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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #15 on: April 02, 2009, 09:04:21 AM »
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A sleet of tungsten filled the corridor as the six Imperial Marines that had managed to get inside exchanged fire with their Confederation counterparts.  Well-trained, mostly veterans of other deadly skirmishes, five of the Marines found shelter behind the structural supports.  The sixth, a new recruit fresh from basic training died as he stood his ground in the center of the corridor, firing at the Confeds.  Caught in the holocaust with nowhere to go, the two Marines in the breach also fell, their armor shattered in dozens of spots by the Confed pulse cannons.  A pair of Confed troopers also went down, one to the essentially random fire from the five veterans; the other to the steady aimed fire of the recruit just before his own death.

Both the Confeds and the Imperials were now each sheltering behind solid cover, extending their arms out just far enough to send a hail of slugs towards the others.  Saul could see it on his helmet display, clear enough.  Stalemate.  I can break through this holding group, but who knows how many more of them there are out there.  But doing so, he thought, would eat his men like paper thrown into a furnace.  He sucked on his lower lip; well, Marine, it is time to improvise, adapt, and overcome.  Never mind that it breaks a dozen close-quarters regulations and utterly throws away the Book.  His lip twitched, not that the idiots who wrote the Book had ever been in the midst of a real fire-fight.

“Third Platoon, prepare to rush and clear the corridor,” he said over the suits p-comm array, “but wait for the big boom.  FIRE IN THE HOLE!” he yelled as he leapt towards the breach.  Charlie looked up, twisting his body away from the wall as the Centurion flew past him, and then he slammed down hard on the floor as Frasier shoved him down and covered him with his own body.  Third Platoon—and Saul’s headquarters team—quite sensibly hunkered down; waiting for whatever crazy stunt their commander was attempting now to happen.

Saul threw his weight on his right hip, and bent his knee.  Slamming his knee into the floor, the heavy suit shattered tile and left a short trench behind, but the act also brought him to a complete halt directly facing the breach.  As he skidded across, with slugs of tungsten whizzing past his head, but mostly above his head (even veteran troopers had a tendency to shoot high, after all), he pulled down the Thunderbolt launcher with his right hand.  Even before the click of the launcher told him the weapon was locked and armed, he was pulling the firing trigger.  As it clicked into place, the solid-fuel motor ignited, the flames and fumes striking the corridor wall behind him, and splashing away to both sides.  With a whoosh, the missile streaked forward down the corridor.

All of the troopers in the shielded corridor before Saul—Imperial and Confederation alike—muttered “Oh shit” at the same time, and immediately dropped to the floor.

Saul was already ahead of them, and as the missile reached the ‘T’ junction at the corridors end, he was face first on the ground, armored arms and gloves covering his head.  The 110 kilogram primary warhead detonated upon striking the far wall.  Designed to gut armored vehicles, the main charge formed into a stream of plasma that ate through fifteen meters of reinforced ferro-crete and solid rock.  The secondary effect of the Thunderbolt occurred a fraction of a second after the main charge detonated.  Around the outer hull of the missile casing, just behind the primary, four more charges were positioned.  Each of these four contained just 22.5 kilos of high explosives, but were covered in pre-fragmented tungsten and ceramic plates; ten overlapping plates almost five inches thick.  The four secondaries showered the corridor with lethal fragments, razor sharp and with just enough kinetic energy to maybe penetrate full-up battle armor.

The shock-wave from the concussion of the detonation threw EVERYONE to the ground as it reverberated from the walls, floor, and ceiling.  Dust and shattered tiles rained down on all of the troopers, even those on Saul’s side of the breach, and the remainder of the concealing shielded down shattered, peppering him with chunks of debris.  As the blast rolled past him, pressing him down to the ground, Saul pushed himself up and charged into the corridor, firing long bursts from his Reaper into the helpless Confederation troopers, stunned by the concussion and wounded by the shrapnel.

“On your feet, Marines, get on your feet!  FORWARD!” he yelled as he sprinted towards the far junction.  Third Platoon was pouring into the breach behind him as Frasier pulled Charlie up.

“Corp, did he just do what I think he did?”

Frasier Blenheim cycled his pulse cannon to clear any debris from the barrel and shoved the private towards the breach in the wall.  “Private, if it is stupid and it works, then it ain’t stupid.  Now follow that maniac, Marine.”

************************************************************************

“Reprisal, Ramrod.  Assault team is docking with Bandit One now.”

Leslie Drake turned around to face Jason.  “Sir, the boarding team is there, and we have confirmation that the Marines from Leviathan and down and en route to reinforce Centurion Yarrow.  Vanguards troopers will ground in two minutes.”

“Thank you, Leslie,” Jason said as he peered at the holographic display.  Currently, it showed a schematic of the base, along with icons representing each of the forty-six Marines in the field of view.  Each suit of battle armor was equipped with an inertial mapper, and each one reached out with its sensor array, transmitting data on what they found.  The mapper consolidated that data into a real-time three-dimensional map, and the p-comm system uploaded it to the flagship, through the breach in the scan-resistant walls.

Three of his Marines were dead, according to the display; another four were severely wounded—all four had been in the corridor when Saul fired his heavy missile.  But, their armor also reported that drugs had been administered and the troopers stabilized.  They could wait for the navy corpsmen accompanying the reinforcements.  Saul had slowed his pace, letting the grunts take point as they sealed off size corridors with demolition charges and headed towards the large open area the sensors had detected.  Dozens of red icons showed on the display in that chamber—each icon representing electronic emissions from a Confederation suit of armor.

“I always knew he was a madman, Admiral,” Nathan said, “but this takes the cake.  What was he thinking, firing a Thunderbolt inside an enclosed space?”

“I imagine that he wanted to save the lives of the Marines that would have died to take the corridor in a more conventional way, Nathan.  And it worked, remember?  If it is stupid and it works . . . “

“Then it ain’t stupid,” his chief of staff finished.  “Got it, boss.  What are you thinking, sir?”

“This chamber here, where the Confeds are holed up in.  How much rock would you say is overhead?”

Nathan read the data from one of the console screens nearby, and compared it to the scans taken of the area by the battleships own sensor arrays.  “Two hundred and, call it twenty meters, sir?”

Jason nodded.  “That looks about right.  Reckon they laid on any heavy armor in that scan-shielded section?”

“No sir, that would go against their doctrine; besides it really, really hard to shield that much HCA against ship-based systems.”

The Admiral nodded again, and turned to look at his communication officer.  “Commander Drake, ask Centurion Yarrow to set up a blocking and containment point at the next junction.  He is to halt the advance,” as the Commander bent to pass along the order, Jason turned back to Nathan.  “Captain Serrano, ask Captain Danislov if the main battery would like to show these people why a false flag of surrender is generally considered to be a bad idea.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the junior officer replied with a grin.

************************************************************************

The rear of the Kitredge was twisted, shattered metal, with clusters of flotsam and debris drifting all about.  The pair of Intruders ignored the single boat bay of the enemy Escort, and instead clamped themselves to the outer hull of the forward section.  A sixteen-man section of marine combat engineers swarmed out from the port-side hatch and they immediately began erecting a three layer pressure curtain around the shuttle’s hatch.  Sealed to the side of the derelict vessel, the pressure curtains would prevent the explosive decompression of the ships interior when the boarding party cut their way inside.  Working as team, the engineers rigged the curtain in less than two minutes from when the hatch opened.  The engineering Gunnery Sergeant and two of his experts floated across to the hull and began setting out a pattern of breaching charges.  Behind them, another six Marines fixed heavy plates of HCA armor plating atop the demolitions, bonding them to the ships hull.  It took another two minutes to finish setting the charges, and then the Gunny yelled, “FIRE IN THE HOLE.”

The engineers swarmed back aboard the shuttle, and the marines in the open bay hunkered down facing away from the ship.  Two dozen explosions erupted beneath the armor plates cemented to the enemy vessel.  Prevented from expanding towards the shuttle by the HCA plates, the fury the explosions turned inwards, ripping through the outer hull of the vessel, and shattering it into small chunks of debris.  The debris began to enter the ship, but quickly reversed course and peppered the interior of the shuttle, and the marines taking cover there.  However, it lacked the force required to penetrate their battle armor, or to seriously damage the armored shuttlecraft.

The commander of the boarding team, Centurion Danny Tibbs, stood and began barking orders, “Commence boarding operations.  First Platoon secure CIC, Second and HQ the main bridge; Third the ordnance magazines, Fourth remains in reserve.  GO.”

One hundred and fifty-two Imperial Marines, a full-strength Line Company, all clad in battle armor, stormed aboard the drifting vessel.  The sixteen combat engineers, attached from the battalion HQ still aboard Reprisal remained, patching the holes in the pressure curtain the breaching charges had created.

The Confederation naval personnel were not idiots.  Outfitted with lightly armored pressure suits for emergencies only, and armed with sidearms—or perhaps even sub-machineguns—they knew they had neither the firepower nor the defenses to hold off the marine assault.  Perhaps if the Kitredge had been a larger ship it might have been different, but she was an Escort, and Escorts did not carry a Marine complement.  In less than three minutes, the ship was taken, with but two exchanges of violence.

In the forward magazines serving the point-defense 5.5cm plasma guns, a squad of Marines from Third Platoon arrived just in time to kill the Confed officer attempting to set of the plasma munitions and scuttle the ship.  Not wanting to set off the ordnance themselves, the squad leader turned off his contra-gravity generator and bull-rushed the officer.  Three hundred kilos of battle armor, contained another hundred or so kilos of Marine, slammed into the desperate man at almost thirty-five kilometers per hour, and then proceeded to slam into the bulkhead behind.  The Marine was slightly stunned by the impact; the remains of the Confederation officer had to be peeled from the bulkheads of the magazine.

On the main bridge, a woman—wearing rank tabs of a Confederation Commodore—opened fire on Danny and his troopers with a pistol as they entered.  She might as well have been shooting spitballs, as the rounds bounced off the armored plates and ricocheted across the bridge.  Screaming at the top of her lungs, “NO, you can’t; you can’t; NOT YOU!” over and over and over again, she emptied her magazine, causing no casualties among the Imperial forces, but four among her own personnel.

Danny Tibbs shook his head and walked across the deck as she reloaded, and reached out and grabbed her forearms, and then twisted his armored gloves.  With a sickening CRACK, all four bones broke, and the women went limp from the sudden pain and shock.  “Sorry about that ma’am, but the Admiral wants answers.  And that means you get to survive until interrogation.  Any one else want to play,” he asked as he looked around the bridge.

Dozens of ratings and several officers quickly shook their heads in an empathic NO.  And Danny grinned.  “Top, inform the Flag we have taken the ship and require transport for prisoners.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” replied First Sergeant Harper.

************************************************************************

Colonel Marcus Warren was led onto the flag bridge of ISS Reprisal by the Master-of-Arms of the ship, escorted by two armed naval ratings.  Clearly visible in the center of the compartment was the holographic schematic of the base—showing the section that his engineers had spent months shielding against detection.  Joy, the Confederation officer thought to himself.  How cocked-up can this operation get?

“Ah, Colonel Warren,” said Jason from his seat as he stood.  “I would say a pleasure to see you again, Colonel, but I fear that it is not.”

“As you can see, we have discovered that you have not been entirely truthful with us.  And because of that, Sir, men under my command have given their lives.  But perhaps I am being ill-mannered, Colonel.  Allow to introduce you to this gentleman, here.”

Jason laid his hand on another Imperial officer that Warren had not yet met.  Dressed in the uniform of the Fleet, he looked much the same as any other of the officers in Imperial service.  Than Warren saw the collar insignia, and he swayed slightly.

“Colonel Warren, this is Inquisitor Kim of Imperial Intelligence; but currently attached to my command for this deployment.  He will be taking you aside in a short time and asking you some very, well, pointed questions.  Questions that you, Sir, will answer, regardless of your willingness to do so.  But first, Colonel, why does your facility have a scan-shielded area, that includes a hidden hanger, Confederation marines, and a Kitredge class escort that you neglected to tell me about?”

“I, well, Admiral, I was following my instructions from my superiors in concealing that fact from you.”

“I see.  And did your superiors also order you to falsely surrender your command, Colonel?”

“They did, they did.  And all for nothing.”

