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Field Headquarters, Eridani Light Horse
Hale’s Port, Montour
Federated Suns
August 22, 3026

“And would you care to explain to me why I should not just have you shot?” General Nathan Armstrong asked the prisoner standing before him.

“Shooting people without speaking to them first, prevents the receipt of vital information, mate . . . ah, General, Sir,” Lord Shrike answered with a slight bow towards the FedSuns mercenary.

Nathan bared his teeth in a grim smile.  “So then let us talk.”

“So you can shoot me afterwards?  I was born at night, but not last night.  And really are these chains so absolutely necessary?” the pirate asked holding up his manacled hands.  “You have taken away me weapons.”

“The chains stay . . . Lamar Solis.”

Shrike shrugged.  “I do not use that name any longer—I am Lord Shrike.”

“The Butcher-Bird,” Nathan said flatly.

And Shrike grinned.  “It is tradition, mate.  Just like if you want to be a real pirate lord, you have to wear a flashy hat,” he said pointing towards the flamboyant, wide-brimmed, feathered headpiece that had been taken from him.

“What guarantees do you want?”

“Look, mate, if you know the name from my past life, you know that I am a wanted man across the Draconis and Capellan Marches—the Outworlds Alliance as well.  And a good portion of the Crucis March, too.  But you are not a law enforcement officer—you are a mercenary in the service of Hanse Davion.  I give you my information, and you let me leave, giving me safe passage back to my JumpShip and let me skedaddle on out a’here in one piece, safe as a babe in her mother’s arms.”

“Just let a pirate go?”

“There’s pirates and then there are pirates.  For example, I might be a swashbuckler who takes a cargo every now and then,” and Shrike grinned, “even raids a few worlds, but doesn’t the Fox do the same to his foes?  But I am no instigator of atrocities nor of massacres, mate.   And I had nothing to do with the scoundrel who is provoking this war between Hanse and the Taurians.”

Nathan leaned forward, and his eyes glinted.  “If you have any information, then I will decide what to do with you after you give it up.”

“That is not going to happen, General, sir.  We get a deal and then you get the information—including where this black-hearted bandit is striking next; with orders to his men to deal as much civilian death and destruction as they can.  No deal, and it be on your head the wailing of the widows.”

“What’s to stop me from promising you the sun and the moon, and then clapping you in irons the moment you tell me?”

“Irons have already been clapped, mate,” Shrike answered as he raised his arms again and chuckled.  “And there be a reason I came to you and not the local authorities, or the Uruk-hai on Pierce—you are a man of honor.  You are a man who lives by his given word because he knows that everything in this universe can be taken away, except that.  Give me your word, General Nathan Armstrong, of the Eridani Light Horse, sworn in oath with your own hand resting upon that flag that once served the Star Lord himself, and I’ll give ye what I know in return.”

Both men stared at each other and finally Nathan nodded.  “All right.  I give you my word that you will be released and given safe-conduct.”

Shrike smiled again.  “In that case, would ye mind removing these?  They chafe my delicate skin.”

Nathan jerked his head and the guard walked over and unlocked the manacles and took them away, as Shrike rubbed his wrists.

“The one behind this whole scheme is Meurtrier Renard—not his birth-name, of course.  If your French is rusty that translates to . . .”

“The Fox’s Murderer,” interjected Nathan.

“Jolly good, old man.  You are more learned than I thought.  Renard managed to unite many of the pirates of Tortuga behind him—and he brought several score of ‘Mechs with him.  Right now, he and his followers have three Regiments at their disposal.  One is hitting Althea’s Choice today—the other two, under Renard’s direct command are striking at Basantapur on the tenth of September.  If’in you hurry, you might be able to get there before him.”

“Basantapur?”

“Aye, Basantapur.  Home of Basantapur Fine Metals, and good metals and composites alike they make indeed.  They own that mining operation that the Suns runs on Colorado, but it is on Basantapur where they process all that germanium destined for Panpour.  Renard means to sack those refineries and steal the processed ore on hand—which would put the Federated Suns in a bind for the next decade or so having no germanium to build their Kearny-Fuchida drive cores with, now wouldn’t it?”

