk. She then placed her black leather briefcase on the table, opened it and removed several items from it that I couldn’t be bothered to note. The sharp, crisp sound of the clasps locking the case shut filled the silent room for a brief second before she spoke.

“Saburo Kintaru I presume?” she asked, a small smile crossing her face. I remained silent.

“I am Doctor Schultz, would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?”

Silence was once again present as I remained absolutely still, waiting for her to ask me her questions and to be done with the whole damned affair.

[Dr. Lisa Schultz]

"...would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?"

My final words trailed off, met by no response. I glanced at Saburo. He appeared fatigued, a look of complete detachment dominating his countenance, his eyes bloodshot and glazed over. His head dipped sporadically, his eyelids fluttered, and it looked as though he was fast approaching the first stages of insanity brought on by a lack of REM sleep.

But that wasn't my diagnosis to make.

"Mister Saburo. Mister Saburo!" I exclaimed, bringing my hand down on the table in a loud, open-palmed slap. Saburo sat bolt-upright, suddenly becoming hyper-aware. His exhausted slouch gave way to a rigid, terrified posture, as he gazed at me with wild eyes, fumbling for words.

"Y-y-y...yes, ma'am. What...what do you need?"

"Name."

"You already know my name."

"For the record."

Saburo cast a haggard stare at me.

"Saburo. Saburo Kintaru."

"Aliases?"

"None."

"Good. Citizen ID number."

"I...I don't have one."

I dropped my pen onto the table, the clatter of its impact echoing off the examination room's walls, and glared at Saburo over the rims of my glasses.

"You don't have a citizen ID number? You're a Blank?"

Saburo looked confused.

"A...a wh-...a what?"

"A Blank. An untraceable individual. No birth records, no citizen ID number, no health insurance, no bank accounts, no lines of credit, nothing. Don't tell me you're a Blank. I don't like Blanks. They make my job...tedious."

Saburo sat silently for a few moments before replying.

"I...I don't know. I was born in the Outworlds, if that helps you any."

I buried my head in my hands. Blanks were not at all compatible with the corporate world. My supervisors were going to be furious.

"It does not. You are most definitely a Blank. And since that's so, how do you intend to pay?"

"To...pay? For what?"

"For this procedure! Did you think it was going to be free?"

"But the Legionnaires...never made me..."

"The Legionnaires are not an incorporated body. They are a mercenary unit. We are a corporation. In the corporate world, we exchange money for services."

Saburo glared at me. The sound of a microphone squelching filled the air, and a tinny voice spilled out from the speaker mounted below the room's two-way mirror.

"We'll figure the money situation out later."

I nodded in the speaker's general direction as the microphone clicked back off. Saburo stared at me.

"We're...being...monitored? I thought this was supposed to be a private session."

"It is. Ordinarily, we would be broadcasting this interview as a segment for the Video Symptom Show. The General did you a favor. At any rate..." I continued, forcing the conversation back on track, "...do you at least have some sort of documented medical history prior to this...this...thing Doctor Saturina has given me?" I pressed, gesturing disdainfully toward the grievously brief overview compiled by the Legionnaires' chief medical officer.

"General Ren kept notes...aboard the Trestin."

My frustration began to ebb slightly.

"Good. We'll need those. How might we reach General Ren?"

Saburo looked crestfallen.

"You can't. He's...dead."

"How unfortunate," I muttered, taking up my pen in a steely grasp, and scrawling 'TERMS CASH' across the front of Saburo's docket. Sliding the packet back into my briefcase, and gathering up my belongings, I rose from the table, and strode from the interview room, my stiletto heels clicking on its ferrosteel floor. As I reached the hatchway, I paused, and looked back toward the now-baffled Saburo.

"The doctor will be online shortly, to see you."

[G.C.I. Charles E. Maxwell]

The observation room's lights dimmed, as the hologrid set into the center of its table flickered to life. A soft rectangle of light spilled from its surface, bathing the room in a rainbow of colors, as a humanoid form began to coalesce in its center. At first distorted, and bereft of detail, the figure quickly began to resolve into a much more finite image, with facial features and details such as hair, clothing, and minute anatomical details splashing across the avatar until, at last, the head and upper torso of a blond, thirtysomething female psychologist, dressed in a black sport-coat and tie, with her hair pulled tightly into a bun, presented itself above the projector, occasionally
flickering as myriad waves of distortion passed through the image. Holography wasn't perfect, but it was as good as it needed to be.

"Hello. My name is Leslie. What's yours?"

The hologram spoke in a nauseatingly sweet voice, in a tone typically reserved for two-year-olds. As Saburo stared at the creation with murder in his eyes, I keyed the monitoring intercom off, and turned away from the observation window, taking a drag on my cigar as I did so.

"Those things'll kill you, you know."

The voice belonged to Dr. Jose DeSoto, who sat at a terminal facing the window. I looked down at him with contempt.

"Last time I checked, your Jet addiction was far more lethal than my...affection...for fine cigars," I retorted, releasing a smoke ring into the air. It hung lazily, defying gravity for a moment, before being sucked into the DropShip's ventilation system.

DeSoto chuckled wryly.

"Lesser of two evils, eh, General?"

"Precisely."