“Not quite nothing, Colonel—my people died because of it.  And many of yours have joined them.  We have taken that ship—mostly intact, mostly—along with an officer that out-ranks you.  She is being escorted over to my Flag now, where she will join you in interrogation.”

Warren crumpled, but the two ratings held him upright by his arms.

“At the moment, I am about to deliver a message to your Marines down below, Colonel.  Would you care to watch?  Captain Serrano, ask Captain Danislov to execute the orders he was given.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

************************************************************************

ISS Reprisal and ISS Resolution pivoted in order above Tammoran VII, presenting their broadsides to the base below.  They steadied on their target, and then sixteen ports opened in the flanks of each of the ships, and gaping maws of heavy plasma guns extended out.  Two guns on each of the ships erupted in a blinding flash of light as what appeared to miniature stars streaked down to the surface.  As the four 16cm plasma bolts impacted, each of them released the equivalent of 15,000 tons of conventional explosives, carving massive impact craters on the surface.  Four seconds later, the next two guns fired, deepening the craters.  And four seconds after that, the next pair; and then the next, and the next.  By the time all eight pairs aboard each of the two ships had fired, the crater was over 150-meters deep, glowing white hot as the rock absorbed the heat from the impacts and explosions.

************************************************************************

“As you well know, Colonel, our guns require sixty seconds to cool and recycle between shots.  That leaves you with, oh, call it twenty seconds, to explain to me why I should not just finish digging out that section and vaporizing both it and your men.”

Jason lifted his left arm and bent his head down, staring at a wristwatch, as he tapped his foot.  “Time is a-wasting, Colonel.”

************************************************************************

A full company of Confederation Marines, less the seven dead and two wounded that tried to hold up Saul’s assault knelt on the floor of the corridor, their armored hands locked together behind their helmets.  The order to surrender had arrived just seconds before the next barrage had been scheduled, for which he was profoundly grateful.  The heavy impacts from the plasma bolts had shaken the entire complex, and Saul had not quite been sure they could have survived if the next barrage had cut through.

In accordance with the surrender, the Confeds had thrown down their weapons, but Saul had not satisfied with that.  Confederation battle armor was nearly identical to its Imperial counter-part, right down to the grav-fusion fuel cells worn on the back.  So, once the Confeds were on their knees, with their fingers intertwined behind their heads, he had his troops yank the cells.

Oh, they had sufficient battery power for life support, but without the cells they could not move.  Their armor had become their prison.

“Gunny, get some troopers to carry these shitheads back to the shuttles, and have the engineers lay the nuclear demo charges.  MARINES!  We are leaving!”

“OOH-RAH!” dozens of voices responded.

************************************************************************

Colonel Warren was strapped into a chair, beads of sweat running down his face.  Each of his bare arms had been pierced with IV tubes, feeding mild sedatives and muscle relaxers into his blood-stream, along with a drug cocktail that reduced his ability to conceal the truth.  Reduced, but not completely eliminated, it.  Kim sat besides him, manipulating the controls on the other device Warren was attached to as he asked the questions.

“This facility, Colonel, this base; what is its purpose?”

“This was to be a base to conduct operations in your space, Admiral.  But those plans died a year ago, when we found out just how ready to go this star is.  Work on the base ceased, but High Command sent us out a new commanding officer,” Warren answered before he was gently interrupted.

“Commodore Amanda Palik?” softly asked Inquisitor Kim.

“Yes.  The Commodore is from the Defense Advanced Research Projects and Analysis Agency.  She is not a line officer—never has been.  But she brought a dozen civilian scientists and researchers out here from our Core worlds.  Some of them are actually Imperial citizens that she had somehow ‘acquired’ and forced to work for her.”

“To what end, Colonel, was this project on which she was working focused?”

“Tammoran is going to blow real soon, as in this week maybe.  We can not forecast it precisely, but when it does . . . “

“What will happen when it does,” interjected Jason, earning a glare of reproach from his interrogation specialist.

Warren looked up, his eyes wide and leaking tears, as the skin near the attached wires quivered and jumped.  “She is crazy, but I had no choice; orders are orders.”

“What was she crazy about, Colonel,” Kim asked as he dialed back the setting on the device.  Warren visibly relaxed as his nerves quit broadcasting pain signals through his entire body, and Kim reached out to gently wipe the sweat away from his forehead.  “What was the big secret?”

“She had a theory, Admiral.  A theory that when a star goes nova, its effects reach into t-space.  The gravitational pulse of the star is so extreme at the instant it goes that it twists t-space back on itself, and can send a ship through time.”

“Through time, Colonel?” Jason asked, not even bothering to keep the astonishment from his voice.  Kim’s eyes widened at the response as well.

“Through time.  She has all sorts of equations and hypotheses and theories and, damn it, I may be a Ground Force officer, but even I know it is not possible.  She believes it, though, and convinced High Command to send her out here.  And for all my sins, I got to ride herd on her—like herding a bunch of cats.”

“And I suppose the nano-factories onboard the two captured ships are going to build her little time machine, Colonel?”

“No,” Warren said, shaking his head.  “You don’t understand.  She believes that a ship in or entering t-space at or near the time of the nova will come out of translation in a different time.  She was planning on taking all the ships through, with my troopers and engineers as her escort.”

“Why would even your High Command try something so fantastic?”

“We are losing this war, Admiral.  Oh, we don’t want to admit it, but the facts are not in dispute among our officials still in touch with reality.  We have just a fraction of the number of worlds that you do, and our Fleet and Ground Forces are far too small when compared to the Imperial military.  We will fight, but we will also eventually lose.  Commodore Palik’s equations seem to indicate that if her theory works, the ships will be sent back in time almost five hundred years—to the early 21st century.  She intended to go back and change the past—keep the Empire from ever forming in the first place.  And the High Command was desperate enough they let her try.  After all,” and here he giggled, on the verge of hysteria, “if we go down, what does it matter if she rewrites history to also prevent YOU from ever coming in existence?  They intend to—if it works—erase the past five centuries from happening.  If it works.”

Jason and Kim looked at each other.  It was impossible; physics simply did not work that way.  Did it?

“I know that it is crazy, Admiral,” Warren continued into silence, the pain and drugs keeping him talking even without direct questions.  “I have spent a year living with that loon and her researchers.  But on the chance that she is not crazy, that she may well be right, you really should get your ships out of Tammoran now; before that star starts to go nova.”
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #16 on: April 02, 2009, 10:32:09 AM »
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Desperate times call for desperate measures, and as the marines said if it's stupid and it works then it ain't stupid. Interesting.
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #17 on: April 02, 2009, 03:03:17 PM »
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Now time travel  Grin
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #18 on: April 02, 2009, 05:04:32 PM »
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Interesting. Could this be the ironic beginnings of the Empire and the good intentioned hero actually be fulfilling a destiny you don't want. Huh
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #19 on: April 03, 2009, 01:19:08 PM »
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This is no time to worry about the time line!
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"It matters little how we die, so long as we die better men than we imagined we could be -- and no worse than we feared." Drago Museveni, CY 8451
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #20 on: April 09, 2009, 08:58:47 AM »
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Good morning, all.  I made some PRETTY BIG errors when it came to estimating weight and mass on my ships.  So, I have spent some time crunching numbers and will now post the hopefully cleaned up and edited portion of In Harm's Way that I have completed.  Sorry for the inconvience.  By the way, really BIG ships, such as those that I am dealing with in this story, are almost unbelievably massive; if they are made of anything except Weber foam, it seems.  Hope this looks better.

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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #21 on: April 09, 2009, 09:00:22 AM »
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Chapter One

“More wine, Sir?” the steward asked as he lifted the empty plate from the white linen covered table.

“No more for me, Jean-Paul,” the officer answered as he leaned back in his chair.  Lifting his glass, he swirled the amber liquid round twice, and then stopped as his guest frowned at him.  “And for you, my dear?”

“After seeing you abuse your own glass, Jason?  I shudder to think of what my father and brother would say, seeing you mistreat the fruit of the grape in such a horrendous fashion,” the elegantly coifed lady replied from the far end, with a theatrical shudder of her shoulders, one covered with fine white silk, the other bare.

“But, my Lady, they—and you—were raised in an environment that demanded they appreciate the subtleties embedded within each flavor and taste of the wine.  I, on the other hand, am but a humble officer in his Imperial Majesty’s naval service.  The best that I can tell a wines quality is by how quickly it can get one drunk.”

“You are an actual barbarian, Admiral Chandler.  But I shall endeavor to forgive you for your faults, my husband,” she said with a smile.

“And for that, Julia, I am most profoundly grateful.”  Jason turned back to his chief steward.  “I do believe that we have finished for the evening, Jean-Paul.  We will ring if we need anything else.”

The steward bowed first to the Admiral, and then to the admiral’s lady, and withdrew with the empty plates from Jason’s private dining room.

Julia raised one eyebrow.  “Rather presumptuous of you; what if I wanted something rich and delightful for dessert?”

Jason stood and walked around the table to where Julia sat, and knelt beside her.  “I believe that something can be arranged to your satisfaction, my love.”  And then he kissed her.

************************************************************************

Later, as the two lay in his large bed in his equally large and magnificent sleeping cabin, Julia began to giggle.

He bent his head and kissed her again on her forehead.  “Was it something I said, or perhaps did that has you so amused, love?”

Curling her body tight against his chest and belly, she brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it.  “No, Jason.  I was just thinking—how many Very Important People have shared this bed with you?”

“Well, most of them are distressingly male, my dear Julia.  And none of them, regardless of their exalted Imperial ranks, are my wife.”

He lay there holding her and drew in a deep breath.  “You know, if your father had not pulled strings, my lady love, it would have been four months before we could have shared a bed again—if my duties in Ciria allowed me the chance to go planet-side, that is.”

“I do not use my connections often, Jason, but for this, yes, I had Father arrange it.”

“Hail Caesar,” he whispered into her brown hair, as she began to giggle again, and then lightly hit Jason’s chest.

“It is NOT my fault that I am his only daughter, Jason.  At least he did not have you arrested as a traitor when we told him we were getting married.”

“There is that.”

For several minutes neither said a word in the darkened room.

“Father actually LIKES you, you know.  I was surprised by that.”

“Your father is the Emperor, Julia.  And I serve him—in all but for feelings for you.”

She nodded her head.  “And that is why he likes you, Jas.  For the longest time, he was so afraid that my only suitors would be people who wanted me because I was his daughter—who would not actually care for me, who would use me for political gain.  When I told him I loved you, he was afraid of me getting hurt.  But after he met you, he gave me his blessings.”

“Funny; he told me that I would be drawn and quartered if I ever did anything to injure you.”

She sniffed.  “Of course, I am Caesar’s daughter, after all.  I get only the best of everything.”

“In that case, my love,” he said as he began to nibble on her earlobe, “I shall just have to prove that I am indeed the best you will . . . “

A sudden loud buzz interrupted Jason in mid-sentence, and mid-nibble.  He sat up and leaned over his wife to hit the receive button on the intercom.

“Report.”

“Admiral, we have intercepted an emergency transmission from the destroyer Seydlitz in the Tammoran system,” Captain Nathan Serrano, his chief of staff, replied.  “She reports having discovered a Confederation base in that system; however the defenses are too heavy for her to penetrate.  Sir, she is sending the message directly to the Sector HQ, but they won’t receive the transmission for another fourteen hours.”

“Distance to Tammoran, Captain?”

“Seventeen point six light years, Admiral.  It will take forty-four minutes to change heading for a trans-light insertion on the proper vector, with a flight time of eight hours and twenty-eight minutes.  If we leave the 501st behind on course for Ciria, we can shave two hours and fourteen minutes from that.”

Jason frowned as he considered the idea, and then shook his head.  “No.  I know the transports will slow us, but I do not want to leave them unprotected—this is a front-line sector, after.  Son-in-law or not, Caesar would have my hide if an entire Armored Strike Legion was jumped by raiders when I went gallivanting about with their assigned escorts.”

Nathan Serrano said nothing, but Jason could see in his mind’s eye the corner of his mouth twitching.  Nathan was not the only officer aboard the Imperial Star Ship Reprisal that found his Admiral transporting his wife as ‘essential diplomatic personnel’ amusing.

“I will be on the Flag Bridge in twenty minutes, Nathan.  Assemble the staff, and ask Captain Danislov to attend; electronically will be fine.  And contact General Tuturola; he may appreciate the time to prepare in the event we need his troops.  In the meantime, issue orders for the squadron—and the 501st—to alter vector for trans-light insertion, destination Tammoran.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” he said and then the intercom died.

