After another half hour you all hear the rumble of one of the heavy ore haulers backing its way down the narrow road. Eventually it comes to a stop near the fallen Griffin and the piled scrap parts gathered by Jack with the aide of Nilelane's hand-equipped Commando.
It takes another hour to secure the salvage, by which time Carlton has hauled the injured prisoner back down into the valley and secured him in the hauler cab under the watchful eye of one of the corporate workers.
Finally the entire procession gets underway and makes the remaining run to Egillstadir.
The city itself is situated at the confluence of the Snowtiger and Blackrock rivers. A mid-sized population of approximately ten thousand people live in a patchwork of modular homes, underground habitats, and domed corporate structures. More than a dozen ore refineries and processing plants spew smoke, steam, and whatever else into the air leaving the entire city and surrounding countryside coated in a layer of fine black grit. Within minutes of your arrival, the citysnow as your corporate companions call it, coats every surface of your mechs.
The hauler eventually comes to a stop at a gated checkpoint in front of a massive industrial complex. Industrial mechs stomp about along with haulers and a variety of smaller vehicles from single ore cart lifts to a luxury hovercar with the ICR logo prominently displayed upon its corporate white paint.
*Here we are Stormhammers. Home sweet home. At least for us corporate grunts.* Your ICR liaison chuckles over the comm. *The higher ups have okayed you for using the facilities in hanger 3B. We'll drop your salvage there and you're welcome to bunk down in the attached units. Payment will be rendered as soon as accounting and legal sign off on the paperwork. Might take a couple of days.*
As he talks you're waved through the gate and follow the big vehicle as it rumbles along a maze of roads and turns before ending in front of a heavy duty warehouse and repair building. Easily big enough to store and manage a full company of mechs, the facility will more than accommodate your short handed lance.
"'Explore the universe, see the sights of the Inner Sphere firsthand.' Those recruiters never mention that the sights you usually get to see in this life are factories, plants, and facilities," Carlton tells himself, snickering at his terrible attempt at being clever.
He guides the Urbanmech to an open area away from where he suspects Jack will want to work on the other 'mechs. He cuts the engine and yanks the cooling suit plug free of the console. **Well gang, I don't expect we will find a while lot to do around here, but I guarantee you a factory town is going to have a half-decent bar full of terrible liquor. Let's go grab a round.**
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"Not a lot to do? Are you crazy? Did you SEE those factories?" Jack powers down his Jenner and exits. His brain is SCREAMING about the thousands of things that need doing RIGHT NOW but no...no no no. He stretches.
"I am -beat-. We were half a bullet from not walking away from that one. I am -not- going to think about mechs any more today. Lets just drink away the combat high and tomorrow I'll ask about fixing their Griffin by starting with a modification of the AHHHHH! NOT thinking about it!"
He falls into step with Carl.
"You know they make recyclers that could turn all this black dust into fuel. They just scrub it from the air and pressurize it into a...okay, I'm done, I'm done."
Carlton's proves himself a prophet as it only takes a short walk from the corporate campus to find exactly the kind of bar one would expect to find in a backwater mining town on the outer edges of known space. The Dancing Dervish is crowded. The air smells of sweat, smokes, and stale beer. Amarillo By Morning pours from the sound system as a pair of big brutes toss a battered, drunk miner out into the street as you step inside. They look the three of you over, but don't offer any trouble.
A single long bar dominates the east wall and third of the wide open area. Regulars occupy stools all along the dark fake mahogany bar. Small tables are scattered about the central section of the room while a dozen more private booths line the west and north wall. A quartet of video poker machines and a trio of one-armed-bandits along the south wall just past entrance add their bells and tunes to the cacophony.
The bartender is an aging black man with a barrel chest and thick arms. He slides a tray full of mugs containing some sort of harsh smelling, clear liquid toward one of the three waitresses working the room.
"What'll it be?" He says with a simple nod of greeting as you step up to the bar.
"Beer, whatever the folks around here trust. So, listen," Carlton asks the bartender, "How often do you get decent sized transports coming here? Big enough for 'mechs? Bonus if they've actually got proper cubicles."