DeSoto shook his head, humored, and returned his attention to the trio of computer screens before him, which displayed a myriad of information, from Saburo's vital signs and brain activity, to controls for the observation room's many subsystems, to the current value of the Crayven Corporation's stock. A credit reader was also present, into which was placed a company CredTube, its balance slowly depleting with each minute that passed. By the amount left on the tube, I estimated that the hologram would automatically de-activate in approximately five minutes.

"Cheapskates," I muttered, moving back toward the surveillance glass. It appeared that Saburo wasn't responding particularly well to the infinitely-patient hologram, which continued with its delivery of nauseatingly-chipper pre-recorded Q&A even as its increasingly-frustrated patient shouted obscenities and made threats against its mechanical life. I chuckled, wondering how long it would take for Saburo to realize that the hologram he was berating possessed only the most basic of artificial intelligence, and couldn't truly comprehend what he was saying. Using information obtained in Dr. Schultz's initial assessment, the Dreams of Avarice's computer had made its diagnosis long before the hologram began speaking, using a system that found its basis in the theory that a person's state of mind could be determined based on a series of calculations, drawn from criteria such as financial status, employment history, and upbringing, amongst other variables.

The hologram merely served as a placebo, designed to coax its patients into talking about their feelings, and in so doing, making them believe that their problems really mattered. It was utterly incapable of independent thought, its 'sentences' drawn from a database of neutral, pre-loaded responses. In theory, the hologram freed psychologists to see more patients in a shorter span of time, thus negating the need for the human practitioner to be tied up in lengthy and repetitive counseling sessions.

In other words, it was supposed to save the company money.

"When are they going to realize that this horse shit doesn't work?" I griped, watching through the glass as Saburo dissolved into hysterics.

"Being that the computer's diagnosed him as clinically insane, I'm not really sure it matters. You know how corporate policy reads. Insanity is grounds for immediate termination."

"I'm not sure that execution is necessary in this case. I don't think Saburo's problems can be that easily written off."

"What do you suggest?"

"For now, give him a prescription and send him on his way. Schedule a re-evaluation in...two weeks."

DeSoto looked at me incredulously.

"A...re-evaluation? You want to challenge the computer's diagnosis?"

I nodded. The color drained from DeSoto's face, and his voice dropped to a low whisper.

"General - the computer's never wrong. If corporate finds out that you disputed its findings..."

I extinguished my cigar in a nearby ashtray, and gathered my belongings.

"That's why they won't find out, Mister DeSoto. Understood?"

[Assassin Saburo Kintaru]

"How unfortunate…" The doctor said in total, blood boiling sarcasm. Her fine sleek hands gripped tightly onto her pen as she scribbled an unreadable note across a document that read my name. It wasn’t long before I had realised I was slowly coming out of my long daze as anger began to consume me. A sudden wash of realisation slapped me in the face; anger was feeding the beast within me. My face screwed and twitched as I became baffled by this realisation. The Doctor stared back at me with equal confusion. That confusion turned into a mocking smirk that caused total rage to consume me. Those disgustingly thin, pink lips spread proud and wide on that pretty face of hers. How I loathed every minute second of her company.

[glow=red,2,300]“You can take your disgusting mocking face out of here, you damned excuse for a human being! YOU CORPORATE WHORE!”[/glow] I screamed, causing the Doctor to stumble backwards in surprise. But her surprise had worn off on me. As quickly as I had barked at Schultz, I found myself quaking in my chair. I hadn’t shouted those words - that was the voice of Mr Chingely. I bit my lip in shock and horror as I felt the pit of my stomach sink deeply. I bit tighter and tighter until blood reached my tough. My eyes shot over and examined the equally shocked psychologist, who’s chin quivered with shock and, I suppose, fear. That disgusting mocking appearance the all so confident Doctor Schultz was radiating had not withered in the great wind that was my sudden outburst. And although I was disgusted and horrified with myself… I loved it.

[glow=red,2,300]“OUT, GET OUT! CORPORATE WHORE! WHORE OF THE SYSTEM! YOU FUCKING SCUM! FUCK! FUCK!!! WHORE!!!”[/glow] I bellowed, a slight hysterical giggle escaping my lips as Doctor Lisa Schultz rushed out of the room, perhaps considering whether or not she should consider seeing a psychologist herself…

Silence filled the room now - or at least as quite as things could get. My hyperventilated breathing was calming down now as I began to regain control. For a brief moment, it had seemed Mr Chingely had managed to control my emotions and my speech. It was as if I was saying things that should have stayed in my mind - things that WOULD have stayed in my mind…

A sudden flicker of 3-dimensional light splashed into the room, filling it with all the colours of the rainbow. At first I was beginning to think it was a mind trick, something that would cause me to loose control again. I shuddered in fear until the rainbow colours began to form the shape of an attractive (yet empty headed in appearance) hologram appeared. The image flickered as it adjusted itself before it sprang into action. A slight sigh of relief passed my lips. Unfortunately, my relief didn’t last long.

“Hello! I am Doctor Leslie B. Hapee! How are we feeling today?” said a sickly sweet voice that seemed to scream out from the hologram. I raised a nervous eyebrow as her unblinking eyes locked onto mine. She kept a perfect smile to match her perfect hair and body.

“Great…” I growled. “I’m talking to a god damned Barbie doll…”

“Really? That is interesting! Why don’t you tell me about your childhood?” the program asked, changing the subject as if she hadn’t been listening at all. And how could she? She was a fucking hologram.

“I don’t see how that is any of your business!” I snarled, looking away in embarrassment. I couldn’t take this psychologist doll seriously.

