BattleTech: Beyond Electrodrome: The Assegai Anti-Mech Rifle

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“Make the first shot count. Its the only one you’re guaranteed. Put ‘em where you can. Sensor blisters, actuators, heat sinks, laser lenses, gun barrels, missile bay doors, cockpit panels, the gaps between plates. If it looks interesting or vulnerable, hit it.”

“Make your follow-up shots rapid, decisive, and as accurate as you can. Do not stop shooting until your enemy is crippled or you are dead. That is the only way to survive this once your first shot breaks. Kill or be killed.”

“If they have machine guns, pray your cover holds. If they have flamers or plasma guns or Infernos, you will die. Fight as though you are already dead. Say your lover’s name every time you squeeze the trigger so you may die with their name on your lips, but do not stop firing.”

“Strike swift, strike true, and kill, kill, kill the bastards before they kill you.”

Colonel Thaddeus LeJune, before the Battle of Barrow District 5

Trigger Discipline

He exhaled the name “Sarah” as he drew up the travel on his trigger and then, with emptied lungs, squeezed it over the edge.

The Assegai Anti-Mech Rifle kicked, compensator and bipod and recoil dampers eating up the shock so he felt little more than an infantile thump. The shout of the deadly demigod he held to his shoulder bathed him in its crushing energy, passed over him like downwash from the wings of the Destroying Angel himself.

He knew his platoon-mates felt the same exultant concussions, for the guns of the 713th Heavy Rifles never spoke alone. Theirs was a heavenly choir of death.

A single round from an Assegai could instantaneously transform a man into a flying shag carpet at a thousand yards, could punch clean through armored cars as if they were rice paper. But ‘Mech armor was another thing. The saboted long rod penetrators that the Assegai were chambered for could penetrate no more than 50mm of ‘Mech plate before the high explosive incendiary charge in the projectile’s tail triggered. To a ‘Mech, this was unimpressive, little more than a rat bite.

But the 713th Heavy Rifles were a swarm of rats, all biting and snapping at the soft places, a swarm that hunted with myriad glittering eyes and razor sharp teeth. They had infested these buildings like vermin, lurking in alleyways, on rooftops, and broken shop fronts, hidden beneath their mimetic ponchos, waiting. Every vantage point covered a different angle, a different perspective on their unsuspecting quarry’s vitals.

For the last three days, this had been their silent, haunted home. Once upon a time, people lived here. Did business here. Fucked and raised families here. But now this sector of the Sprawl, cordoned off in the name of bloody spectacle, was little more than a killing field, holding its breath.

Days had passed. The rains had come and gone, iron clouds sealing over the grey and rotted urban blight as cold rain and blinding lightning fell from the heavens in torrents. The rooftop teams took shelter, slowly, inch by inch disappearing into yawning stairwells, crawling into the mouths of giants. But the rest of the Rifles waited, unflinching.

A squad of amateur scouts had blundered through this wasted intersection only a few hours ago, creeping down the streets from building to building playing commando, waving their arms in silly, cryptic gestures, sweaty and nervous and clumsy as cows. The Rifles watched them through the scopes of silenced Minoltas, held their tomahawks ready to chop into throats and the backs of necks.

Ultimately they stayed their hands. Disappearing scouts were a dead giveaway to enemy forces. Besides, the entertainment was well worth a pardon and the intel the scouts had provided with their mere presence was clear: incoming.

Before the Sentinel in his sights could respond, before it could even flinch, he had reset his trigger, and the word “Sarah” sent another deadly projectile downrange, punching another thumb-sized hole into the base of its rotary autocannon’s barrel assembly as the chorus sang ever louder, ever more urgently, its song of ruination.

The Sentinel pivoted and lurched backwards, its cannon spinning up. Like a dragon’s maw, a gout of flame and thunder screamed forth, ripping into the building’s façade with a torrent of high explosive shells. He felt the structure quaking beneath him as the rounds ripped through walls and burst, chewing the Rifles to pieces, splattering their blood and mixing them bodily with concrete dust and debris.

The mighty flame-tipped weapon tilted up and panned towards his position, unzipping the building as he spoke her name again: “Sarah”.

An ultra-dense supersonic dart leapt joyously from his barrel, swollen with lethal kinetic energy, and was joined eagerly by two others, each sent from a distant hide by men that no doubt had whispered their own incantations. Three inch-wide holes opened through the Sentinel’s armored canopy in rapid succession, each glittering impact site followed by a flash beyond the glass as the tail charge burst inside.

