Operation Blackout: The Birth of Ashen Lance
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Solaris City, 3050
The neon-soaked streets of Solaris VII's factory district still smoldered from the previous night's "accidental" fire when three former academy cadets met in a grimy repair bay on the city's industrial fringe. They weren't supposed to be there. Technically, they weren't supposed to exist.
The Three
Gigratu "Wraith" Glaser - Age 24
A washout from the Lyran Commonwealth's Nagelring military academy, not for lack of skill but for an "attitude problem" that translated to questioning orders that would have gotten his lance killed. The son of minor nobility who'd lost everything in the War of 3039, Gigratu piloted his family's only remaining asset: a battered but functional Talon TLN-5W he'd rechristened "Gray Verdict." His pale eyes and ash-blonde hair earned him the callsign "Wraith" during academy combat sims where he specialized in appearing where he wasn't expected.
Incubus "Hardpoint" Nadas - Age 26
A former Federated Commonwealth armorer and tech who'd served with distinction until a superior officer tried to take credit for his revolutionary heat-sink modification. When he objected, he was quietly discharged. Built like she could bench-press a PPC, Incubus kept her black hair in a practical braid and had the kind of mechanical intuition that bordered on supernatural. She'd salvaged a half-destroyed Jenner JR7-D from a Solaris scrapyard and rebuilt it with systems that shouldn't have worked together—but did.
Nicolas "Longshot" Shax - Age 23
The youngest of the three, Shax had the distinction of being kicked out of the Federated Suns' military academy for gambling—specifically, for winning too much at the gaming tables and refusing to throw matches. A crack shot with an uncanny ability to calculate trajectories in his head, he piloted a surplus Whitworth WTH-1 he'd won in a card game. His cocky grin and easy charm hid a tactical mind that could see three moves ahead, though his recklessness sometimes put him two moves behind.
The Job
The meet was supposed to be simple: A minor House Steiner logistics officer named Drachenfeld needed an unofficial escort for a supply convoy heading to a garrison world on the Periphery border. Three 'Mechs, five days' work, 30,000 C-bills split three ways. No combat expected. No questions asked about their pasts.
"What's really in those cargo haulers?" Incubus asked, arms crossed as he sized up Drachenfeld in the dim light of the repair bay.
The officer—soft-handed, sweating despite the cool air—adjusted his collar. "Medical supplies. Field rations. Replacement parts for the garrison's BattleMechs."
"And?" Gigratu leaned against Gray Verdict's leg actuator, his voice flat.
"And... nothing that concerns you, MechWarrior."
Shax laughed from where he sat atop his Whitworth's shoulder. "That 'and' is going to cost you another ten thousand. Each."
Drachenfeld's face purpled. "That's highway robbery!"
"No," Incubus said quietly, his hand resting on a heavy wrench. "Highway robbery is what'll happen if you hire cheaper guns and those cargo haulers get hit by bandits who somehow know exactly when and where you'll be."
The officer paid.
The Ambush
The convoy rolled out on schedule, three DropShips' worth of supplies in armored haulers, escorted by three 'Mechs that bore more scars than paint. The route took them through a mountain pass on the world of Gienah—a supposedly secure corridor that hadn't seen combat in five years.
They were two days out when Shax picked up the sensor readings.
"Contact. No, contacts. Four... no, six signatures. Thirty klicks and closing fast."
Gigratu's voice crackled over the comm. "Drachenfeld, you said no combat expected."
Static. Then: "Uh, those aren't supposed to be there."
"What the hell did you transport?" Incubus demanded.
The first missiles hit before they got an answer. Two Locusts screamed out of a canyon, PPCs charging. Behind them: a Hunchback, a Centurion, and two Wasps. Clan-tech? No—the IFF signatures marked them as local pirates, but they moved with military precision.
"They're not here for the supplies," Gigratu realized aloud. "They're here for what Drachenfeld didn't tell us about. Wraith to Longshot, Hardpoint—scatter pattern Raven. Keep them away from the convoy."
What followed was five minutes of hell.
Shax's Whitworth proved its worth, LRMs arcing into the canyon walls to trigger rockslides that split the enemy lance. Incubus's modified Jenner absorbed hits that should have crippled it, his custom heat management system allowing her to fire continuously while the enemy 'Mechs overheated. And Gigratu... Gigratu danced.
Gray Verdict wasn't the fastest 'Mech or the best-armed, but in Gigratu's hands the Talon moved like smoke, appearing from behind rock formations to deliver medium laser fire into vulnerable rear armor, then vanishing before return fire could connect.
The Hunchback went down first, its gyro shattered by a concentrated barrage from all three 'Mechs. The Locusts tried to run. Shax dropped one with a lucky—or calculated—shot to its leg actuator. The other escaped.
As the dust settled, Incubus forced open the downed Hunchback's cockpit. The pilot was still alive, still conscious.
"Who sent you?" he demanded.
Blood on his teeth. A bitter laugh. "You took the job. You didn't ask the right questions. The garrison you're supplying? They're losing. Bad. Command wants them to lose. Those supplies are going to guerrillas, not official troops. You just became traitors."
Gigratu appeared beside Incubus. "Or we just became mercenaries."
The Choice
That night, they made the convoy commander open one of the cargo haulers. Drachenfeld wasn't lying—there were medical supplies and rations. But beneath them: weapons. Ammunition. Battle-armor components. Equipment marked with insignias from three different factions, all deniable.
"We deliver this," Shax said slowly, "and we're picking a side in someone else's war."
"We don't deliver it," Incubus countered, "and those garrison troops—whoever they really are—die. And we still look like traitors to the Commonwealth."
Gigratu stood silent for a long moment, staring at Gray Verdict's shadow against the starlight.
"Neither," he finally said. "We deliver the supplies. We get paid. And then we disappear. No nation, no house, no flag. We're freelance. We take jobs that make sense to us, on our terms. We build our own lance, our own company, our own reputation."
"Mercenaries," Incubus said.
"Better," Gigratu replied. "Survivors."
Shax grinned. "We need a name."
They looked at the scorched armor on their 'Mechs, the ash still falling from the burning pirate 'Mechs in the canyon.
"Ashen Lance," Incubus said. "Because we rise from what burns."
Epilogue
They delivered the supplies. They collected their pay—plus a bonus for dealing with the "unexpected" pirates. And they left the Lyran Commonwealth with three 'Mechs, 90,000 C-bills, and a reputation as the mercs who didn't ask questions but always delivered. -
Gigratu danced.
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I told you guys we couldn't trust a damn Steiner. Those treacherous fucks plundered my family to prosecute their unjust war.
TAXES ARE THEFT!
