Kell Hounds. Northwind Highlanders. Blue Star Irregulars. Literally a thousand and one mercenary units populate the Inner Sphere, yet these are the household names that captivate the common man. But for every top, there is a bottom. Gray’s Ghosts. Kraken Unleashed. Vinson’s Vigilantes. Some call them ‘pirates,’ others ‘down-on-their-luck,’ and others ‘salvation’ when the job’s small enough and the pay just right. But for these hard-boiled warriors, life isn’t cheap. Life hardly exists at all! A companion volume to Classic BattleTech Field Manual: Mercenaries, Revised, and Mercenaries Supplemental™, Mercenaries Supplemental II™ delves into the dregs of the mercenary world, allowing players to use these unique mercenaries in their Classic BattleTech campaigns. Additional rules for mercenary creation include non-BattleMech Unit Tech Levels, special renegade and freelancer mercenary paths, as well as rules for playing mercenaries in different BattleTech eras, from the Star League, to the Succession Wars, to the present. Sample file
Transcript
Kell Hounds. Northwind Highlanders. Blue StarIrregulars. Literally a thousand and one mercenary unitspopulate the Inner Sphere, yet these are thehousehold names that captivate the common man.But for every top, there is a bottom. Gray’s Ghosts.Kraken Unleashed. Vinson’s Vigilantes. Some callthem ‘pirates,’ others ‘down-on-their-luck,’ andothers ‘salvation’ when the job’s small enough andthe pay just right. But for these hard-boiledwarriors, life isn’t cheap. Life hardly exists at all!
A companion volume to Classic BattleTech FieldManual: Mercenaries, Revised, and MercenariesSupplemental™, Mercenaries Supplemental II™delves into the dregs of the mercenary world,allowing players to use these uniquemercenaries in their Classic BattleTechcampaigns. Additional rules for mercenarycreation include non-BattleMech Unit TechLevels, special renegade and freelancermercenary paths, as well as rules forplaying mercenaries in differentBattleTech eras, from the StarLeague, to the Succession Wars,to the present.
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TABLE OF CONTENTSFREE AT LAST! 4INTRODUCTION 6MERCENARIES ON THE FRINGES 8
The Thin, Thin Line 8Where the Action Is 9Fringes of a Different Flavor: Alternative Mercs 10
THE MERCENARY’S ATLAS 12Antallos: The Scoundrel’s Port 12
Antallos at a Glance 12Port Krin: The Open City 14The Mercenary Trade on Antallos 14
Astrokaszy: No Man’s Land 14Hot as it Gets: The Mercenary Trade on Astrokaszy 15
Herotitus: Business Before Pleasure 16Balancing Act: The Mercenary Trade on Herotitus 16
Nosiel: Bread and Circuses 17The Nosiel Summer Games 17
Random Vehicle/Fighter Table Expansions 75 Battle Armor Assignments 80 Alternate BattleTech Era Expansions 82
Mercenary Force Creation Expansions 89 Combat Experience Path: Former House Command 89 Combat Experience Path: Renegade Mercenary Command 90Mercenary Creation and Alternate Eras 90 New Hiring Hall: Noisel 95
Mercenary Operations Expansions 95 Very Large/Very Small Mercenary Commands 95 Wanted/Rogue Mercenaries 98 Mercenary Operations and Alternate Eras 99 Optional Share-Pay System For Mercenaries 100
Special ThanksTo Randall for letting me continue to play in the grand play-
ground that is BattleTech mercenary life, as well as to all my fel-low writers (listed above) for coming up with quality work, sort ofon time; the massive playtester/fact-checker support apparatus(listed below) for assuring that the rules and the fluff that result-ed passed muster—especially those who stepped up and helpedhammer out those monstrous alternate-era rules and tables.