Julia was already sitting up and pulling on a robe as she turned on the lights in the sleeping cabin.

“You do not have to get up, love.”

“I would not be able to sleep, Jas,” she said, giving him a beaming smile.  “Besides, how often do I get you see in action.  Other than in that,” she giggled, pointing to the bed.

************************************************************************

“Admiral on the deck!” sang out one of the two armed petty officers flanking the hatchway as they entered the Flag Bridge, trailed by four of the Praetorians assigned to Julia by her father.  He had insisted that it was for her safety and security, but both Caesar and Jason knew the real reason:  many in the Empire of Humanity continued to discriminate against women involved in politics, business, or the military.  Anything but being a living, breathing incubator for future generations, actually.  It was a legacy of humanities first encounter with an alien race.  We won that one, Jason thought, though it took us forty years to do so.  But in a final spasm of fury at their loss, the Ordan-Kraal had managed to dust Old Earth and her five largest colonies with a biological agent.  That agent had rendered sterile 97% of all living women and girls.  What was worse, it altered the DNA of the survivors, making it far more difficult for the few fertile women left to conceive.  Needless to say, the human race had not appreciated the gift.  Seven years later NO Ordan-Kraal remained alive ANYWHERE in the known universe.  And it had not taken any fancy biological tinkering; no, old fashioned nuclear bombardment worked just as well, at least in making a civilization extinct.

That had been four hundred years ago, at the dawn of the 22nd Century.  Mankind—emphasis on MAN—had not handled the situation well.  Women—fertile women—became too precious to risk, and within a generation the need to shelter females from danger had resulted in them losing nearly all of their rights, becoming little more than property.  Until the DNA virus was finally eradicated ninety-seven years ago, women had been very much second-class citizens.  Thanks to the vaccine, though, more and more women were regaining their full fertility.  Since wide-spread introduction of the vaccine began, the population of the Empire had nearly tripled, and with the vast increase in numbers, the Caesars had slowly—ever so slowly—begun to restore women’s rights.  It was only in the past decade they had regained the right to serve in the military, or to vote.

Many men, even with the human population growing with leaps and bounds, still refused to treat women as equals, however.  It had become ingrained in the social customs of humanity—this branch, at least—and some elements of society had responded badly.  Rape—a crime once considered so heinous it warranted the death penalty (for fertile women, at any rate)—was rapidly on the rise.  Many officials in the government turned a blind eye to harassment, to persecution, even to vile criminal acts.  The entire social compact of the Empire was changing, and some people hated that change with a mortal vengeance, refusing to accept it.  At least, they refused until someone FORCED them to do so.  And in Julia’s case, it would be the Praetorians her father had assigned to her that would do that forcing.  Even the most misogynist of men would behave themselves when those killers fixed their glare upon them.

Jason shook his head, as he waved his hand at his staff, all coming to their feet at the bosun’s announcement.  “As you were everyone.  There is really no need for that every single time I step foot on this deck, PO O’Reilly,” he said to the young petty officer.

The man blushed and mumbled, “Aye, aye, Sir.”  Jason nodded, and clapped the sailor on the upper arm, and then stepped into the compartment.  Scores of high-resolution screens lined the walls, each sub-divided into dozens of individual readouts showing everything from the fuel status of each of his ships to images of the surrounding space.  At the moment his command—the 342nd Imperial Battle Squadron and the 501st Assault Flotilla—was in real-space, still in the process of changing course.

The massive holo-tank in the center of the room showed their current location in the uninhabited Cavanaugh system.  The M class dwarf star was projected in the center, with the rings of debris that served it instead of planets.  A blinking dot in the tank represented his command, with a cone connected to the dot.  Off to the side of the tank, the cone expanded, and showed the ten warships of his squadron, along with the four transports of the 501st.  Of course, even in the expanded view, each was only an icon, but he—and his officers—could read the icons easily enough, after long years—decades, even—of practice.  Four battleships were marked on the display, Leviathan and Vanguard of the old Dreadnought class, alongside Reprisal and Renown, two modern Resolution class ships.

Reprisal, and her sister Renown, were among the largest mobile structures ever conceived of and built by Mankind.  Each of the 1,200-meter diameter ships massed 57.42 billion tons.  Leviathan and Vanguard were just slightly smaller (1,100-meters and 44.26 billion tons), but were every bit as deadly, even if they had been in service for nigh upon three centuries.  The icons for two Gladiator class cruisers—Centurion and Lancer—blinked in the tank, one ahead of the four heavy ships, the other watching the rear of the vulnerable transport ships.  Faster and more maneuverable than his battle-line, cruisers provided the crucial inner ring of his escorts.  At 800-meters in diameter and massing 1.57 billion tons, they were far more vulnerable than the battleships, and lighter-armed to boot.  Despite that weakness against true capital ships, they could overpower any lesser vessel in existence—and their secondary and point-defense batteries were as intense as the battle-wagons own.  Plus, with their lighter layers of armor, the sensor arrays of the cruisers were capable of better resolution and range than that of capital ships.

All in all, the cruisers gave Jason his eyes and ears, in a fleeter-footed and more agile package.  Many in the Fleet—and the Senate—wanted to replace the battle-line with the lighter, less capable, but also far less expensive cruisers.  They argued that while the ships were individually less powerful; the Fleet could afford to build more of them.  And, after all, most situations did not require the firepower of four battleships of the line to resolve.  Luckily, Jason thought, Caesar did not agree.  Nor, in fact, did Jason himself.  Not while the Empire and the Confederation were at war.  Cruisers were excellent ships as escorts, or for long duty missions that required one to cruise through real-space on patrol.  They could even pack enough of a punch to hurt battleships, in large groups at least.  But they were simply too fragile, however, to stand in battle against enemy capital warships, or fixed planetary defenses, for that matter.

Four Alexander class destroyers rounded out the 342nd—Belisarius, Napoleon, Scipio Africanus, and Wallenstein.  The workhorses of the Fleet, the Alexanders were a mere 600-meters in diameter, massing just 650 million tons.  Lacking anything resembling a primary weapon, they instead carried secondaries and point-defense guns.  Combined with the—relatively—light armor protection and shielding, this should have meant that few would have any use for such fragile vessels.  Those few would be wrong, however, for if they were easily destroyed by capital guns, they were also the Greyhounds of the Fleet.  Nimble and easily maneuvered, with the largest maneuver sphere of any warship, a destroyer commander required an aggressive nature—balanced by the wisdom to know when aggression had gone too far.  But for those skippers who were capable, the destroyers held a trump card in their massive banks of torpedo launchers.  Short-ranged and notoriously near-sighted, a destroyer had to close to almost suicidal range to loose a torpedo salvo on his enemy.  But once fired, the torps could gut even a battleship as powerful and tough as Reprisal.  A full spread of torps was worse than even a Rithagrani carrier strike wing, and more difficult to stop.  The heavy thermo-nuclear warheads could overload shielding in an instant, and carve out armor like it was butter, and their onboard ECM degraded point-defense fire.  If even two or three torps—out of the hundred plus fired—slipped through; well, then normally a ship died.

But, if torps could be decisive, they were also a one-shot weapon.  Unlike the massive plasma cannons mounted aboard cruisers and battleships, individual torps were very low-mass, making them perfect for destroyers.  But they consumed tremendous amounts of surface area across the ship—and a vast amount of volume.  Adding automatic reloading equipment and magazines was just too much for the small ships to handle—they simply were not big enough for more than a single salvo.  Once fired, the tubes were empty, and stayed empty until a munitions ship could reload them.  Many powers—including the Confederation—had chosen to mount torpedoes on their cruisers, which were large enough to carry the reloading machinery and multiple salvoes stored in magazines.  In order to do so, however, such ships were forced to forgo the heavy 70-, 80-, or 90-cm plasma guns cruisers normally carried.  In effect, such cruisers were little more than big destroyers with better armor.

The Empire had decided against that path.  Instead, they devoted the space of the torpedo tubes and magazines to bigger and better guns, more electronic warfare gear and faster computers, thicker armor and heavier shields.  The cost of multiple salvoes was simply too much, at least in the opinion of the Empire.  But for destroyers they still made sense.  Torps gave them one weapon that was universally feared by all sailors of the deep black.  And, of course, destroyers were prized as the largest warship capable of entering an atmosphere and landing on a planetary surface.

Cape Town, Moscow, Perth, and Sofia, the Dresden class assault transports, were troop carriers.  Built on the same 600-meter diameter hull as the Alexanders, these 620 million ton ships were more lightly armored, and lacked any weapons other than point-defense guns.  But like the destroyers, they too could enter an atmosphere and land on the surface below.  And each of the four ships carried a fourth part of an entire Armored Strike Legion—6,000 troops and over a million tons of vehicles, cargo, supplies, munitions, and fuel.  Designed from the core out as dedicated assault ships, the Dresdens also carried nano-factories aboard that could construct any component or weapon—provided the factories had the correct elements in the proper proportions.  A Legion supported by four Dresden class ships could remain in combat indefinitely, so long as the ships had power and supplies for the factories, that is.  These particular assault ships were carrying the 501st Armored Strike Legion—the Black Panzers.  Bound for Ciria to serve on the front, the 501st was a heavy formation, with tanks, artillery, and battle-armored infantry, along with their entire support and service brigade.  An elite unit normally deployed on Terra, General Miles Tuturola had personally requested the assignment from his Imperial Majesty.  After all, the boys were getting rusty, he had bluntly told Caesar, over the objections of other, higher-ranking officers.  Caesar had been amused, and released the Black Panzers with orders to hone their edge.  I really pity the people of Ciria if peace has been declared by the time they arrive, Jason thought.

Jason finished considering all this as he took his seat at the head of the conference table to one side of the holotank.  “Gentlemen, and ladies, be seated please.  Captain Serrano, what is our current status?”

Nathan—and the other officers took their seats, even the ones attending via comm-screen.  “Admiral, we will complete our course vector change in thirteen minutes.  Following that it will require another six to accelerate for trans-light entry.  All ships have reported in at Condition Two, and General Tuturola has alerted the 501st for possible ground assault.”

“Command Hedges?” he turned to his astrogator.  “Is there anything of special interest about Tammoran?”

The tall, sandy-haired officer pursed his lips before answering.  “Yes, sir, Tammoran was included in our nav briefs.  The single star is approaching the end of its life span.  Right now, it is in full-blown Red Giant stage.  Only the outermost planets remain intact, though debris fields range throughout the system.  Radiation output is high, but our armor and shields should counteract most of the effects.  I feel, however, Admiral, that I must advise not entering the Tammoran system.”

Jason leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table.  “Why is that, Henry?”

“Sir, there is a red flag on the system in the nav data banks from the last research team to visit the system.  That star is going to explode any time now—and we won’t have much of a warning if it does.”

“A supernova?” asked Captain Aleksey Danislov from one of the video screens to the side.  The commanding officer of the Reprisal, Danislov was Jason’s Flag Captain, his senior ship commander.

“No, sir, the star is not quite massive enough for that.  However, it will go nova—and if it does than no amount of armor or shielding will prevent total destruction of our ships.”

Another officer—Command Leslie Drake, the flag communications officer—spoke up.  “How much warning will we have if it decides to blow?”

“None, if it has already popped before we arrive.  If it hasn’t, then we should have forty or so minutes from the first tachyon flash to the arrival of the leading edge of the expansion shell.  Given where Seydlitz says the Confed base is, it will take us thirty-three minutes to accelerate to minimum safe velocities for trans-light insertion from orbit, Sir.  That is not a lot of spare time.”

Jason frowned as he sat back and ran through the options.  He shook his head, “No, but there is a margin of error, enough of one at least.  All right, Miles,” he continued as he turned to speak to General Tuturola, “I doubt we are going to want to unload your troops, but keep them updated just in case.  Gentlemen, there is an enemy base in our territory.  If we knew that star was going today or tomorrow, then I would say to hell with it, and let them burn.  But we do not know.  It could be next year; it could be a decade.  And it is our job to travel in harms way.  Nathan, pass the word, next stop Tammoran.”

“The word is given, Admiral.”

“Assume your stations for trans-light insertion,” he finished as he stood, looking at his wife.  And God help us all, he thought.