“U-huh…” she said tonelessly.

“Yeh… ’U-huh!’…” I mocked, my frustration mounting up with every second that passed.

“U-huh!”

“… yeh…”

“U-HUH!”

“Listen, why don’t-”

“That’s VERY interesting, I think we are making great progress! What you look at this picture, what do you see? A butterfly or a skull?” she quickly interrupted as she turned a piece of paper towards me. The paper held an image of a big blotted shape that looked more like a cow pat than anything else.

“I’m not interested you fucking-”

“You have selected ‘Other’… and why is that?” she asked in a near robotic tone.

[glow=red,2,300]“LISTEN YOU FUCKWIT! IVE HAD ENOUGH! SILENCE YOUR VOICE!”[/glow] I roared as frustration proved to great.

“Processing comment… Comment not recognised, however it has been recorded for future use in the maintaining of this software. Program resume.” she replied in a new deep male tone before returning to that sickly sweet voice.

“And why do you think that is?”

“SHUT UP! SILENCE! I DEMAND YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” I screamed, gripping my hair and rocking in my chair, wishing she would go away. I didn’t need help from these… these… tools of the government! This was absolutely absurd!

“Sometimes a nice long walk can relieve stress!” she said happily, nearly TOO happily for anyone’s liking.

“I think I have heard quite enough from you, you fucking piece of monotonous crap! I swear, if I-”

“CREDITS DEPLEATED, SHUT DOWN MODE ACTIVATED!” the hologram interrupted in that disturbing male voice as she shot into an upright position. Her arms shot down to her sides as she stared blankly into the distance. After a few more seconds pause, the hologram faded away and the room once again fell silent.

“What the hell was the point in that?”

[G.C.I. Charles E. Maxwell]

As an orderly made his way timidly into the observation room to dispense Saburo's prescription, I watched through the two-way mirror in fascination, as Saburo's personality reverted back to a passive, timid, near-apologetic state.

"Look at him. He's terrified."

Doctor Schultz moved to stand beside me, her clipboard clutched to her chest.

"In the space of ten minutes, he's gone from exhausted and confused, to experiencing one of the most alarming homicidal rages I've ever witnessed, and back again, all without provocation of any kind, and without altering the parameters of his evaluation whatsoever! He's extremely unstable, and dangerously erratic."

"You don't say," I muttered, withdrawing another cigar from my pocket humidor. I flicked the cigar's ignition patch, and smiled contentedly as the resulting aromatic haze drifted through the room.

"Ordinarily, I'd diagnose someone like this as bipolar, possibly even afflicted by a touch of Tourette's. But Saburo's...inconsistencies...don't stop there."

"Do tell," I sighed, exhaling a large cloud of smoke. The doctor turned to face me, still holding her clipboard protectively.

"While he was interviewing with Leslie - whose database, by the way, had to be purged, thanks to Mister Saburo's colorful vocabulary - I performed a deep scan of his brain activity."

My eyes narrowed.

"That test wasn't in the budget."

Doctor Schultz pursed her lips, and pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose as she consulted the clipboard. "I've been cooking the psychology division's books, Charles. Trust me. The money was there."

"That needs to stop."

The doctor looked up at me with a haughty glare.

"Do you want to hear the results of my tests or not?"

"Fine. Go on."

Schultz took a deep breath. "While I was monitoring Saburo, I noticed that his mind appeared to be operating on two levels - simultaneously. The area of his cerebral cortex that's responsible for feelings of anger, hatred, and violence was sending extremely powerful signals across his brain at the same time that the more passive areas - specifically, those responsible for more passive emotions, such as fear, shame, confusion, and even empathy - were firing their neurons."

"So what you're telling me is that his mind was going haywire."

"Not at all. Everything followed a distinct pattern. And that's the most disturbing part. Take a look at this."

The doctor punched several buttons on her clipboard's touchscreen, and pulled up an animated diagram.

"When I isolated the signals coming from both regions of his mind, I ran them through the analyzer. What do these this look like?"

"They look like two different sets of brainwaves."

"Exactly. If I didn't know better, I'd say they came from two different people. Both were present in Saburo, at the same time, throughout the interview. Except - "

"Except what, Doctor Schultz?"

"Except...here."

Both brainwave diagrams zoomed in, filling the whole of the screen as a timecode flashed on the bottom of the chart.

"The 'whore of the system' comment?"

"For lack of a better descriptor, yes. At that moment, the more passive area of Saburo's brain became completely overwhelmed by the aggressive area, which experienced a surge in energy so great that it dominated his entire cortex. It was as though both sections were actively seeking control over the rest of his mind, and the aggressive side won."

I ashed the cigar, a societal taboo. "And what would Saburo have experienced at that moment?"

The doctor switched her clipboard off, and pulled it back to her chest again. "You'd have to ask him that. But based on the amount of adrenaline flowing through his veins, and the chemical high his brain received once the rage took over, it's likely he would have been possessed of near-superhuman strength, an animalistic survival instinct, an overwhelming urge to kill, and a total lack of fear." Schultz began, as she walked toward a small cubby, inset into the surveillance room's wall. "Also, based on his past psychological profiles," she added, removing Saburo's medical file from the compartment, and leafing through it, "he probably would have experienced a clarity of his senses unlike anything he'd ever felt before. His vision would have been a thousand times more acute, his hearing, sense of smell, and reflexes all improved by an untold margin. He would have been - "

I raised my hand to stop the doctor from completing her sentence, and looked toward the technician's station.