Carlton had no real plan, but he was looking for options. And he was only half kidding when he made the crack about Solaris. He missed the thrill of competition. His uncle convinced him that service in the armed forces would be the ultimate competition, but he didn't find that to really be the case. "Also, any chance there is a gym here for pickup basketball? Or what do the miners like to play, sports-wise?" Later he would try and sell his cousin and Nileane on Solaris VII.
"Haha! Nobody eats those little turds." The bartendar says with a loud guffaw at Nilelane's mention the planet's most notorious native nuisance. "Blasted things taste worse than their stings." He tosses a single page, grease stained menu to the mechwarrior.
"Ice yak is what we've got plenty of around here. Descended from old earth yaks, but GM'd to survive even harsher cold and live off the native lichens, grasses, and mosses. Things'll eat danged near anything really. Bit more tang than your classic steak, but this ain't no Four Seasons."
He pours drinks as he talks. For Nilelane he pours from a triple X, red label jug a clear liquor that seems to make the air shimmer as is passes from jug to glass. He drops a blackened sugar cube that sizzles and hisses like a frog on a frying pan before garnishing the drink with a slice of chewing tobacco.
For Carlton he draws a mug of oil dark beer from a massive barrel propped up by what look to be old mech armatures.
"One Miner's Mange it is. And you'll need to head south to catch a transport off this rock. Ain't nothing but ICR ships comin' and goin' here."
Just then there's a crash from the back of the room as a pair of miner's bust out in a fist fight. Both are quickly set upon by the bouncer you saw earlier and much to the disappointment of the surrounding crown are quickly hustled outside into the cold and damp night. The man behind the bar tilts his head toward the door.
"That's the exercise most folk around here get. Gyms and sports and what not are for folk with time to spare and bodies that don't ache all the time."
Another man, tall, thin, wearing a dirty cap with a worn ICR logo and overalls comes walking over giving you all a curious look with a pair of dark eyes. "You all the Stormhammers?" He asks. "Cause if'n you are I'd sure like to shake your hands. Saved our hides out there."
Carlton 'hmms' when the bartender mentions fights. "Never was much for 'ye olde fisticuffs.' I can handle myself, you know, been in scraps all my life. Things get heated on the field, pitch, court, whatever easy. But I'm not risking severe neurological trauma. Might put an end to my 'mech jockeying days."
He takes a big swig of the beer without really looking at it and nearly chokes. "Whew! Any thicker and I'd need a knife. Can't imagine the carbs in this, since it's practically bread," He chuckles.
When the ICRer approaches he gives him a firm single-pump. "Hey, glad to help. Right place, right time. And that's sure a heckuva better reception than I got the last time I managed to help some folks out."
Nilelane stumbles into the man who flushes at the mistaken thought it was his own clumsiness that contributed to the mild collision.
"Sorry miss." He says, his face turning a bright red. "Mean to run into you like a bumbling wildebeest."
The bartender watches the exchange. For a split second he frowns but then brushes off whatever thought crossed his mind and returns to wiping mugs with his grease stained rag.
"My names Joshua. Joshua Grammson." He says, ccepting Carlton's handshake with his own callused grip.
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Jack was trying his very best to -not- start asking questions about how they kept things working and if they needed help fixing anything. It was a habit of his, and while he unusually didn't mind the rabbit-holes of fury-rig and kitbashing that often followed, not was really really, really, really really, not the time.
So he just didn't speak at all in hopes that that would prevent him getting into trouble. Sometimes that worked.
He just pointed to Carlton's beer and held up two fingers, in the hopes that that would get a beer and he would NOT ask after their cooling and/or fermentation system and see if it needed an upgrade, the installation of which would inevitably involve fusion. And he didn't need that. Again.
At last when the ICR man comes over he can stand it no longer. "What's the story with your Griffin? Where's it kept? Who's looking after it? Do you think you can save it? We should get it up and running again very quickly because you never know when they might be back.
Do you need any help fixing it?"
And there it is.
"I hear ya." Joshua says to Carlton. "Oft-times helping folks can be more trouble than its worth. But I sure am glad you lot decided to take the side of the angels. ICR isn't a bit company, but the old lady will treat you fare."
The miner frowns at Nilelane's question. "We couldn't get a positive ID on them, but my guess is they're part of Riddick's band. God's Fury, they call themselves. Really just bandits and thieves using religion as a cover. We've been on alert for the past couple of weeks that they are dropped on planet."