************************************************************************

Forty light minutes from the Red Giant at the heart of the Tammoran system, a small rocky planet silently orbited the sullen swollen star as it had for the past six billion years.  Half the size of Mercury, the ball of rock—planet was far too grandeur a term for such a worthless piece of cosmic debris—featured no significant mineral deposits; it had no atmosphere; nothing really to attract the attention of anyone.  Until the destroyer Seydlitz had stumbled across the hidden base the Confederation had constructed on its surface, that is.  ISS Seydlitz orbited the rock at a distance of five hundred thousand kilometers, far outside of weapons range from the surface.  From that safe distance she kept watch on the base below, keeping the Confeds pinned up until the Fleet arrived to deal with the problem.

Commander Gaius Scott sat in his command chair upon the bridge of his destroyer as he waited for the arrival of the 342nd.  The Grierson Phased Tachyon Pulse Communications Array (P-Comm, for short) transmission had surprised him when he received it over eight hours ago.  With the distance between Tammoran and the Sector Headquarters on Jouett, he had not been expecting any help for the next week—possibly even two, given how stretched Imperial forces were out here on the Rim.  He had certainly not expected his transmission to reach a battle squadron in transit at a real-space way point.  If those ships had been under trans-light drive, his message would have missed them completely, for no one traveling faster than light speed could communicate with—or even detect—anyone or anything in real-space.  The Patrick-Sogabe-Kaplov (PSK) drive had given Man the stars.  Commercial vessels and transports without heavy radiation shielding could ‘only’ manage to attain a velocity of around 2.2 light-years per hour; military vessels with their better shielding (and some very few, very expensive civilian ships) could more than double that.  But if the miracle of the trans-light drive had opened the stars to exploration and colonization, it had also been subject to a number of limitations.

First among them, was the fact that there seemed to be a lower limit on how small the PSK drives could be built, limiting their use to ships with enough volume to cram them in.  That lower limit had been reached on vessels little more than half the size of his own Seydlitz.  Second, the drive consumed more and more power as the ship increased in mass, which, given the current state of power production, produced a very real and very hard limit on the upper size of the ship possible.  The law of diminishing returns had proven that past a certain point—somewhere around 94 billion or so tons—a larger vessel would be weaker than a smaller one, in terms of absolute armor and shield protection, firepower, and speed.  The third limitation was in the nature of the drive itself.  In order for the PSK drive to function at all, the ship mounting it had to attain a real-space velocity of no less than 42.075 kilometers per second on a direct vector to its destination.  Once insertion speed was reached, the PSK Drive translated the ship and crew into what the Fleet termed ‘t-space’ (or transit space).  How it managed to do so had driven more than one physicist insane.  Regardless, now matter how the thing worked, it worked, and to a Fleet officer that was all that mattered.  But the PSK Drive had one minor flaw associated with it.  For some reason known only to geniuses and God, it overloaded if engaged for longer than 20 hours, 34 minutes, and 48 seconds.

An overloaded PSK Drive threw the ship back into real-space and burnt out the drive systems simultaneously.  The entire trans-light drive had to be replaced if that happened.  It could even overload if consecutive uses of the drive exceeded the governing limit.  But, for every three seconds spent in real-space, the drive seemed to ‘recover’ two seconds that it could then spend in t-space.  No one, not even the physicists, knew why, but it imposed a very real barrier on the use of the drive system.  Imperial ships were hard-wired to prevent a single transit of more than 12 hours; though, of course every chief engineer knew how to disconnect the safeties.  And standard Imperial policy was that for every second spent in transit, a ship had to spend at least two in real-space.  It was a policy with which Commander Scott thoroughly agreed, even if it sometimes meant that he had to spend a full day cooling his heels in the deep black between transits.  After all, there was no auto-club out here in the back of beyond to rescue ships and crews that had abused their drives to the point of failure.

And it was because of that fact that the 342nd had been coasting along in real-space in the Cavanaugh system instead of racing faster than light to their original destination of Ciria.

“Sir, we are picking up the fringes of a t-space emergence wave,” Ensign Rebecca Hastings called out from Tracking, interrupting his reverie.  Scott looked down at the small repeater monitor mounted on the arm of his chair, and saw the wave gaining strength by the second.

“Thank you, Becky.  Ian,” he said as he turned to face his executive officer, “send the ship to Action Stations.  It should be Admiral Chandler, but let’s take no chances.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Ian Sinclair replied.  Turning back to his own console, he lifted a hand-held phone and pressed a button.  The lights on the bridge turned from normal to red battle lighting, and three whoops of a siren sounded throughout the ship.  “All hands, this is the XO.  Action Stations, Action Stations, all hands.  Set Condition One throughout the ship, this is not a drill.  I repeat, this is not a drill.”

“Talk to me Becky,” Commander Scott said.

“Sir, the numbers are building nicely, we should see t-space emergence in five, four, three, two, one; we have real-space emergence, sir.  Range 3.2 million kilometers, multiple point sources.”

Commander Scott could feel a drop of sweat trickling down his neck.  If this wasn’t the 342nd, then he would have only a few choices available.  Unfortunately, given the number of ship icons on the display, those choices mostly boiled down to running for his life.  “Orin, send the challenge.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” his comm officer said.  “Unknown vessels, this is His Imperial Majesty’s Starship Seydlitz, you have entered a restricted area.  Identify yourselves immediately.  I repeat, unknown vessels, this is the His Imperial Majesty’s Starship Seydlitz, you have entered a restricted area.  Identify yourselves immediately.”

For several moments, Scott and the crewmen on his bridge waited in silence.  Then from the speakers came a voice.  “Seydlitz, this is the His Imperial Majesty’s Starship Reprisal.  I do believe that we are expected.”

“Query their transponders and confirm the ID, Becky.”

The young officer concentrated on her board and then visibly relaxed.  “Transponder ID confirmed, sir.  Those are Imperial ships, and ISS Reprisal is the one transmitting.”

Scott let out the breath he had not quite realized he was holding.  “Put me on, please, Orin.”

“Hot mike, sir.”

“Reprisal, this is Seydlitz.  Welcome to Tammoran, Admiral Chandler.”

“Roger that, Seydlitz.  We are initiating deceleration for a zero-zero intercept with you in thirty-six minutes from . . . mark.  Admiral Chandler requests that you transmit all pertinent sensor data on the enemy installation and then wishes to speak with you at your convenience, Commander Scott.”

“Acknowledged, Reprisal.  Is there any further traffic this station?”

“Affirmative, Seydlitz.  From the 342nd in general and Reprisal specifically, we extend a hearty well done to the commander and crew of ISS Seydlitz.  Reprisal out.”

“Seydlitz out,” Scott said as he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.  “Orin, get with CIC and transmit the data-package for Admiral Chandler.  Ian, stand the ship down to Condition Two, and pass along that last transmission from Reprisal to the crew.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” he said.

************************************************************************

“We were sweeping the system on a routine patrol, Admiral, when we detected some electronic noise from Tammoran VII.  The Confeds must slipped up on their emcon, but if they did, then they plugged the leak real quick.  With nothing to go on but what could have just been a sensor ghost, sir, I brought Seydlitz in on a high-velocity transit for a look-see at the rock; but I wasn’t expecting to find what we did.  They must have had us on passive the entire time, ‘cause the moment we entered range they opened up.  Their coordination was off a bit, though, and their active sensors came on-line a few seconds before the guns went hot.  They managed to get off a single salvo with the guns, but we had just enough warning to evade to outside their range.  The fault was mine, sir; I should have sent in a drone, but I wasn’t even sure we had really detected anything.  We got lucky, another second or two on our original course and those heavy guns would have gutted Seydlitz like a fish.”

Jason Chandler nodded at the young officer on the view screen.  “Go on, Commander.”

“Well, sir, after that first pass, we decelerated and assumed a geo-stationary orbit from where we could observe the base.  I sent a dozen recon drones in; point defense picked off nine of them, but the three survivors got the data you see there.  Four single 120cm anti-ship guns, forty-eight twin 45cm dual-purpose guns, and one hundred and twenty quad 4.5cm anti-aerospace guns, all in individual hardpoints.  The base itself is carved into a mountain, but they have a nice smooth landing field adjacent.  Two Confed ships—fleet auxiliaries, not warships—were parked there when we arrived, and they have not tried to run.  If they follow standard Confed practices, they should have an aerospace fighter group as well, but they haven’t even tried a sortie against me if they do.”

Scott swallowed.  “Nothing Seydlitz carries is heavy enough to take out the base, Admiral, except my torps.  But to launch I would have to enter range of those 120cm guns, and even a single hit could open my ship up like a tin can.  So I made the call to observe and send for the cavalry.”

“You did well, Commander Scott.  Caesar does not expect his ship commanders to waste the lives of their men just to prove their heroism; he expects his officers to use their heads and spend the Empire’s resources wisely—which you did.  And my report of this incident to Sector HQ will indicate that.  Have you tried to establish communications?”

“Yes, sir, but they have not responded to my attempts.”

“Well, Commander,” Jason said with a grim smile, “they will damn well talk to me if they know what is good for them.”

************************************************************************

The fifteen ships under Jason’s command steadily closed the range on the enemy base.  Leviathan, Renown, Reprisal, and Vanguard—the only ships with guns that outranged the base below—were in the lead, with the cruisers, destroyers (including Seydlitz), and the transports ten thousand kilometers behind.  Strike bombers and interceptors from all the vessels of his command covered the capital ships as they steadily approached.

“Nathan, send the message one more time.  If they refuse to reply,” again, he thought,” then we will continue to close until we reach 130,000 kilometers.  Once we have achieved that range, the battle-line will maintain station and open fire unless I order otherwise.”

Jason pondered the irony of it; against an alien species, he would not have hesitated to simply bombard this facility from orbit, without either hesitation or remorse.  But the Confederation wasn’t alien.  No, they were humans who had broken from the Empire one hundred and thirty years ago, in protest against the continuing debasement and devaluation of women.  Since then, they and the Empire had been at war—on-again, off-again war—for more than a century.  Recently, the war had heated up yet again.  Even the discovery of the vaccine had not been enough to stop the sporadic fighting between the two; and given human history perhaps nothing would save the collapse of either one government or the other.  They should have learned by now; each and every time they provoke a fight, they lose even more worlds.  Still, he had been raised in a time when humanity could ill-afford large numbers of casualties.  And because of that, he would hesitate—slightly—before killing those human beings below.  But, if they do not surrender, he thought to himself, I will give the order, I will kill them all.  That is my duty, to the Empire, to Caesar, to my oath.

“Aye, aye, sir.  Confederation facility, this is the His Imperial Majesty’s Starship Reprisal.  We do not wish to cause excessive loss of life; respond please.  Confederation facility, this is the His Imperial Majesty’s Starship Reprisal.  You are out-matched.  Do not throw your lives away by making us open fire.  Respond please.”

As the range closed to 200,000 kilometers only silence came from the speakers.  Nathan shook his head at Jaso

Re: In Harm's Way
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Chapter Three

Jason grabbed the phone from the wall-mounted speaker and barked into it, “This is the Admiral.  Get me Captain Serrano.  NOW.”

As he waited for Nathan to pick up, he watched Inquisitor Kim unhook Colonel Warren and inject him with a cocktail of pain-killers and sedatives.  The Confederation officer slumped over as he quickly lost consciousness.  Standing aside, Kim looked at Jason and shook his head.

“He actually believes that it could work, as much as he does not wish to, Admiral.”

“I know Inquisitor; that is what frightens me about this.”

“Flag Bridge, Captain Serrano,” spoke a voice from the phone.

“Nathan, how long will it take to complete recovery of all troops and prisoners from the planet?”

“Forty minutes, Admiral.”

“Order them to expedite and lay in a course plot on least time to t-space from orbit for all ships.  If we begin departure now, can the shuttles catch us?”

“Not at best speed, Sir.  We would have to hold acceleration down to 2-g’s until they catch us and we recover them.  Then we could take the formation to up to max.”

“How much time would that save?”

“One moment, Sir, we are running those numbers.  Breaking orbit right now at 2-g’s, and then increasing to 6-g’s after shuttle recovery saves eleven minutes on our time to t-space velocity.”

“Do it.  And tell the Marines dirtside to get their asses back aboard ASAP, because we are not waiting around.”