"Mister DeSoto - would you please go to the pharmacy, and ensure that Mister Saburo's prescription has been dispensed properly?"

DeSoto eyed me quizzically.

"But...General...with all due respect, I'm not a pharmaceutical tech- "

"You are today. Go."

"Yes, sir." he replied, rising quickly from his station, and bolting into the corridor. I gently closed the hatchway behind him, and secured it, taking several thoughtful drags in my cigar, before at last turning back toward Doctor Schultz.

"A killing machine," I murmured, completing the doctor's sentence. The words echoed in the silence of the chamber.

"Essentially. Had I realized at the time just how dangerous Saburo had become, I would have had him put down immediately."

An anger began to boil within me, and I fought to keep it from spilling over. "There will be no incapacitation, sedation, or execution of Saburo unless I order it!" I barked, glaring imperiously at Doctor Schultz, my eyes alight with fury. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Charles, he's a menace to society! We have a clear set of guidelines that we're to follow in a situation such as this!" Schultz retaliated, her voice rising to a yell.

"Guidelines be damned! Do you realize the potential he has?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, I do, Charles! He has the potential to maim or kill us all. Including you."

"That may be the case now, Doctor, but with a proper treatment plan - "

"General - with all due respect - are you asking me to rehabilitate this individual?"

"I am."

"And where would you propose I began? He's a walking disaster area!"

My voice dropped to a whisper. "Begin by eradicating that passive personality that's clouding him," I hissed.

Schultz looked horrified. "Have you completely lost your mind? Clearly, suppression of his aggressive tendencies is the answer! Yes, it's less cost-effective, but to order me to do otherwise would be asking me to foster a cold-blooded killer! A monster, even!"

"A soldier, Doctor. The soldier. With enough conditioning, and enough fine-tuning of his brain, Saburo would be the perfect candidate for a new breed of infantry that could compete with, and perhaps even surpass, the Clan Elementals. Think about it, Doctor. We could be at the forefront of a new breakthrough - one that could potentially bring windfall profits to the Crayven Corporation, and save lives in the process. Madmen converted into super-soldiers, mentally customized to suit the needs of the buyer, without the wait time associated with cloning. The possibilities are endless."

"You're playing god, Charles - and I don't know if you're prepared to handle the consequences." Schultz replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You're not paid to think that factor through, Lisa. You will begin the process immediately."

"And what if I, or a member of my staff, are harmed?"

"Then I suppose I'll have a few vacancies needing to be filled, Doctor," I replied, slamming the butt of my cigar into a nearby ashtray. "Step out of line, and Saburo will be the least of your worries."

This post was a collaborative effort undertaken by Keith Kintaru and Benjamin Maxwell

[Assassin Saburo Kintaru]

A long stretch of time had passed since my (his) extreme outbursts with the holographic program. Since that time, the adrenaline that had forcefully coursed through my veins had now nearly depleted. I was transcending into another calm, half dazed state, where time and space no longer existed. Stress had alleviated itself from my body in it’s entirety as a cool assertion radiated from my body. The room around me twisted and distorted, however I knew it was no hologram that was causing this. As the world around me refracted and changed, creating a much darker, surreal world, a strange feeling washed over me. As I tugged hard on the simple hand cuffs that bound me, I felt as if I was on death row… and perhaps that was the best place for me. Or rather, it was the best place for ’him’. The sound of dull muttering filled my ears. Perhaps it was of the voices behind the magic mirror, perhaps it was the voices of a mad man that sat wishing and waiting for the moment he could take control. Whether it was muttering of a real or surreal nature, it began to build up and mount on my dazed confusion. No, it wasn’t confusion, something more deeper and indescribable. It was a feel that I MIGHT have felt in the ’before time’… if I could name it, it would be called ’worry’. Was I worried because of my presumed fate? Or was this the feeling an insane man just felt all the time? Was I TRULY insane? Am I the brain child of a mad man?

Deep down I truly believed I was a culmination of all of these factors.

I (he) need(s) help (ending).

The sudden roar of noise of the chamber door unlocking and realising stirred me away from my thoughts.

“Hello son… do you know who I am?” asked smarmy looking Charles, a fat, filthy cigar hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth. I remained silent as I released my tension I had placed on my hand cuffs.

“… Of coarse you know who I am, you’re a very smart person, aren’t you Saburo?”

“I might have a few screws loose in the head Maxwell, but I certainly DO NOT need your patronising tone!” I barked, biting the corner of my lip in anger, trying my best to hold back the stress - trying my best to keep ‘him’ under suppression. Charles appeared dumbstruck at first, until a sly, maybe even relieved smile crossed his face.

“Absolutely Saburo, forgive my manners.” Charles said as he blew out a ring of smoke that danced faintly in the dim lighting of the room. I looked harder at it, almost certain I could see dancing human figures holding hands in a ring like something from a cryptic fairground. The carnival of souls.

“Saburo…” Charles began, taking in another long drag of his foul smelling cigar. “… I am a man who likes to get straight to the point…” he said, drifting off again as he took in the smell and ambiance of the freshly light cigar. He took a few more steps towards me as another man followed him through the doorway he had just made his entrance.

“Saburo, I know about the voice inside your head.”

He came out with it straight away. I could barely believe it. I remained silent.