The first flash was clear, clean, like sunlight passing between buildings. The second and third tiny explosions were ever more obscured, thickening layers of destruction, smoke, and charred gore filtering and eating the light.

The huge machine tipped backwards, autocannon still spinning and spraying death, though the devil in the machine was gone, reduced to so much organic slag. The arc of killing projectiles flew wide, ripping into the upper stories and the sky above. The Sentinel lay on its back, its whirling cannon belching steel and flame and thunder into the heavens for seconds that threatened to stretch on for punishing eternities.

And then there was silence.

Relative silence.

A keening sound drilled through the air as the barrels spun on, the butchered pilot’s finger still locked around the trigger in rigor mortis. The Rifles whispered oaths, checked their breathing, moved to aid the wounded, repacked their mags. A carrion bird’s call fell from on high in a single, tattered note.

Movement above the scene caught the Rifleman’s eye, and cold animal panic trickled down his spine.

In the distance, beyond the haze of propellant and falling ferrocrete dust, beyond the moans of the wounded and the silence of the dead, far down the avenue, a vast, saurian bulk swayed, heavy feet tolling like the Death’s Brass Bell. Smaller forms that had seemed to be mere shadows clinging to its legs detached themselves and dashed forwards, weaving through debris and dead cars.

His spotter spoke impassively as he slapped a new magazine into the well and pushed the bolt release. Each word fell like an executioner's axe.

Firestarter.

Starslayer.

Stalker.

He felt the earth move. Not beneath him. Not in between him and the approaching 'Mechs that bristled with lasers and missiles and flame-belching weaponry. It was the earth beside his parents' and grandparents' burial plots that moved. It opened, stretched wide in loving embrace. He hoped that the reactor-driven flames would leave enough of him to be buried with his family. Even if all that remained was the melted steel of his Assegai.

Through his scope he watched the Firestarter's jump jets burn into the street, watched a ground car slide and then flip from the blast, and then the hideous mech rose into the air, arcing up until it was clear of the surrounding rooftops. As it ascended, a flight of long range missiles stabbed upwards from the massive assault mech beyond, points of light turning the haze opaque with their illumination until they were free, rising, arching, falling. When his eyes flicked back to find the Firestarter, it was gone, no doubt dropped into the concealment of the maze of streets on the far side of the building.

He spoke into his throat mic.

Rifles hold fire. Wait until you can see the whites in their pilots’ eyes. Prioritize Firestarter as able. Demo teams, you are weapons free.

Brief Comment

Yes, I know that long rod penetrator ammunition is not high explosive. It is a monolithic hardened dart with insane armor penetrating capabilities that kills with kinetic energy and spalling alone.

I think that a secondary high explosive incendiary charge housed in the tail section of the round would be better at destroying critical components post-penetration, as needed in the “anti-material” role. Also considering the deceleration of the projectile and the loss of kinetic energy with deeper penetration, it would make sense to include a final extra kick to anything deep it could reach into and touch.

What say you?

The Assegai AMR

Below are the rules for Assegai rifles. Think Barrett M82 but bigger. Think the Bri’ish Boys Anti-Tank Rifle but punchier. Think the Lahti L-39 but wearing business socks.

The idea is this: decent range, a potentially murderous opening salvo of AC/1 fire, a SLIM chance at armor-bypassing damage with another slim chance at a critical, and an immobilized infantry platoon that’s suddenly highlighted itself as targeting priority numero uno.

I don’t expect Assegai rifles to be the sort of weapon system that single-handedly take down ‘Mechs. At least not many ‘Mechs. But I do expect them to radically alter player behaviors once they announce their presence. Charge the ambush, break contact, or die? Tough choices.

Take a look, and remember, my goal is to perfect the things I come up with. That takes time and constructive feedback.

Though I’m pretty this one is damn near a bingo.

V3: reduced minimum range to 1

There she be.

Couple of questions:

Should I make it heavier? Yes/No/Why?

Should I make it more expensive? Yes/No/Why?

Also, how do we like the minimum range of 2 here? It sets the rifle up to have a 1-hex sweetspot, essentially making it so most called shots (with armor-piercing potential) will have a minimum +5 modifier to-hit. But then again, volume of fire might be enough to make that somewhat less of an issue, and if you train up your infantry platoons (and you SHOULD), you should be able to offset this at least a little. Kinda answered my own question there…

Cheers, folks!

And thank you so much again to my Noble Patrons for the feedback and patronage.