Jason racked the phone and turned back to the intelligence officer.  “As soon as she is able, Kim, grill Palik.  In the meantime, . . . “

“In the meantime, Sir, I should begin with the research scientists,” Kim finished for Jason.  “Admiral, I do not tell you how to run your ships; please show me the same courtesy, after all, we are both professionals at what we do.”

“Inform me immediately if you uncover any information, Inquisitor, I will be on the Flag Bridge.”

************************************************************************

“SHAG YOUR ASSES, MARINES!” Saul bellowed in the main hanger bay of the facility, directed as the last members of his company to come tearing up to the shuttle ramp.  Four Intruders crouched in the pressurized bay, engines already spun up and ready to go once the last of the Marines were loaded.  “GO, GO, GO!”

Gunnery Sergeant Josef Laramie counted each Marine as he passed by, the computer in his armor keeping an independent count.  As the last trooper streaked up the ramp, he compared totals:  149 to 149.  The three dead Marines had already been loaded, and the prisoners; well frak the prisoners if they had missed a few.  “That’s all, Centurion,” he snapped as he headed up the ramp.

Saul turned and followed him as the navy crew chief began retracting the ramp and closing the hatch.  “MAKE A HOLE, MARINES,” he yelled as he headed for the cockpit at the forward end of the shuttle.  Armor clad Marines squeezed back against each other as they cleared a path for the Centurion to the cockpit hatch.  Reaching it, he stuck his head in.  “We are loaded, Warrant, lift us off now.”

“No can do, Centurion, we have to let the bay depressurize . . . “

“Frak that, Warrant; the Admiral said ASAP.  “WILKENS!” he boomed into his helmet microphone.

“Sir,” the heavy weapons specialist answered.

“You riding in Dorsal 1?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Blow that frakkin hanger door out of our way, Marine!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

The flight officer—and the co-pilot, and the flight engineer—turned to look at Saul with widening eyes.  “You can’t just . . .”

The whine of the rotating turret interrupted him, and then the quad plasma guns fired in sequence.  The explosion ripped apart the doors, and a hurricane force gale of air erupted into the vacuum  The shuttle rocked violently on its landing legs and a hideous screech—like fingernails across a chalk board—echoed throughout the interior as it was dragged twenty meters across the ferro-crete hanger floor.

“Consider us depressurized for flight, Warrant.  Now lift this puppy off.”

Perhaps it was coincidence, but Saul’s pulse cannon was pointing at the pilot as he said this.  The crew turned back to their stations, and the shuttle lifted up and roared out past the shattered doors, the other three following in their wake.

As the shuttle lifted for orbit, Saul watched the flight engineers console depicted the steadily increasing range from the Confederation facility.  As the last shuttle passed the five kilometer mark, Saul yelled, “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” and transmitted the detonation command to the dozen nuclear scuttle charges his Marines had rigged.

Twelve 100-kiloton detonations devoured the base behind them, but the shuttles were too far down-range to suffer more than a minor scorching of their paint.  “Bet the Admiral forget we laid the charges, gentlemen, but hey; waste not, want not, I always say.”   

************************************************************************

“Nuclear detonations!  Multiple detonations on the planetary surface!” sang out Marius Valentine from the Flag tactical plot.

Jason smiled crooked as the remainder of his staff began trying to determine who was shooting at whom.  “Centurion Yarrow strikes again,” he said.

Nathan Serrano nodded, “The nuclear demo charges?”

“I forget to tell them not to bother.  Oh well, I always did enjoy fireworks.  Use this as an unscheduled drill for the tactical team, Nathan; I will deal with Saul when they get back on board.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“Sir,” said Commander Hedges from astrogation.

“What is it, Henry,” Jason asked, his stomach suddenly knotting.

“We have just received a massive tachyon flash from the Red Giant.  It has begun to collapse, Sir.”

“Time to t-space insertion?”

“Twenty-three minutes at current heading and thrust; including the increase in thrust after recovering the shuttles.”

“How long before the shock-wave arrives?”

“Thirty-nine minutes, Admiral.  It seems we began departure in the nick of time.”

God, let her be wrong, Jason thought to himself.  Let her be wrong.  “Nathan, send all ships to General Quarters, and put me on the speaker; all-hands, all-ships.”

“You’re hot, Admiral,” Nathan said after adjusting a few controls.

Picking up the phone, Jason closed his eyes.  “This is Admiral Chandler.  We are preparing for t-space insertion on a course to Ciria.  Unfortunately, the Red Giant has also picked this moment to explode.  We will enter t-space well before the shock wave can reach us, and our shielding and armor can handle any radiation output before it arrives.  Unfortunately, recent studies by the Confederation personnel at the base on Tammoran VII indicate that this event may have some effect on ships in t-space near Tammoran.  I can not tell you what those effects might be.  I will only ask that you trust your officers and carry out their commands.  To the officers of the Fleet and the Legions, remain calm and do your jobs.  This is Confederation research after all; it may well prove to be nothing.  However, I want all ships to stand by at action stations with damage control teams ready.  Soldiers and sailors of the Empire!  HAIL CEASAR!”

“HAIL CEASAR!” rang out in answer from the men of the Flag Deck as Jason racked the phone.

Jason turned back to Nathan, whose face had gone pale.  “Effects, Admiral?  What sort of effects can affect us in t-space?”

“Just pray the mad Confed woman is exactly that, Nathan.  Pray.”  He began to head towards the hatch.  “I will be in my quarters, if needed, Nathan.”  With my wife, he thought to himself.
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #27 on: April 13, 2009, 11:12:27 AM »
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Woo hoo! Methinks they will be in for an interesting ride...
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All I want is just a nibble of 'Mech armor & myomer... is that so wrong? Wink
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #28 on: April 13, 2009, 04:40:31 PM »
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Time for a little travel in the universes  Cheesy
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #29 on: June 01, 2009, 11:30:25 AM »
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At the center of the system, the Red Giant was in full collapse.  Starved of fuel for the fusion reaction that kept the star bloated and swollen, filled with molecules of iron fused together from hydrogen and helium and lithium and other lighter elements, it suddenly could no longer sustain itself.  As it collapsed, the gravity of the star soared, heat output increased wildly, and it no longer knew what exactly to do.  Exploding, however, seemed like a good idea.

************************************************************************

The jump clock in CIC slowly counted down the minutes and seconds as Reprisal and her brood raced for the magic velocity to enter t-space.  Jason leaned on the edge of the holo-tank and watched it flicker from one number to the next.  Time itself seemed to stand still.  Minutes were hours, and seconds were minutes, and beads of sweat began to pop out onto his forehead.

He stood straight, and adjusted his uniform jacket as he wiped his brow.  His staff—the hand-picked staff he had chosen for this assignment—was doing their job and doing it well.  No panicked voices sounded out from their stations, each of his men and women were performing their duties like the professionals they were.  He looked back up at the clock:  2 minutes to go.

The armored hatch to the Flag Bridge opened, letting his wife and her entourage into the cavernous space, and he watched her cross the bridge towards him.  The admiral swallowed a sudden lump in his throat as he did.  God in heaven, if anything went wrong, she would die here with him—or be stranded centuries in the past; all because of his selfish needs and desire to have her with him.

The Praetorians stopped well short, and her ladies-in-waiting stood back, but she walked up next to him, looking up with nervous eyes.  Ignoring the need for protocol, he placed one arm around her, and pulled her tight against his chest, and she laid her head on his breast.

Time now raced, and only seconds were left until the Fleet engaged its PSK drives.  Jason closed his eyes, and he held Julia tight against him.

************************************************************************

Seventeen ships—fifteen Imperial and two Confederation—disappeared from our universe as the drives engaged.  Flung into a different dimension of space-time, they hurtled faster-than-light away from Tammoran.  Yet it was not enough of a head-start.  For the Confederation Commodore had been RIGHT about the effects of the nova—and a shock-wave expanding throughout T-space as well as normal space hit the ships almost immediately.

************************************************************************

Reprisal rocked hard to one side, with the lights flickering on and off.  Alarms began to sound, and red emergency lights began to shine.  Jason barely kept his footing as he held the two of them upright, even as the ship lurched yet again, and then a massive BANG caused the vessel to jump, and both of them hit the deck.

“FTL OFF-LINE!” his flag engineer cried out from his station, amid dozens of other emergency reports.  “WE HAVE EMERGENCE IN NORMAL SPACE!”

Jason knelt on the deck, and touched Julia’s cheek.  “You all right, love?”

She nodded her head, but her eyes were full of fear.  “Never been better, Jase.  Best you see to your ships, Admiral.”

“Hail Caesar,” he whispered, causing her to giggle and hit him on the arm.  But then he stood, helping her up to her feet as well, and turned to face the central tank once more.  “STATUS REPORT!”

“FTL is off-line, Admiral,” Nathan said from behind him as he listened to the reports streaming into his ear-bug.  “Comm reports all ships of the squadron and attached auxiliaries are in normal space—sporadic damage reports throughout.  Mostly minor damage—except in engineering, and we are still waiting on reports from there.  Weapons are good with minor shock damage, shields are on-line and ready to engage, life support is at 100%.”

Jason nodded.  “Get me the engineering reports ASAP on the status of the drive, Nathan.  Confirm with all vessels their status and instruct them to stand by for instructions.  Navigation,” he said, stepping over towards Commander Hedges, “where are we?”

Henry Hedges, flag astrogator stared as his board display in disbelief, his jaw dropped and his eyes wide.  He did not answer.

“Henry,” Jason continued softly and gently.  “Henry.”

Finally, the astrogator turned to look at the Admiral and he shook his head, gathering his senses back together.  “My apologies, Sir.”

“Where are we, Henry?”

“According to this, Sir, we are in Tammoran—right where we started.  But this CAN’T be right.  There is no sign of the nova—none.”

“I see,” he said, woodenly.  “Thank you, Henry.”

He hung his head—and then lifted it again, his face fixed and stony with determination.  No—our time or the past or the future or whatever, I will not let myself be driven down by an event beyond my control.  I will NOT be defeated by a quirk of fate, nor let myself or my people be destroyed in the process, he thought.  He nodded to himself, and marched across the bridge to Nathan.

The chief of staff looked up at his approach.  “Admiral, Engineering reports the PSK Drives can be restored to full function—but will take at least an hour to conduct repairs.  Apparently, there was a massive surge through the system that shut down the entire unit—all ships are reporting the same.  All other systems are operational, with only minor damage.”

“Excellent, Captain Serrano; get me a channel all-hands, all-ships, if you would please.”

Nathan nodded, and keyed in a few commands on the console, and then handed Jason a phone.

“All personnel, this is the Admiral,” Jason began as he looked at the men and women—his men and women—on the Flag Bridge turning to look and listen to him.  “We have suffered an event unlike any other in the history of our race.  We have been thrown out of T-Space due to the gravitic interference of a star going nova—an event that has never been considered as a possibility.  Except by one researcher in the Confederation.  She believed that such an event would form a bridge through time—into our past.  I do not know if that is what has happened—but we will find out, and we will find this out together.”

“As of this moment, we are in space-normal conditions in the Tamaron System.  As you are aware, when we entered T-Space, that star was in the process of dying in a nova.  Now, it is not.  I do not know WHEN we are—but WE STILL ARE.  All of us are here NOW, whenever NOW is.  We will discover exactly how far back we have gone, and when we do—when I DO—you will be told.  Until then, you are Imperial officers and spacers and marines of the Fleet; you are tankers and troopers and warrants of the Legion; YOU ARE THE EMPIRE.  We will overcome, as Mankind has ALWAYS overcome.  Carry out your orders, and remain ready for action.  Chandler out.”

As he disconnected from the live broadcast, he could see the shocked expressions on the faces of his crew, his friends, his wife.  “Nathan,” he whispered.

“Yes, Admiral?”

“As soon as all ships report restored PSK Drive function, set course for Earth at our best speed.  We are going home.”

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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #45 on: August 18, 2009, 04:17:50 PM »
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Mahogany...

You are the only one that makes me look for words.  Wink
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #46 on: August 19, 2009, 05:41:55 AM »
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Guess whose coming to diner. Nice to strike it rich so easily. Wink
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #47 on: August 20, 2009, 01:30:11 PM »
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“If I had known how much of this bureaucrat manure Father had to deal with—and that you expect ME to deal with, Jas, I swear I would have never agreed to this.”