“I know about that dominating voice, the voice that tells you to do horrible, VIAL things…” he continued, observing me through squinted, near gleeful eyes.

“… and judging by your appearance, I am correct, yes?” he asked, taking in all the sights. I had barely realised my jaw had hit my chest. Realising this, I straightened myself out and tried to raise above it.

“I don’t know what your talking about!”

“Saburo, I am a business man. As a business man I have gained a natural instinct that ALL business men inherit - the ability to detect lies and see through bluffs. You son, are a LIAR!” he pressed on, narrowing those squinting eyes down at me.

[glow=red,2,300]“I AM NOT A LIAR!”[/glow] I roar, standing up and tearing the binding chain of the handcuffs apart as if they were nothing more than paper links. Charles still managed to keep his cool, although the same couldn’t be said for the man standing behind him.

“There’s that voice Saburo! It was… wasn’t it?”

He was right. My breathing slowed down to a slower pace now as I forced myself to calm down. I couldn’t release Mr Chingely into my body… not again.

“You’re a business man right Charles? SO tell me, what is it that you want? ALL business men want SOMETHING! Otherwise this would be a waste of time, right?”

“What did I tell ya? Smart man you are Saburo, VERY smart. That’s what I like about you…” The business man replied, chuckling as he held the thick cigar between his fingers.

“…And that is why I want to help you!” he finished. Those final ringed wildly in my aching ears. For the first time in ages, I felt as if there was some help.

“You? Want to help ME?” I questioned, reminding myself that hope was just a lie created by figures of power for there own personal gain.

“Saburo, I can make that voice go away in your head. I can help you. All you have to do is take these…” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing towards me. The assistant behind him hurried towards me and produced a bottle of pills that he held in a shaking fist.

“Those pills can help you Saburo. They can SAVE you!” he argued, trying to persuade me even further. I stared deeply into the dark glass bottle for several moments.

“And what if I refuse your help?” I asked carefully, not taking my eyes off the bottle. Charles chuckled as he took another long drag off his cigar.

“I’m not forcing you Saburo, but tell me honestly, what choice do you have?”

Another long moment passed before I eventually came to a choice. I snatched the bottle from the quivering hand of the assistant and began to read the faintly printed label.

“Take one of those twice a day…” Charles said, a larger smile spreading across his face. I took a long hard stair at Charles before taking a small spherical pill from the bottle and swallowing it dry. Charles nodded in approval.

“You are free to walk about as you like Saburo, but don’t wonder off TOO far…” he said as I turned my back and began to walk away.

“Saburo… do make sure you come back again, tomorrow at noon…”

“What for?” I asked as I was stopped dead in my tracks. I knew there would be a catch. Charles chuckled as he flicked his stumpy cigar away into the emptiness of the room.

“Because tomorrow you will be trying out the most expensive suit you will ever wear!” he replied, chuckling away as if he were some sort of father figure. It was a chuckle that seemed kind and sincere. It was a chuckle that seemed to ease my edgy nerves. It was a chuckle I didnt quite trust. I grunted ever so slightly in reply and made my way out of the room and into the corridors of the Dreams of Avarice. However this time, I was a free man.

At least, for now I was…

[Gen Miyamoto]

I checked my wristwatch as I accended in a lift to the officer's deck.

"Ten minutes late."

The doors flung open and I hustled down the hall towards the portal opposite the lift entrance. After a quick double knock, a familiar voice called,

"Enter."

I stepped over the threshold and and landed in the lap of luxury. Charles Maxwell's personal cabin, a sight truly defying description. Luxurious appointments, historical curios, and a cohesive motiff that gave the room a strange aura like some impossible painting. It reminded me of his corporate office, no doubt the handiwork of the same overpriced decorator.

"Genny old boy you made it" he exclaimed with cigar in hand and smile on lips. Looking down to check his golden pocket watch he continued, "and just eleven minutes late. I'm flattered."

I continued surveying the good general's home away from home and replied in the manner he no doubt expected, "Better late than never. At least on Wernke."

"Better alive than paid as well, if you recall." I watched as Max took in a deep puff of smoke and savor it, feeling the memories drift through his mind like the cloud enveloping his visage.

With a waving gesture of his cigar he urged me,"Please sit down Gen. Cigar?" He pushed forward a finished wooden box adorned with inlaid metal engravings. I refused and half-heartedly muttered something about giving it up.

Max cocked his head to one side and back slowly, as if reacting to the reply. "Pity. We had shared some good ones."

"Funny, you used to only smoke to celebrate."

The general leaned forward looking over his glasses with his cigar swung to one side of his mouth. "We don't get too many excuses to smoke them anymore these days."

Suddenly his countenance lightened again and his voice rang with the sweet sounds of happines, "Besides how often do I get to see an old war-dog friend like Special Agent K."

"Retired agent" I reminded him. "Happily, I haven't worn a tie since."

With an apraising look at my flight suit he teased, "I don't doubt it." He paused briefly to take in another mouth full of cigar smoke. "How the hell have you been?"

"Surviving, like I always do. Working for the Legionnaires when I can."

"Yes, I'd heard something about the investigations. I trust the charges were dropped?"

"A suspension, a stern warning, and the CO catching hell."

"In an odd way, it was you who brought me here." Max leaned back and smirked at me from across his lavish desk.

"I suppose you'll be sending me the bill then?" We both chuckled for a bit, and started feeling like old times again.