And, to the Kings and Pawns crew, in particular Scott “Clutch”Taylor for taking the lead, Jason Robinette for getting the ballrolling, Loren Coleman for his contribution to the scenario devel-opment, Jason Weiser and Anthony Hardenburgh for their help-ing sponsoring the NY/LI spotlight event, Ray Arrastia for hisassistance in advertising—and, of course, the Commandosworldwide who carried out the campaign for Hall to its brutal con-clusion.
And to the proof checkers: Peter La Casse, Mike Miller, andJeff Morgan.
Herb Beas would also like to thank:The near and dear Rebecca “Beckie” J Beas (as always); the
four Herblets (of course): Annie, Oscar, Meggie, and Merlin. Andlast but never least, a sad farewell to Herblet One: Captain TribbleMidnight Beas (b. 12-??-1985, d. 1-25-2005) – Thank you fornineteen years of happy memories (and a generous helping ofworries).
PlaytestersJoel Agee, Raymond Arrastia, Daniel “Cannonshop” Ball, Ron
“Steel Hawke” Barter, Paul Bowman, Scott Bukoski, RichCasarez, Rich Cencarik, Brent Dill, Benjamin “Hawk” Disher, TimDuPertuis, John “Quentil” Dzieniszewski, David Fanjoy, BruceFord, Jon “AngelRipper” Frideres, John Alexander Gordon,Aaron “Bear” Gregory, Anthony “Shadhawk” Hardenburgh, John“Worktroll” Haward, Ross “Koga” Hines, Glen “Lobsterback”Hopkins, Rodney Klatt, Michael “Konan” Koning, Peter La Casse,Edward “TenakaFurey” Lafferty, Chris “SCUG” Lewis, EdwardLott, Michael Miller, Jeffrey “Highlander” Morgan, Darrell“FlailingDeath” Myers, Lou “Nukeloader” Myers, Andrew Norris,Keith “Vang” Oberschulte, Nathaniel “Sledge” Olsen, AaronPollyea, Robert “Pidge” Pigeon, Simon “Big Ken” Pratt, “MedronPryde”, Rick Raisley, Rick “Rick Steele” Remer, Jason“Psychopompous” Richter, Ben “Ghost Bear” Rome, ChristopherSearls, Joel “Septicemia” Steverson, Michael “GuruMike”Stouffer, Geoff “97Jedi” Swift, Scott “Clutch” Taylor, Roland“Ruger” Thigpen, Christoffer “Bones” Trossen, Øystein Tvedten,Jason “Panzerfaust 150” Weiser, Chris “Chinless” Wheeler,Charles “IronSphinx” Wilson, Mark “Speck” Yingling.
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MERCENARIES SUPPLEMENTAL II
Blinding flashes of emerald and sapphire beams, punctuat-ed by bright orange blossom missile blasts, lit up the town ofSouth Harney despite the growing shadows of approachingdusk. As the capital city’s suburbs became host to a deadly gameof cat and mouse, the thunderous roar of autocannon fire com-peted with the relentless rumble of stomping, multi-tonBattleMechs.
In the heart of it all, strapped into the command seat of hiseighty-ton Zeus by an age-worn five-point harness, sat William“Bud” Baranov, emperor of Hall and lord over all he surveyed.
Until, perhaps, today.Grinding the stump of his last cigar between yellow stained
teeth, Baranov snorted disgustedly at the fleeting sense of doubtand beat it back into oblivion as he stalked his ’Mech forward.Rounding the corner of a warehouse crammed floor to ceilingwith enough improved swarm munitions to saturate the battle-field before him, he kept his eyes glued to the sensor and heads-up displays. Bare hands, thick and calloused, clutched throttleand weapon controls with white-knuckles, while a sour mix ofhuman sweat and reprocessed air assailed his nostrils. Throughthe grimy, polarized ferroglass of his canopy, he took in theslugfest of BattleMechs and armor before him, as armies wagedwar in no less than five different colors.