“Love, this is not even one-hundredth of one percent of what your illustrious father dealt with on a daily basis.  Just wait until we get a proper Imperial Senate seated once again—and then you will really experience what a headache the job is.  And it was for that,” he said with a beaming smile, “as much as having no desire to usurp the Imperial laurel that I refused the job in the first place.  Hail Caesar.”

His wife’s answer came in the form of a plush sofa cushion smashing into his face at a reasonably high rate of speed.

“Feel better, love?”

“No . . . yes . . . hell, I don’t know,” she answered sourly.  “There is this whole matter of the population down there to deal with.  Three-quarters of a million residents on Vancouver Island?  My God, Jas; that is twenty times what I expected.”

The admiral, warlord, and prince-consort shrugged his shoulders.  “The whole bloody planet is seriously overpopulated by our standards, Julia.  The last census put our Earth’s total population at 1.2 billion, and the older Senators were grumbling about us taxing the environment and resources.  There are more than SIX billion people on this planet right now.  That is almost one-tenth the entire population of the EMPIRE in our time.”

“It is just something we have to deal with, along with setting up the fuel processing facility on the moon, organizing the first colonial expedition to Alpha Cent, boot-strapping this chaotic hot-bed of insurgency to produce enough of our technology to defend against the Ordan-Kraal and any other predatory race, convincing the nearly TWO HUNDRED individual governing bodies and who-the-hell knows how many political factions it is in their best interests to unite, and just as a side-note reform the Senate and reestablish civilian control over the Imperial Fleet and Legion.”

“And I suppose you have more items for the week after next as well?” the Empress of Humanity asked acidly as she frowned at her husband.  And then she began to giggle; the giggles rapidly descending to full-blown guffaws of laughter.  Jason stood from his chair and moved across his cabin to sit down beside his wife, and he took her in his arms to hold her tightly against him.

The laughter turned to sobs and tears, as Julia buried her head in his chest, and he slowly stroked her back and her hair and made a soft, gentle hushing sound.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Jas,” she whispered.  “Why did this happen?”

“That, love, I don’t know.  God moves in mysterious ways, it is said.  But I do know one thing—you can do this.  And you will be no mere figurehead, Julia.  You learned from Caesar Nicolas and your brothers more about politics than you think, and you are a scion of the House of O’Conner, the last O’Conner of the Imperial line in the now in which we live.”

“You really think so?” she asked, looking up at him with tears still trickling down her cheeks.

He smiled, and used one thumb to brush a tear aside, and then gently caressed her check.  “I know that the woman I married and that I love can.  Are you still her?”

The young woman nodded her head, and Jason lowered his head and softly kissed her lips.

************************************************************************

“If this twenty-something bimbo is their leader, then we have learned one thing about these so-called Imperials; her husband—Admiral, Warlord, and Prince-Consort Chandler—must be the real power and authority.  Did you SEE that gown she wore in New York to address the UN?  Shameful, shameful, shameful,” Nancy Grace said to her guests.  “I’ve seen street walkers wearing more venue appropriate clothing than that.”

“Nancy, all of you so-called liberal feminists are just pissed off that this young woman, this lady, happens to be more attractive than all the rest of you combined.  Can you drop the cat-fight you want to provoke?” replied Professor Emmett Leshy, head of the political science department of New York University.

“This is no cat-fight, Professor, and it has nothing to do with her beauty,” Grace replied hotly.  “This is about morals and respectability.  You could see her breasts underneath that gown—she wasn’t wearing anything beneath it, for sure.  That sort of thing might go over in Hollywood or some mid-east harem, but if she wants to be taken seriously as an actual leader, she needs to quit being such a floozy.”

She turned back to face the cameras.  “And for another view point of this issue and all of the others arising from the arrival of our Imperial guests, we will bring in our next guest.  In a CNN exclusive, this show has managed to arrange for Captain Nathan Serrano, the chief of staff for the afore-mentioned power behind the throne, Admiral and Prince-Consort Chandler.  Captain Serrano, welcome to New York.”

Nathan walked out onto the stage, his face flushed and tight, his hands balled into tightly clenched fists at his side.  Ignoring the chair, he crossed the stage until he stood directly in front of Nancy Grace.  “Captain Serrano, if you will take . . .”

The sharp crack of his open hand striking her cheek echoed across the studio and over the live CNN feed to millions of homes across the globe.  The woman anchor looked up in shock as he swung another blow—this one back-handed—and toppled her from her chair onto the carpeted studio floor.

“How dare you, you miserable jealous hag, speak of her Imperial Majesty in that manner?  In my presence, no less.”

A half-dozen staffers came running onto the stage, one of them wiping the blood of Grace’s split lip from her face.  She sputtered, and tried to stand, but fell, and then—helped by two of aides—managed to get her feet underneath her.

“SECURITY!  I want this man arrested!” she shrieked, as the cameras continued to roll.

Nathan’s mouth turned up in crooked grin.  “You call those spineless thugs security?  My own detail is real security, Miss Grace.  This interview is over,” he said as he turned away and began to walk off-stage.

“I’ll sue you,” the anchor screamed at his back.  “I’ll sue you and your Empress-whore alike.”

Nathan stopped and shook his head.  And then he turned back to face Grace again.  “Are you really that much of an idiot?  As I have always said, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”  And then he moved back towards her, his fist balled and his arm cocked back.

The staffers took one look at the furious officer and lifted Grace aloft and rushed her from the stage—away from the man about to beat her (and maybe them) into a senseless pulp.

The Imperial officer stopped and unclenched his hand, and released his breath.  And then her turned to face the cameras, still carrying the images and sounds live across the world.  “Remember this, people of Earth.  We don’t play by your rules.  To all of the commentators and journalists out there, consider this your first and last warning before you insult Caesar Julia again publicly.  I went easy on Miss Grace since she is just a woman.  Neither I, nor any other Imperial, will be so lenient next time.”
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #48 on: August 20, 2009, 03:19:28 PM »
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Cultural problems?  Grin
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #49 on: August 20, 2009, 03:34:41 PM »
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“Mister President, Warlord Chandler is here,” Rahm said as he walked into the Oval Office.  He grinned as he continued, “and he even agreed to hand his sidearm over to the Secret Service and leave the Praetorians behind.”

Barak sat back in his chair, frowning as he mused over that course he hoped that this meeting would take.  The Canadian deal still struck him as wrong—selling part of their territory, like that.  And the fact that the tremendous amount of hard currency it would infuse into their economy would make them the single richest nation on Earth caused his stomach to churn with acid.  Now, the Canadian Prime Minister was talking about returning to the gold standard—even with the depressed prices that Motherload was causing, it would mean that Canada’s economic forecast was far, far brighter than that of the United States.

Didn’t Chandler and his Empress realize what they were doing to the global economy?  To America—specifically, to Barak’s vision of America?

“Show him in, Rahm, and then pull up a chair,” he finally said as he stood and walked over towards the twin sofas in the center of the Oval.

Moments later, the door opened once more and his political strategist and chief of staff ushered in his guest.  Barak forced himself to smile and he extended his hand in welcome.  Jason nodded and took the hand in a firm grip, shaking it once, and then he sat down from the President, facing him across the low table.

“Care for some coffee or refreshment, Admiral Chandler?” the President asked as he sat as well.

“No, but thank you anyway, Mister President.  I should also thank you for granting me this audience on Her Imperial Majesty’s behalf.  My own staff laid odds of 4-to-1 against after I shot out the ceiling in New York.”

Barak and Rahm both politely chuckled, and then the President leaned forward.

“Speaking of New York, you do realize there is a warrant out for the arrest of Captain Serrano?”

“Yes,” Jason coldly replied.  “But unless the local police grow wings it will be a cold day in Hell before he appears before them.”

Barak held up one hand in a calming gesture.  “I understand, really I do.  But, you must understand, he committed assault and battery on live television.  He has to stand trial for that.”

“Bullshit.  Issue him a pardon, Mister President—that is within your purview.”

“Why would I do that, Admiral?”

Jason mirrored the President, resting his own elbows on his thighs, interlacing his fingers and leaned forward.  “Because we are about to make a deal, Mister President.”

“What kind of a deal, Admiral?”

“The kind of deal that will have you and yours singing hosannas about the forces under my command.  The kind of deal that will let you keep one of those campaign promises you made, and will cost you very, very little in the short term.”

“And in the long-term?”

Jason shrugged.  “It might bite you on your ass, but not if you deal with us fairly.  Do you know how we Imperial subjects and citizens feel about terrorism, Mister President?”

“Not really, no.”

“It is an abomination before God and mankind.  Random violence directed at civilians going about their daily lives—none of us like it, and we’ve got a lot of experience combating it.  The Age of Terror in which you live is ramping up to get a whole lot worse, Mister President.  In the future which I used to live, our history books teach us that in just three years New York, London, and Paris will be hit by Al-Qaeda using nuclear weapons produced in Iran with Pakistani assistance.  Los Angeles, Washington, and Berlin will also be targeted, but those weapons will be either intercepted or fail to detonate.  Millions will die from the initial blast and the fall-out—and you will be blamed for letting it happen.  Twelve days before the next Presidential election you will suffer the greatest tragedy ever to befall this nation, and the voters will blame you for failing to protect them.”

President Obama sat back heavily against the sofa, his mouth agape.  Jason nodded his head.  “Yes, your defeat is only a small part of what happens afterwards.  Your successor—and no, I will not tell you his or her name—will order two Ohio class missile subs to strike Iran, and then Syria will hit Israel in retaliation.  The IDF will respond, so will Egypt and Saudi Arabia, Iraq will explode in violence and following the destruction of Jerusalem by a nuclear weapon, a renegade Israeli pilot will drop another weapon on Mecca.”

Barak blinked.  What the man sitting across from him was describing was nothing less than Armageddon.

“It doesn’t have to happen,” Jason said as he sat back, crossing his arms across his body.

“How can we stop it?” the President whispered.

“You can’t.  I can.  And my Empress has authorized me to make the following proposal to you—take it or leave it, but it stands as is.”

“Go on.”

“You will schedule a national address for tonight or tomorrow in which you will announce that all United States forces and all NATO forces will withdraw from Afghanistan within the next thirty days.  In their place, the 501st will deploy and we will destroy Al-Qaeda and the Taliban.  You will make no public criticism of our methods, nor will you issue any protests when we cross the Pakistani border to finish the job.  Selected elements of the 501st and the Fleet Marines will also hit every last single terrorist site on the planet—regardless of which country it might lie within.  Once again, we expect you silence, if you find that you cannot stomach actively supporting our methods.”

“You and the NATO countries will initiate an immediate shutdown of all trade with Iran while the Empire of Humanity ‘negotiates’ with them on nuclear disarmament.  I expect that negotiation to result in the death of the ruling council of mullahs and the current government—probably most of the Revolutionary Guards will have to go as well.”

“Within sixty days, Mister President, we will disable the current Iranian nuclear production program, dismantle their facilities, and either kill or capture nine out of every ten current members of every terrorist organization on the planet.  Once we go through the intelligence windfall we expect to find, rolling up the remaining ten percent should be fairly easily done.  After that, the Empress will address the world live.  She will declare war against any who—in the future—use terrorism to accomplish their goals, regardless of any national boundaries.  However, she will also offer amnesty to any surviving terrorists who renounce all further violence.”

“Furthermore, as we speak, representatives of Her Imperial Majesty are meeting with the Prime Ministers of Israel and Palestine, as well as the King of Saudi Arabia.  We are offering Israel and Palestine both a defense treaty with the Empire of Humanity.  Any attack—on either country, by anyone—will be seen as a directly attack on the Empire itself.  Even if it is Israel or Palestine doing the attacking.”

Jason bared his teeth.  “You people have had sixty years to fix the damned mess in the Middle East, but you just seem to muck it more.  The Ordan-Kraal are coming, Mister President, and quite frankly neither I nor Her Imperial Majesty have time for this continued bullshit.”

Barak nodded.  “And in return, you want what?”

“A treaty between the USA and the Empire of Humanity, approved by your Senate and signed into law by you.  The United States will not prevent any of its citizens or residents who wish to emigrate to the Empire from doing so.  Nor will they prevent any its citizens or residents from joining the Imperial military, even if they reside inside your borders.  The United States will erect no artificial trade barriers with the Empire—or with any corporation registered within its lawful borders.  You may neither attempt to tax any Imperial subject—even if he remains a United States citizen or resident—nor may you tax any corporate entity based on Imperial soil.”