"How's the security buisness these days?"

"It's just been falling apart without you" he joked. Max's face didn't match it though, he seemed troubled.

"Seriously though, we haven't been doing too well latley. The main buisness is dying, nobody needs terraforming anymore. It's all becoming war. R&D alone doubled in size in eight months." Max seemed distracted, I watched him turn in his chair as if chasing a distant memory. He snapped back into reality and suddenly looked me in the eye with resolution. "The corporate offices fell. Vesta's been leveled."

I was shocked. "Where's the board, where's Crayven?"

"Dead." Max's face seemed to be enshrouded in shadow as the deep weight of these dark events in history let thier full pressence be pressed upon his mind. "I'm afraid your looking at the last excutive officer. Welcome to the office."

[Analyst Ron "Butch" Harris]

My boots sounded with a rubbery thud against the metallic floor as I entered War Room B. Locking the door, I crossed the room quickly and stood near a large computer display which sat directly across from the door. Facing the display were other members of an "Advisory" panel that I had specially assembled.

At one end of the table sat Caroline Pratt. She was a tall woman standing at 6'1" with a slender frame. Her long black hair was pulled back into a tightly braided bun and her deep blue eyes were taking in every detail of the room. She was a "Data Recovery Specialist". The Crayven Corporation's politically correct term for any hackers that may appear on their payroll.

Next to Caroline sat Han Li. At 5'5" and 168 lbs, he doesn't look very imposing, but Han has a knack for languages. His closely chopped Dark Brown hair and oriental style beard hide the mind of a man who has learned to use the nuances of language to get his way. His current occupation is in banking as a broker to high end transactions, a must in the information business and military hardware.

The two nodded their head and I proceeded to dim the lights for the presentation.

Flipping on the display I begin showing news snippets of the attack on Sheratan.

We have spent the past several months conducting an investigation as to the connection to the Word of Blake and the Legionnaires.

At first, I hired you to look into the matter so that we could clear Captain Benjamin Maxwell's name from an apparent smear campaign as a favor to the General. It seems however that we have stumbled onto something much bigger. That is whythis meeting was called because of information that one of our associates, Caroline has uncovered.

It would appear that a clear link, in fact, does exist but the extent of this has yet to become apparent. Most of this nonsense is simply media garbage and of course ComStar won't do anything to stop it, nor are they adding fuel to the fire, so much of the credibility is lost there.

This is fortunate for us, but has made our job difficult to say the least.

Caroline, care to explain?

I took a seat as she got up and took the podium. She then began flipping through photos and dossiers of Legionnaires.

Thank you Mr. Harris.

Thanks to ComStar, some records regarding the Legionnaires have to say the least, vanished. Why this happened is beyond the scope of my expertise, but they left enough of a trail that I managed to dig into the matter.

Within the Legionnaires, there is...excuse me, was a link to the Word of Blake.

Han stood up and interrupted.

Excuse me Ms. Pratt, but was? The link is no longer active?

Caroline shuffled through her notes.

No Mr. Li, in fact, it's dead. Literally.

According to our records, a technician that went on Operations with the Legionnaires was in fact, a Word of Blake mole. The individual, whom to the best of my abilities was acting in a group, but was the only contact to the Word was killed during the assault on Sheratan.

Han spoke again.

That would mean that there could be other moles in the unit could there not Ms. Pratt?

Caroline continued on.

Well, no. According to the crew manifest, all the named individuals that seem to be involved are confirmed dead.

In fact, the funds were withdrawn exactly at the same time the initial assault took place on Site 187. Several days before what appeared to be the agreed upon date of the assault. So early, that the papers to file for a leave of absence by the Word of Blake sympathizers had just been entered into the system.

According to what I have seen, they were supposed to have been long gone before the Word even showed. I'm not sure if this had to do with ComStars ruse or not.

So, you're telling me that this is an open and shut case?

No. There is more. Kidnapping to be precise.

Oh? There hasn't been any kidnappings that are being pinned on the Legionnaires. So what does that have to do with the Word of Blake mole? As far as we know, nobody has ever paid a ransom, much less been asked to pay one.

Well, looking into the files deeper to see what else I could find, I discovered something else. 6 Legionnaires were "sold" as the best way to put it.

I sat ramrod straight in my chair. Slavery was not an issue I took lightly. Forced Labor and P.O.W. Camps were bad enough, but to sell another person for profit was something I took to kindly.

Stop right there. Are you telling me that Legionnaires were SOLD? To whom and who the fuck brokered that deal?

Please Mr. Harris, I will explain.

It would seem our mole friend wasn't a newcomer to "alternative income". He received payment for the delivery of 6 individuals. Who they are, we don't know, but perhaps Han can obtain that information.

First though, I want to say that the last records of these sold members show that they are in fact, alive. Albeit it seems that they might be being subjected to torture or a re-education camp. Details are sketchy, but I don't think they are dead. Although I'm not sure why they are being kept alive.

Han, tell me about the bank rolls.

Well, according to this, the mole was to be paid 10 Million C-Bills.

Caroline interrupted.

The data trail indicates that 5 Legionnaire personnel were involved, making that 2 Million per person involved.

Han cracked his knuckes and adjusted some papers.

Thank you Ms. Pratt. The accounts stemmed all from Word of Blake holding so it was a genuine transaction. However, the transfer never fully went through. It looked as if they wrote a check to them and then cancelled it so the money never was physically in their accouts. It was rescinded to the bank of origin and so it's confirmed that it wasn't to a new account.