Shrike shrugged.  “That is the most valuable part of what Basantapur produces, but they also make internal skeletal structures from ‘Mechs produced on New Avalon and Wernke.  Never mind that Renard is hitting them with two Regiments, made up to appear like the Pleiades Hussars and Pleiades Lancers, or the little fact that he is planning a massacre of those Hindus the likes of which we haven’t seen since Kentares.”

Nathan released a deep breath and he nodded and started to rise, but Shrike raised one hand.  “Mate, I don’t know who Renard really is, but this I know—he is a Capellan.  Now, I’ve asked meself this time and again since he started his scheme . . . does he really think that by provoking a war between the Fox an’ the Bull that he is going to be able to carve out his own Empire from the Outback?  That Hanse Davion won’t slap his three Regiments silly?”

“No, he has to have another purpose—he hides his accent well, but he was born speaking that jibber-jabber they do across the border in Sian.  Mad Max, now he might well relish starting such a war and taking advantage of both of ye.  Might’en he?”

“And just what are you getting out of all of this Lord Shrike?” Nathan asked as he stood, and the pirate did as well.

“Ah, mate.  You are cleaning out the devil’s den on Tortuga of me competitors, for which I am most grateful.  And the Lady that I serve, this will put her shapely arse back on the Dominion’s Throne, with crews a-loyal only to her—and to me.  I don’t care one whit for the Federated Suns, nor for the Taurians, but my own realm, aye, mate, that I care for.  I have not the force of arms to put paid to Renard meself—ye and your mates do, General, sir.  And for that end, I’d make a deal with the devil himself.  And so, I think, would you.”

Lord Shrike picked up his hat and he placed on his head at a jaunty angle.  “And if our business is done, mate, then I’ll be a-taking my leave.”  He turned to go, and then he sighed and turned back to Nathan.  “A favor, I would beg of thee, General, sir, before I go off into night.”

“What is it?”

“I want to send a transmission to me dear old mother, back on Numenor.  Let her know that I be alive and well, and that she still has a son, if you would permit me?”

“Guards, escort Lord Shrike to the HPG terminal, and then to the spaceport.  And put him aboard his DropShip and get him the hell off this world.”

“You are a good and honorable man, Nathan Armstrong.  I be much obliged to you for the courtesy.”

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Shrike stepped into the recording booth, isolated from the outside word, and he punched in a complicated code in the machinery.  A screen came to life and the face of Acolyte appeared.

“Sigma-Theta-Seven-Three-Four-Omega-Tau-One-Three-Nine-Alpha-Gamma-Six-Four-Seven-Two-Five-Eight.  Authenticate,” Shrike said.

The Acolyte looked down at his screen and he nodded to himself.  “Secure for priority transmission, Demi-Precentor Solis.”

“Lord Shrike, you idiot—do not let those other words pass your lips again.  Record for transmission to Precentor ROM.  Charles, I’ve cleaned up your mess.  Next time you want to pull a stunt like this, kindly go have intercourse with a dead horse.  Renard will cease being a problem very shortly, and I have diverted attention towards another source, away from ROM.  If you need anything else, don’t ask.  You almost blew my cover over this one, and if you do so again, I swear to Blake that I will find you and make you regret it.  Returning to Tortuga.”

“Send it,” he ordered the white-faced Acolyte.  Shrike sighed and shook his head.  “It’s code, you moron.  Send it.”

Shrike picked up his hat and put it back on his head.  “And there is a message in the queue for my mother on Numenor, along with a transfer of funds—she gets it immediately, or I will be back.  And if I have to come back, I will fillet you, mate.  Alive.”

And with that, Lord Shrike, pirate-captain of Tortuga, and agent of ROM walked out of the booth and was escorted away to space port.

So ROM was working against ROM?

Plans within plans within plans.
I guess we are seeing the first proof of the schism.

And masterarminas, Meurtrier Renard is to be translated by Murderer Fox.
The Fox's murderer would be l'Assassin du Renard (which doesn't sound like a name at all).

Now there's a man with a plan.

Sweet story! I like the treatment of Mad Max.