“You will award full diplomatic protection to all those Imperials who arrived in orbit with me and my wife, effective the day the treaty is signed.  And you WILL pardon Captain Serrano and any other of my personnel accused of a crime in your borders.  Any crimes committed by my people, I will deal with, according to our laws.”

“So what will it be, Mister President?  I’m giving you the chance to end this war now and prevent massive bloodshed on a scale that will scar the survivors for life.  Is it worth those few things to be the man who won the War on Terrorism your predecessor began?  Is it?”
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #50 on: August 20, 2009, 05:16:51 PM »
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Oh boy, don't do it!
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #51 on: August 21, 2009, 01:53:24 PM »
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A bit harsh, no?
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #52 on: August 24, 2009, 11:14:57 AM »
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I reworked the previous section (Jason meeting with the Pres and Rahm) into something I hope works better.  Let me know if you prefer version A or version B, all right?

AtV,GMotER




“Mister President, Warlord Chandler is here,” Rahm said as he walked into the Oval Office.  He grinned as he continued, “and he even agreed to hand his sidearm over to the Secret Service and leave the Praetorians behind.”

Barak sat back in his chair, frowning as he mused over that course he hoped that this meeting would take.  The Canadian deal still struck him as wrong—selling part of their territory, like that.  And the fact that the tremendous amount of hard currency it would infuse into their economy would make them the single richest nation on Earth caused his stomach to churn with acid.  Now, the Canadian Prime Minister was talking about returning to the gold standard—even with the depressed prices that Motherload was causing, it would mean that Canada’s economic forecast was far, far brighter than that of the United States.

Didn’t Chandler and his Empress realize what they were doing to the global economy?  To America—specifically, to Barak’s vision of America?

“Show him in, Rahm, and then pull up a chair,” he finally said as he stood and walked over towards the twin sofas in the center of the Oval.

Moments later, the door opened once more and his political strategist and chief of staff ushered in his guest.  Barak forced himself to smile and he extended his hand in welcome.  Jason nodded and took the hand in a firm grip, shaking it once, and then he sat down from the President, facing him across the low table.

“Care for some coffee or refreshment, Admiral Chandler?” the President asked as he sat as well.

“No, but thank you anyway, Mister President.  I should also thank you for granting me this audience on Her Imperial Majesty’s behalf.  My own staff laid odds of 4-to-1 against after I shot out the ceiling in New York.”

Barak and Rahm both politely chuckled, and then the President leaned forward.

“Speaking of New York, you do realize there is a warrant out for the arrest of Captain Serrano?”

“Yes,” Jason coldly replied.  “But unless the local police grow wings it will be a cold day in Hell before he appears before them.”

Barak held up one hand in a calming gesture.  “I understand, really I do.  But, you must understand, he committed assault and battery on live television.  He has to stand trial for that.”

“Bullshit.  Issue him a pardon, Mister President—that is within your purview.”

“Why would I do that, Admiral?”

Jason mirrored the President, resting his own elbows on his thighs, interlacing his fingers and leaned forward.  “Because we are about to make a deal, Mister President.”

“What kind of a deal, Admiral?”

“The kind of deal that will have you and yours singing hosannas about the Empire of Humanity.  The kind of deal that will let you keep one of those campaign promises you made, and will cost you very, very little in the short term.”

“And in the long-term?”

Jason shrugged.  “It might bite you on your ass, but not if you deal with us fairly.  Do you know how we Imperial subjects and citizens feel about terrorism, Mister President?”

“Not really, no.”

“It is an abomination before God and mankind.  Random violence directed at civilians going about their daily lives—none of us like it, and we’ve got a lot of experience combating it.  The Age of Terror in which you live is ramping up to get a whole lot worse, Mister President.  In the future which I used to live, our history books teach us that in just three years New York, London, and Paris will be hit by Al-Qaeda using nuclear weapons produced in Iran with Pakistani assistance.  Los Angeles, Washington, and Berlin will also be targeted, but those weapons will be either intercepted or fail to detonate.  Millions will die from the initial blast and the fall-out—and you will be blamed for letting it happen.  Twelve days before the next Presidential election you will suffer the greatest tragedy ever to befall this nation, and the voters will blame you for failing to protect them.”

President Obama sat back heavily against the sofa, his mouth agape.  Jason nodded his head.  “Yes, your defeat is only a small part of what happens afterwards.  Your successor—and no, I will not tell you his or her name—will order two Ohio class missile subs to strike Iran, and then Syria will hit Israel in retaliation.  The IDF will respond, so will Egypt and Saudi Arabia, Iraq will explode in violence, and following the destruction of Jerusalem by a nuclear weapon, a renegade Israeli pilot will drop yet another weapon on Mecca.”

Barak blinked.  What the man sitting across from him was describing was nothing less than Armageddon.

“It doesn’t have to happen,” Jason said as he sat back, crossing his arms across his body.

“How can we stop it?” the President whispered.

“You can’t.  I can.  And my Empress has authorized me to make the following proposal to you—take it or leave it, but it stands as is.”

“Go on.”

“We will share any information we have on those who will be responsible for the attacks with your intelligence services—along with those of several other nations that we believe we can trust.  Knowing how they smuggle the devices in, you should be able to intercept them and heighten your own security; or failing that, you can just kill the terrorists ahead of time.”

“Of course, that doesn’t mean the attacks will not happen—the time-line is already changed by our very presence.  But knowing the hows and whys will let you stop this attack—or similar attacks—in our present time.  Regardless of what you do or do not agree to today, that information is yours; the Empress insisted upon that.  Personally, I would have used it as a bargaining chip, but she feels differently.”

As Jason paused, the President and his Chief of Staff exchanged and glance, and then Rahm nodded and the President looked back at Jason and motioned for him to continue.

“We are already looking ahead at integrating our technology with your own—but not at the expense of being rendered irrelevant.  I believe other than military technology—which we will NOT be distributing among you people—the second item you desperately want is fusion power generation technology.  What the Empire of Humanity has decided to do is this.”

“We will form a corporate entity, based within the enclave, with the Empress holding a twenty-five percent share and a further twenty-five percent share equally divided among all individuals that arrived with the ships of my command.  Discussions are already taking place with several local experts native to this world who will direct the day-to-day operation of the company—Wintershaven Imperial Fusion Products—and will control an additional fifteen percent stake in their own names.”

“The remaining thirty-five percent will be available for investment, but the company will be run by a board selected by vote of majority share-holders, which will—for the time being—result in a board selected by us.  WIFP will agree to build, maintain, and operate fusion power generation stations for anyone who wants them:  under certain conditions, of course.”

“The facilities will be leased, not sold, and will remain the property of the Empire of Humanity in perpetuity.  The land required for each facility will be given to the Empire and be legally recognized by the governing body as Imperial soil for the duration that the facility is present, the same as if it were an embassy or consulate.”

“WIFP will ensure its own on-site security, emergency procedures, et cetera, in accordance with Imperial—not local—law.  In addition, all of our employees will be Imperial subjects and citizens that we will train and assign to each facility.  These employees will be granted the same diplomatic immunity as that granted to accredited diplomats.  The employees will be free to live, shop, and travel in whatever country they live, but are under diplomatic protection even outside of the facility.  The nation accepting such a facility must agree that the Empire will take the lead in investigating any crimes against our personnel.”

“In exchange for all of this, we will provide cheap, almost unlimited power generation on a scale that only your science-fiction authors have heretofore dreamed of.  Best of all, from your point-of-view, Mister President, is that you can tell the left-wing of your own party that the energy production is zero-emission, so there will be virtually no environmental pollution.”

Jason smiled.  “Can I go ahead and get that cup of tea while you mull that over, Mister President?”

Rahm stood and walked to the door while Barak considered carefully the full extent of what Chandler had just said.  It would reduce green-house emissions by a huge margin, depending on how fast they could build the facilities.

“How long until you could begin?” he asked.

“We are looking at a year until we are ready to begin on-site construction, with another six-to-nine months at each site until power production begins.”

“That won’t help with our need for foreign oil in the short-run, then.”

“No, but the second part will.  A second company—same type of structure as before—will also be set up, this one producing highly advanced batteries for general sale.  Less capable of power storage than the grav-fusion fuel cells we use in our military tech, Mister President, we still are several orders of magnitude further advanced in battery development.  This new electric car—the Volt—that has been so acclaimed in the media, this vehicle will be obsolete when we start selling our stuff.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  Imagine batteries half the size of the ones in the Volt, a quarter of the weight, and with the capability to store a charge twenty-five times greater.  That would be one thousand miles on a single charge.  Include a small liquid-fueled engine to recharge the system and a pull-in connection for overnight and I think you might begin to see the advantages.”

Rahm walked back in with a cup of tea on a saucer.  Jason nodded at him and took it, and then drank a sip and set down the cup on the table.  “We can be ready to ship the batteries in less than four months—enough to refit all of Detroit’s annual production.  Within another two months, we can be producing enough for every car produced in the USA, Japan, and South Korea—and within a year the entire world.  A year after that, we can begin to refit older vehicles with battery systems and electrical engines.  You can be the President to completely remove the internal-combustion engine from the American culture, Mister President.”

Barak suddenly felt light-headed.  It was what they all wanted—what they had dreamed of for years.  An America that was free of foreign oil, using non-polluting technologies to generate energy and move people around the country.  And then he looked up at Chandler again.

“This will kill some of our manufacturing and mining jobs—even more so than your deal with the Canadians over that asteroid have.”

Jason shrugged.  “That can’t be helped.  But it will—in the long-term—let your people develop new technologies based upon what they have, which will spur your manufacturing and economy, provided your government gets out of their way.  But that is outside of my discussions with you for today.”

“I am certain that you will consider our offer for the power facilities and batteries very carefully, but the thing we are most concerned over is the situation in Afghanistan and the Pakistani border—and Iran’s nuclear program.  North Korea can be easily contained—if the Chinese agree, and for the right terms they will agree.  Iran is not quite so easily dealt with.”

“How would you like to pull all of your troops in Afghanistan home, Mister President—now, not next year, not in four years, not in a decade, but NOW?”

“We can’t, Admiral Chandler.  We have an obligation to those people—and to our own to get Al Qaeda.”

“What if I agree to commit the 501st to get them for you?”

The President suddenly sat back and stared across the table as Jason picked up the cup of tea and took another sip.  Rahm was almost bouncing in his seat, and Barak nodded at him to go on.

“How do you propose doing this—with less than thirty thousand men, Admiral?” the political advisor asked, in a rather scornful tone of voice.  “That is less than one-third the total number of troops our generals tell us we need.”

“Actually less than twenty-five thousand, if we are just considering the 501st, Mister Emmanuel,” Jason replied as he sat down the teacup again.  “We do have some experience with insurgency in our century long off-again on-again war with the Confederacy from our time.  Believe me when I say we’ll get the job done.”

“But if we do this—IF WE DO THIS—we want a free hand.  No protesting over our methods, no official denouncements of our policies, not so much as a single e-mail complaining in the slightest.  Give us six months, and the Taliban will be shattered forever, in both Afghanistan and Pakistan, and then we will take care of Iran if it is still attempting to build WMD.”

“It will also give you—and the rest of the world—a good hard look at what my boys can do when riled up.  And it will give the 501st something to shoot at, which is always a good thing, since I don’t think you really want them among your civilians right now, not in the mood they are in.”

“Caesar Julia will make an announcement later this week, gentlemen, in which she will declare war between the Empire of Humanity and all terrorists, regardless of where they are located.  We intend to stamp out this disease cell-by-cell if we have to, and we have the capability to do it.  Captain Serrano is in Moscow tonight, discussing this same thing with Mister Putin—the real power behind the throne.  We are going to solve their little problem in Chechnya if they agree, and I believe they will.  Same with the Filipino government and their problem, and the Malaysians, and the . . . well, you get the idea.”

“And in return, what exactly do you want?”

“Diplomatic immunity for all of my people when on US soil.  Retroactively from the day we arrived in orbit—that is non-negotiable.  No interference with any US citizen or resident that seeks to join the Imperial armed forces.  No interference with any US citizen or subject that wishes to emigrate to the Imperial enclave.  You will make no attempt to tax any Imperial subject or citizen—including those who retain US citizenship, nor will you attempt to tax or lay tariffs against any Imperial Corporation.  Any Imperial subject or citizen that violates your laws will be turned over to us, where we will determine whether or not to hold him or her responsible in accordance with our laws.”