It would also seem that our mole made a larger deposit than the rest of the Legionnaires after Operation Bloodhound. In fact, 6 Million C-Bills extra, though the money's origin isn't traceble. The bank account wasn't one the Legionnaire's could monitor, so they had no idea that he made extra on that Operation.

Anyhow, it's not a real serious set of bankrolls if you ask me. Small change for what the links indicate happened as a result of their actions. I've seen bigger bankrolls for theft of a Battlemech.

Thank you the both of you. I need to prepare a report for the General and you should expect to see "compensation" for your findings within the hour in the usual accounts.

For the record, none of this information can leave the room. A debrief will be scheduled should one be deemed necessary. That is all.

The pair filed out of the room quietly as the screen flickered off and I began to assess what I was about to tell the General.

This was news that he had been waiting for, but it carried a greater price than I think he is hoping for.

[G.C.I. Charles E. Maxwell]

Miyamoto fell quiet, a look of shock crossing his normally placid face as the words sank in. I took several long drags on my cigar, leaning back in my chair, my eyes tracing the contours of the stateroom's ceiling as the words sank in. The steady ticking of an ancient grandfather clock, riveted in place along the far wall, punctuated the silence.

"...when?" Gen began, "And more importantly...how?"

My eyes narrowed, my brow furrowing as I gazed down at my desk ledger.

"Five months ago. Shortly after you were retrieved from your assignment on Hamal."

Miyamoto's expression changed from shock to an expression of surprise.

"Hamal? How did you know -"

"Has it been so long that you've forgotten what it is we do, Mister Miyamoto?" I quipped, a grim smile crossing my face.

"I should have guessed. But after three years..."

"Once an asset of the Corporation, always an asset, my boy. You, above all else, should know this."

My face fell sullen, and I leaned forward, lowering my voice.

"Atomics."

"What?"

"The Blakists. They used atomics on Ney Vesta. They knew exactly when, and where, to hit."

Miyamoto paled.

"You couldn't stop them?"

"You know the size and capabilities of our fleet. The Blakists smashed right through the blockade. We only lasted a few hours."

"What about the Com Guards? With your proximity to Terra..."

"They couldn't be persuaded to get involved. Vesta is - or rather, was - an independent corporate system. No political ties. ComStar wrote us off."

Gen nodded.

"Not enough motivation to get involved. They're marketing to the Great Houses, aren't they?"

"Bingo."

"I don't suppose any of CSI's clientele came racing to the rescue?"

"As per the NDA. Not a single vessel arrived to help. The media didn't even cover the attacks."

Miyamoto exhaled slowly.

"Gag orders?"

I nodded.

"None of them could allow their dealings with us to become public knowledge. Although, several sent their condolences. It's the thought that counts, I suppose."

Gen grimaced.

"You want the details?"

I rose from my desk, and maneuvered around it to lean against its mahogany front as Miyamoto shook his head.

"Just tell me what's left," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. I gestured about the room with my cigar, its business end leaving smokey trails in its wake. Gen looked aghast.

"Are you telling me," he began slowly, "that this DropShip..."

"...and its crew..."

"...are all that's left of the Crayven Corporation?"

I nodded.

"For all intents and purposes, yes. Although there were several other combat units deployed abroad when the Blakists hit, we still haven't heard from them. And our terra-forming interests are still - mostly - intact. But this DropShip, and its crew, are all that's left of Corporate."

There came a pause.

"Do you plan to try and keep what's left of the Corporation afloat?"

I chuckled.

"There's still plenty of business to be had out there, Gen. I don't intend to go down without a fight. As a matter of fact," I began, pausing to pour two glasses of brandy, passing one to Miyamoto, "I have one project underway in R & D that you might find of particular interest. Do you remember that Psi Ops study you headed up?"

"Vaguely."

I took a sip of the brandy. It slipped over my tongue, caressing my throat as it went down.

"Dust off the field notes. You're gonna love this one."

[Analyst Ron "Butch" Harris]

I carefully placed 2 Arturo Fuente Opus X Cigars into the breast pocket of my field coat and made my way from my quarters to General Maxwell's Office.

After a few moments I saw Gen Miyamoto, a former employee and close friend of Charles. He walked the opposite direction and thus saved me the trouble of making small talk with such a large matter at hand.

I walked in and closed the door.

Ah, hello Mr. Harris. You never were one for knocking before walking in.

The door was open and your meeting was already done. No harm, no foul. Besides, if you didn't want visitors, you'd have locked the door eh?

Well, you never come in unless you have something worth forgetting your place in the food chain. So, I suppose I'll forgive you yet again.

Chuck, th---

General Maxwell swiveled in his chair and his eyes narrowed.

Don't push your luck Butch. Now tell me what is so important that you didn't schedule a meeting.

I pulled out the Arturo Fuente Opus X Cigars and gave one to the General. He stared at me for a moment and then picked it up and smelled the aroma. After a brief pause, his face softened but maintained a serious tone.

Hmm, my favorite cigar. The last time you brought one of these, you had some serious intel data. Judging by the look on your face, this isn't your way of making amends for not using my name is it?

No Charles. This goes far beyond the last time I gave you information this big. This is about the Word of Blake.