He drinks from his mug filled with the same dark, thick liquid Carlton and Jack were served.
"The government brought it some merc group to bolster the hunt for them and a couple of other groups operating in the system, but I heard that turned into a major fiasco when half the group turned and joined the blasted bandits." He shakes his head. "Means will probably see higher tax rates to pay for the lost income and bad judgement of the bleedin' politicians."
Jack interrupts the man's rapidly approaching screed of all that is wrong with the Inner Sphere. His eyes brighten at the mention of the Griffin.
"See there, I told you Lady Moira was alright. Word is the Griffin is yours. You're probably just waiting on legal to write up the salvage agreement and transfer. Should be delivered to where you folks are set up by tomorrow or the next day at the latest. Too bad it was shot up so bad. Going to be tough finding parts out here. But I've a friend in maintenance, if you need access to a machine shop, just let me know."
The bartender drops off another round of drinks and nods toward Carlton. "You were askin' about transports. Nothin' much comes in and outta here except for ICR ore haulers. Once every three weeks like clockwork. Most regular traders and transports drop at the capital. The Comstar office on Sixth and Copenhagen should have a fairly up to date itinerary. Probably better than the pub-net."
He grabs the empties and moves on down the bar to take another order.
The bartender pauses in his scrubbing of the glass to think for a moment. Slowly he starts to nod. "Yup, Bucky sounds right. Bucky's Bunch or Bucky's Battalion. Something like that. Bucky's Body Bag's sounds more appropriate. Hahaha!"
He adds with a chuckle.
The barkeeps eyes go wide and even a little apologetic. "Hey whoa! Sorry." He says backpedaling his flippant joke. "We'd heard the entire bunch had either been wiped or split to join Riddick."
He looks around obviously checking to see who else might be nearby. Finding things to his own satisfaction, he leans in a bit closer. "If you're really looking to get your own, rumors have it that a few of Riddick's crowd kick back at the Twisted Gizzard over on the north side." His lip curls in disgust. "Place is a dump, makes this look like the Taj Mahal. Watch yourselves though. Ain't nobody in that dive that isn't packing some sorta protection. No matter what the law says."
While the three of you contemplate tracking down more of the bandits and possibly some of those who betrayed you, another voice breaks through the din of the bar.
"Did I overhear correctly? Are you lot looking for a bit of work and a potential ride off planet?" The voice, deep, husky, likely from years of cigarette smoking judging by the yellowed teeth and half burned smoke smoldering between gnarled, weather worn fingers. The woman is broad shouldered, tall. A scar marks her left cheek and left ear is a gnarled mass of scar tissue. Her head is shaved. An obvious accommodation to the fact no hair grows at all on that same left side of her scalp.
A pungent cloud of smoke boils from her nostrils. Her clothes are gray, simple, sufficient for warmth and functionality. They also display nothing that might stand out or leave any sort of lasting memory. She slides a chair out with a booted foot and gestures for you to join her at the small table before pulling another long drag from her cigarette.
"Might have an opportunity if you're interested and willing to work a bit."
The right side of her mouth twitches upward in a wry, momentary grin as she catches Nilelane's reaction.
"Spend enough time in the seat of a mech and you'll look like this to precious." She says matter-of-factly. "If we end up working together, maybe I'll teach you a couple of beauty tips." She adds with a gruff laugh before signalling the bartender.
"Gimme one 'o hers, Lester. Make it a double." She says ordering her own rocket fuel to forgetfulness.
"Jobs simple. Should be easy for a trio of scrappers who can survive a round or two with the Fury." She says getting down to business as the hissing, smoldering drinks are delivered to the table. "ICR isn't the only player in this system. Neither is the FWL, although the Captain-General would certainly like to think he is. Fact of the matter is several parties are interested in the ore and goods being ripped from the guts of this rock."
"I represent one of these interests. My employers want to put the squeeze on some of the competition." She holds up a quick hand to forestall any immediate objection. "Not ICR. In fact, the old woman might even thank you for bringing a little hurt to these b$%^&@rds."
"This is a simple smash and run. You'll be knocking out a secondary operation with limited security since they think it's off everyone's radar. In and out. Do the job right and it's worth $100,000 C-Bills."