Unfortunately, the one set of colors he cared about—thosebelonging to his own Republican Guard—were fading fast.Worse still, so far as he could see, those triple-damned Marikbastards were doing nothing about it! Instead of targeting theweak links of the AMC line, the motley collection of ’Mechs andtanks known as Burton’s Brigade, the Fourth Hussars’ comman-der had thrown the entire weight of his company at the ThirdDismal Disinherited, dragooning Baranov’s own mercenaries,the Stealthy Tigers, for support.
“Hang yourself,” Force Commander Bobum had told him.“We’re not in this to settle your old scores for you. Have yourGuards cover the depots. We’ll handle the enemy here.”
Baranov snorted again. So much for the support of his“allies.”
Knowing that Bobum himself was now gone—forced to bailout when a lance of Disinherited ’Mechs gunned down his fresh-from-the-factory Perseus—was small consolation; the real threat,Baranov thought, remained at large.
Downfield, his Zeus’ targeting and tracking sensors pin-pointed that threat, a 90-ton monstrosity of armor and weaponshis HUD immediately tagged as a CP-10-Q Cyclops. Its pilot hadsurvived a decade of Baranov’s best efforts to kill her, and as hewatched the venerable machine, painted in the pale tans andpurples of its command, Baranov felt a surge of pure hate washover him. His pulse quickened and his jaw tightened, until the lastsmoldering remains of forgotten cigar crumbled away, droppinginto the shadows of the cockpit floor.
Bearing the liquid scars of laser fire and the miniaturecraters of missile impacts, Captain Elly Burton’s Cyclops
stomped through a copse of native evergreens, swiveling at thewaist to lob a hail of missile and laser fire into the flank of a GuardCenturion. The Centurion MechWarrior, Zappavinga, was a vet-eran of Baranov’s command, going back to when they foughttogether for the failed experiment that was the FederatedCommonwealth. But against the devastating, close-in punch ofBurton’s assault ’Mech, her own 50-ton machine proved nomatch. The Cyclops’ full volley scoured away previously weak-ened armor on Zappavinga’s flank, shattering the supports with-in. Mangled, flaming bits of engine shielding and gray-greencoolant blasted out from the exit wounds at the Centurion’s back.Crippled, the ’Mech gave one last shudder before crashing to theground.
“Bitch!” Baranov growled, his voice just low enough to avoidcarrying over the tac channels.
No sooner had the word been uttered, however, than theCyclops turned again, its domed head swiveling about to facehim as though summoned by the curse. Deep within the boxy’Mech, Baranov could imagine Burton, his nemesis, strapped ather own controls, her haunting, black eyes glaring back at hisZeus. Narrowing his gaze, he dropped his targeting crosshairsover the silhouette and stabbed at his triggers.
From the Zeus’ arms erupted the combined flash and thun-der of manmade lightning and a cloud of long-range missiles.Distance and motion spoiled the shots, but only somewhat.Though the azure bolt of his PPC missed high, a rolling fire ofover a dozen warheads blasted armor off the Cyclops’ broadtorso.
Burton’s ’Mech weathered the storm and pounded forward,unleashing a hail of missiles in response that corkscrewed theirway into the legs and lower torso of Baranov’s Zeus. The blastsput a hitch in his ’Mech’s stride but hardly overpowered the sta-bilizing efforts of the machine’s four-ton gyros.
His challenge made and accepted, a savage grin crawledacross Baranov’s face.
At these ranges, and already bloodied, Burton stood littlechance. At last, the real threat would end.
Taking one more step forward, Baranov locked his crosshairson the Brigade ’Mech and thumbed the triggers for a full volley ofmissiles, backed by laser and particle cannon fire. The Cyclops,caught in mid-stride, staggered under the hellish onslaught.Smoke poured from gaping wounds across the machine’s chestand arms, and a visible slash of fast-cooling, half-melted ferro-glass marred its broad, circular “eye.” As if stunned, the machinestumbled, shifting drunkenly to one side.