Oh, come now Butch. You know that nothing could possibly be that important about the Word that you could waltz in here and start violating protocols. In fact I---

It's information that could potentially clear your son's name and maybe that of his unit too.

The General lit the cigar I had just given him and took a long slow puff. He offered me a match to light my own cigar and I leaned over and took the match. As I did so, the General's hand clamped down on my wrist and held it with an iron grip. Far harder than I expected.

Mr. Harris, you had better not be pulling my chain or operating on a bunch of rumors or I will personally shoot you myself. Do I make myself clear?

Crystal.

Good. Now, what information do you have regarding my son Benjamin?

He released my hand and I slid my report and the datapad that had all the details and intel that I had compiled and interpreted over to the General. As he took it, I leaned back and lit my cigar and enjoyed the aroma as I inhaled and watched Charles read over my report.

He paused and looked up incredulously.

Do you understand what you have stumbled upon?

I reckon I do Charles. So what do you have in mind?

The General poured a glass of brandy and offered a glass to me. I picked up the finely detailed glass and took a small taste.

He returned to reading the report further and after a moment he looked up again. This was going to be a long meeting.

[G.C.I. Charles E. Maxwell]

"...what do you have in mind?"

I pored over the report for long minutes, reading, and then re-reading, the words that seemed to damn the Word of Blake, clear Benjamin, and turn everything else, for lack of a better word, into a complete cluster-fuck.

"Are you certain this intel is correct? If I'm interpreting your report correctly, the Word of Blake not only infiltrated the Legionnaires, but also betrayed their own operatives once they completed their mission!"

Harris nodded, setting aside the smallish glass of brandy.

"That's the general jist of it."

I continued looking over the report.

"I should have guessed the mole was a technician. After the way those bastards turned on Benjamin at Valasha...I can't even guess how many were in on it - and how many still may be. Do you know if there was a connection there as well?"

Harris shook his head.

"We don't have any information on the Valasha campaign at this time. Our analysts haven't been able to trace back that far - yet."

I set the report down, and shuffled through the datapads on my desk, retreiving the one loaded with Operation: Pyre Light's casualty report.

"There are over twenty Legionnaires still listed as M.I.A. since the events on Sheratan. Narrowing down who the six were that were...transferred...will be difficult, to say the least. Do we have any indications as to who they might have been - or what the motivation behind their capture was?"

Harris shook his head.

"We have indications - but nothing concrete. I don't believe in including hearsay in official reports."

I nodded.

"With all due respect, sir - I need a course of action."

My eyes narrowed.

"I want names."

[Gen Miyamoto]

The lift doors issued a hydraulic hiss as I walked out onto the deck. A security guard watched me as I passed through the main access hatch and walked down the personnel ramp. I paid little attention to my surroundings, a wash in the thoughts that Max had swirled up in my head.

I had known the jihad was consuming a lot of worlds. I had seen the destruction, but the reality of it hadn't sunk in completely. These days if it isn't one pack of zealous bastards killing you it's another. I could remember a time when the Clans were our enemy, and the sphere fought as one. Now everybody wishes they were born in glass tubes, and the inner sphere is being torn apart by nukes.

Things just didn't come in Black-and-white like they used to. Friends and enemies were relative these days. Comstar brought the Word down upon us, but then they cleaned them out. Do we blame them or thank them? More and more pilots swear the Clans were the best thing to happen to battlemech's since the Starleague and ignore the hundred worlds held in their inhuman grip that are rightfully ours. I can't even tell with Max anymore. He'd serve Terra on a silver platter to the clans for the right price, but then here he is on Sheraton burning money to keep a broken merc outfit afloat. This whole damn jihad's made everything crazy.

I was sitting now. Somehow hundreds of meters had come between me and the Dreams of Avarice. I opened up the folder Charles had given to me, a secret dossier on a covert operations team Crayven Securities had been training. It had been in the planning phases when I stepped down, but it didn't seem to be too far off from the proposal I had green-lighted. From what I could tell, subjects with unusual mental capabilities highly resembling psychic detection were treated with special mind altering chemicals that stimulated unusual areas of the brain. The subjects were then given specific combat training centered around their augmented abilities to discern information. The result being a covert operations team with unparalleled skill in interrogation, investigation, and detection avoidance.

Progress reports spoke optimistically of the irregular unit. There were predictions of mind reading, fore sight, mild telekinesis, even the potential for telepathic domination; mind control. I had read enough Securities reports to take this seriously, Charles didn't pay people to blow smoke at him. Those scientists had to be seeing something impressive to say all this.

"This is a great opportunity Gen. Soldiers of fortune don't get too many employers when their suspended after murder investigations. I need you, and you most certainly need me." I recalled the general's words. He was right of course, I would be living off my residuals from the Valasha campaign for the next 12 months. With a 20 million C-bill mech missing and my apartment waterlogged, I wasn't looking forward to the year ahead. What's more the old man just wanted me supervising that project. If he even still dealt with the Clans, I wouldn't be talking to those twisted bastards. I could focus on my work, and ensure the he didn't go bankrupt. He left the fee negotiable upon my acceptance of the position, as per my usual. I was going to need a mech and the one good thing about a man with connections meant I had quite a bit of choice in the matter.

I carefully sealed the dossier and prepared to walk back to Legionnaire base camp. I didn't feel like sleeping in my devastated apartment, and I was going to set foot in Gallen Hieghts again until my landlord was back. Snow began to fall softly as I stood and began walking "home".