Without warning, explosions rocked the Zeus beforeBaranov could see whether or not his target had fallen. Stutteringblasts of autocannon fire pelted his ’Mech as missile alarmsscreamed for attention. Spitting out another curse, he hunchedover his controls, instinctively bracing against the hail of incomingmissiles.
FREE AT LAST!
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FREE AT LAST!
“Damn it!” he roared. Swinging a step backward, he foughthis controls, keeping the Zeus upright as new warning indicatorslit up his boards, battle damage computers identifying the com-bined loss of over two tons of armor across his left flank. Beyondthe canopy, he saw the culprits, an assault-class Charger,backed up by an old but heavy Manticore tank.
“William Baranov,” a stern voice, transmitted by laser-comstraight from Burton’s Cyclops, rang in his ears. “On behalf ofthe Allied Mercenary Command, the late CountRadcliffe McNally, and the people of Hall, Ihereby demand your immediate andunconditional surrender.”
“Like hell,” Baranov grum-bled. Dialing his tactical chan-nel, he shouted over thedin of battle and the wailof weapon-lock warn-ings. “Alpha Guardto all Guard units!What the hell do Ipay you people for?”
“Guard Two toAlpha Guard,” cameback a feminine reply,its worried edge notlost in the static of elec-tronic transmission. “Wehave flankers on theeastern front! They’ve—”
“I don’t give abranth’s ass about theeastern flank!” Baranov snarled.“Leave them to the birds for now!We’ve got primaries moving on thedepot and if I don’t get support fromyou rammers right now, I’ll see the lot of you fry!”
“Right away, Excel—!”A deafening shower of explosions rolled across his cockpit
and drowned out the rest of MechWarrior Refazo’s reply. A loud-er clang filled the cockpit as something gave, even as Baranovtwisted his machine violently away from the blasts. Blinking awaystars and coughing at the smell of smoke, he whirled backaround in time to spot the approaching Cyclops through thecracks now radiating from a fist-sized hole in his canopy. Largernow than ever, a scant hundred meters downfield and closing,the ninety-ton BattleMech barreled towards him at a sixty-kilo-meter-per-hour charge.
Spots swam before Baranov’s eyes. His ears rang, and acoppery taste filled his mouth. His right joystick felt slick to thetouch, and he glanced down to find his hand awash in a dripping
crimson flow traced back to an ugly gash across his bicep. Thecanopy fragment responsible was nowhere to be found.
Sucking in a lungful of smoke-tinged air, he forced aside therising pain in his arm and lined up another shot at Burton, just asa brace of lasers from a Guard Stalker pinned the mercenary’sCyclops in place and tore into its flank. Burton’s struggle to stayupright amid the onslaught robbed her ’Mech of precious
momentum, and kept her distracted for a tensefew heartbeats.
All the time Baranov needed tothumb the triggers.
His PPC and lasers lashedout at Burton only a moment
before her own ’Mech shotback a full volley of laser and
missile fire—all of whichstreaked harmlessly to hisleft. His own blasts weretruer, catching theCyclops dead center. Theseething energies pouredinto the gaping woundsacross the ’Mech’s chest,vaporizing the last of
Burton’s armor and reachingdeep into the fusion-pow-ered heart beneath.Almost instantly, golden fire
spewed forth from the wound.“Got you, you bitch!”
“Emperor!” came a desperate scream on his tactical chan-nels.
They were last words William “Bud” Baranov ever heard.
***
From within her smoky, blood-drenched cockpit, amid thepiercing too-little, too-late wail of emergency claxons, CaptainElly Burton managed one last grim smile as her misfired lasersand missiles tore through the fragile skin of the munitions ware-house a mere ten meters behind Baranov’s Zeus. His armoralready savaged, surely this second salvo would finish off thee“emperor” before he even knew what hit him.
As the earth-shattering blast tore open the earth, and thefireball of her own doomed machine flashed outward in sympa-thy, Burton’s last thoughts vanished on the winds of SouthHarney, echoing a decade of strife finally come to an end.