“The United States will recognize that any current governing body on this planet—or part thereof—that asks to be incorporated into the Empire of Humanity and whose requested is accepted as an integral part of the Empire, and subject solely to our laws and regulations.  We will not join your United Nations, nor will be subject to any procedure of your International Courts.  Any treaties the Empire enters into, you will respect and acknowledge as valid.”

“And for all of this, we will end the threat of nuclear terrorism, end the jihad against the West, and hopefully bring some sanity back to you people.  Not to mention beginning to work with your defense companies and military to plan operations against the Ordan-Kraal—for they are coming, Mister President.  And this planet has to be ready, unless you want to see three or four billion dead and the survivors fertility reduced to the point the survival of our entire species is endangered.”

“So tell, Mister President:  deal or no deal?”
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #53 on: August 24, 2009, 01:34:34 PM »
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So a military option or an economical/military one?
Why do I feel it would not end things?

What about protesters for freedom? against invasion? and so on?
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #54 on: August 24, 2009, 02:18:17 PM »
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Quote from: Ice Hellion on August 24, 2009, 01:34:34 PM
Why do I feel it would not end things?

Because if it did end things, master arminas would have no more to write and the story would be over. Wink
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All I want is just a nibble of 'Mech armor & myomer... is that so wrong? Wink
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #55 on: August 24, 2009, 02:19:03 PM »
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Both an economic and military option (which I meant to convey in the original; oops).  Jason & Julia are going to try their hardest to bring as much as the world willingly into the Empire as they can; after all their force option is limited, unless they want to cause as much damage as the Ordan-Kraal attack would/could/did.  They don't.

I think it is safe to say that you will see protestors against the Imperials, especially in the East and West coasts of the USA and in Europe.  China and India will also have serious qualms about laying aside their social norms and laws beneath a 'foreign' power, as will Russia.

Now, some counties--smaller, less developed, and hopelessly poor nations mostly--might well jump on the chance if it improves their current prospects.  Some will refuse, either from pride or a desire to be left alone.  All of that we will get to in the chapters ahead.

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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #56 on: August 26, 2009, 02:47:30 PM »
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Chapter Four

“Ridiculous, Mister President!” exclaimed the Speaker of the House from her seat across the table.  “This is nothing less than the surrender of our sovereignty to a gang of high-tech barbarians!  You are not seriously considering this proposal, are you?”

“Nancy, we have to take a hard look at what they are offering, and then determine what points we will—and will not—contest,” Barak answered calmly, even as the remainder of the congressional delegation finished reading their copy of the succinct report Rahm had prepared on his instructions.

Senator Reid—the majority leader of the Democratic party in the Senate—was also shaking his head.  “Somehow, I am reminded of the fact that we bought Manhattan Island from the Native Americans for forty dollars worth of glass beads.  This deal has that specific odor to it.”

Barak nodded as he leaned back in his chair, one arm propped up on its elbow.  “The batteries and power plants are something we need, and this offer of help in Afghanistan needs to be carefully considered as well.  Things are not going so well over there, at the moment.”

“No, Mister President, they are not,” wheezed his former rival for the presidency.  McCain smoothed out the top sheet of the report, and then he continued.  “And while I agree that their offer of help is quite generous, this provision about any current governing body on this planet—or part thereof—that asks to be incorporated into the Empire of Humanity and whose requested is accepted as an integral part of the Empire, and subject solely to our laws and regulations, ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he shook his head, “this could balkanize our nation.”

Nancy Pelosi snorted.  “It is the red states that are liable to go, Senator McCain, being gun-nuts and right-wingers and half-savage themselves.  Good riddance to them,” and their counter-productive elected representatives standing in the way of real progress, she thought.

“Do you think this will stop at Alabama and Arkansas and Alaska, Madam Speaker?” the old man sharply replied.  “What happens to this country when they agree to put a new factory in Ohio—if Ohio asks to join up?  Or if California jumps ship if the Imperials agree to absorb their debt?  The entire country is one nation, whether you like it or not, and this provision is the single most dangerous idea I have ever seen.”

“I agree, John,” the President said, “and so does Rahm.  We cannot sign any treaty with them that includes that provision, but to tell the truth I am a little more than concerned about this part covering diplomatic immunity—and that they want us to look the other way in their handling of the Afghan problem.  Are we sure that we really want to deal with these people?”

“It’s like making a deal with the devil, Mister President,” Joe Biden, Vice-President of the United States, said from his end of the table.  “What they are offering could launch us into a period of prosperity unparalleled in our history—but there are loophole and catches, and God help us if we fail to parse their words exactly.  We need to establish a working group—Justice, State, Defense, Commerce, Treasury, Homeland Security, NSA, and CIA—and determine exactly what we can accept and what we can not.  I’d be happy to head that up for you, Mister President.”

And the bickering began as seven Democrats, four Republicans, and one Independent began to argue over who would chair the committee and present its recommendations to the President.  Barak shook his head and loosened his tie; time to roll up the sleeves and go to work, he thought.

************************************************************************

Across the globe, other meetings by governments—democratic, autocratic, and theocratic alike—took place in similar, if less familiar, rooms.  Leaders of nations throughout the world argued over the points of what would become known in the days ahead as ‘The Proposal’.

************************************************************************

“Corp, why did they pick us for this detail?” Charlie asked as the ramp of the Intruder slowly lowered itself towards the ground.

Frasier Blenheim, Corporal in Her Imperial Majesty’s Marine Corps, sighed inside his armor.  It wasn’t fair, he thought.  He had been short-time; and suddenly this load of crap?  Discharges were delayed for the immediate future, he had been told; but at least Centurion Yarrow had not taken away his fire-team—even if that did mean he still got to ride herd on the kid.

“Well, last time Her Imperial Majesty had me over for tea and crumpets Charlie, I remember her telling me just that . . . NO, WAIT!  She’s never had me, and I’ve never had tea and crumpets.”

The two other members of his team chuckled, and Frasier could just picture the kid blushing again inside his armor.  “Seriously, Private, it doesn’t matter why they picked us—we are Marines and we have a job to do.  Focus on that and leave the worrying to people who actually get paid for that.”

“Corp,” one of others chimed in, “does that mean I can submit a payroll voucher for time spent worrying?”

“You go right ahead and do that Johansson,” Frasier replied.  “I’ll make sure it gets to Centurion Yarrow first thing tomorrow, and then maybe I can get a real Marine as a replacement while you are in the body shop.”

More chuckles erupted across the squad tactical net as the ramp made contact with the ground below and locked into place.

“Heads up, Marines!” Frasier called out.  “Fire Team Bravo, disembark and form up on the ready line.”

The four Marines—and the other one hundred and forty-eight troopers of Centurion Yarrow’s Delta Company—moved quickly down the ramp and into formation beneath the outstretched wing of the shuttle in the middle United States Army base in the heart of the Mojave Desert.

Camp Irwin was the home of the US National Training Center, the primary base where the Regular Army honed their war-fighting skills against the men (and now women) of the Opposition Force—OpFor for short.  It seemed that someone on high wanted to impress to the Americans (and through them, their NATO allies) just how effective Imperial equipment was.  So Delta got tagged to come down and play soldier against the full Brigade sized OpFor.

152 officers, NCOs, and men against more than two thousand; Imperial infantry battle-armor against local IFVs, Main Battle Tanks, and Artillery.

But before the games could begin, Delta had to demonstrate how deadly their weapons were—so that the referees could assign a damage value to them in the base computer network.  When the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had proposed the war-game, Warlord Chandler knew what he was really wanted—real-world tactical information on their systems.  But Jason just smiled and agreed; after all, there was little enough that the locals could do to replicate the systems in question.  And he knew exactly the unit to send to Death Valley.

So, now—as payment for the repeated sins of their Centurion—Delta was once again at the sharp end of the stick while the other jarheads aboard Reprisal were lounging in their bunks or watching Confed porn.  Life sucks, thought Frasier sourly.
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #57 on: August 26, 2009, 03:45:20 PM »
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Remember that quantity has a quality on its own.
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #58 on: August 26, 2009, 03:49:36 PM »
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As we will see, Ice.

AtV, GMotER
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #59 on: August 26, 2009, 03:53:02 PM »
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Quote from: master arminas on August 26, 2009, 03:49:36 PM
As we will see, Ice.

Guess what? I am always in a rush  Wink

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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #71 on: September 17, 2009, 08:55:41 AM »

The full-bird colonel was shaking his head in disgust and private disquiet as he heard a voice call out his name from down the hall.

“Colonel Nash, may I introduce to you Inquisitor Kim?” Captain Paul Stanley of the Imperial Legions asked.

Nash stopped and looked up at the two, well, aliens was too harsh a word, time-travelers.  Stanley he knew, if not well, from their meetings over the past twenty-four hours, but Kim . . . the small, slim, immaculately uniformed Asian he had never before met.  Then the title Stanley used hit him.

“Inquisitor?” he blurted.

Stanley smiled and nodded his head.  “Yes, Sir.  Inquisitor Kim is a member of Imperial Intelligence—not the Legion—and is currently on loan from the Fleet.  His equivalent rank, in both my service and your own would be the same as yours, Sir.”

“You must the torturer in chief that we have been waiting on then,” Nash stated bluntly.

“My methods bear little resemble to the monks of the historical Inquisition, Colonel,” Kim replied in return.  “And they are certainly far more effective in their results.”

“Colonel,” Stanley interrupted, “Inquisitor Kim is a senior member of Intel.  He gained his posting—and his rank—through sheer ability, and he is far more skilled than any Imp Intel agents assigned to the 501st.  That is merely one of the reasons why the Admiral asked him to supervise the interrogations.”

“What can you find out that we couldn’t?” Nash was unable to stop himself from asking the question—the rancor at being replaced as the CO of the captured Afghans still gnawing at him.

“Quite a lot, actually, if I had the time to do the job correctly,” Kim politely answered with a slight bow.  “Alas, Colonel Nash, time is very much a finite resource.  I will presume that you and your people have done an adequate job at extracting information, and quite frankly it is highly unlikely that anyone here knows much of great import in any case.  I will—today, at least—be asking only one question of each detainee.”

“And what might that question be?” Nash asked, his curiosity outweighing his indignation.

“Quite a simple one, I assure you.  Have you used a weapon—with the intent to kill or wound or intimidate—against either a member of the Coalition or any unarmed civilian?”

Nash barked out a burst of laughter.  “Sure, they will just up and tell you the answer to that one.”

Kim shrugged.  “They will answer while connected to one of our truth-detectors—the machine will tell me if they are lying or speaking truthfully.”

“Without a base-line?”

“Such as your polygraph requires?” Kim responded, shaking his head.  “No, that technology is quite antiquated and unreliable as well.  And one can be trained to defeat any polygraph your civilizations have so far produced.  Our machine works on a different principle, measuring the pattern of synaptic activity within the brain.  Truth produces one result, a lie something quite different.  And there is no method to trick the machine.  None.”

“And if the detainee refuses to answer the question?”

“For our purposes today, Colonel, no answer is as good as a confession.  If I had a fully-trained support staff and a dozen other Inquisitors, perhaps I could spend four-to-five hours using machine- and chemical-interrogation tactics to discomfort and disorient them enough to answer.  That, however, is for another day—and for prisoners with more valuable information.”

“You are talking about torture!”

“Am I?  Colonel Nash, the men I interrogate will receive no permanent injury due to my procedures—directly, at least.  But the information I can obtain will save lives.  The point is, however, quite moot, because I said before, time does not allow for a full interrogation.  Now, if you will please excuse me, I have two hundred and seventy-three people to ask a question of.”

************************************************************************

Seventeen hours later, the open-air compound yard surrounded by razor-wire was filled with detainees.  A door to one of the concrete blockhouses, separated from the prisoners by yet another wire fence opened, and Inquisitor Kim stepped out onto a small wooden platform, accompanied by Colonel Nash and Captain Stanley.  Another door opened, and nine battle-armor clad Imperial soldiers filed into the yard.

Kim tapped the microphone, and when he was sure it was working, he began.  “Good afternoon again, gentlemen; I would like the following prisoners to report to Staff Sergeant Hall,” one of the soldiers raised an armored-clad arm, “when I call out your name.”

He recited twenty-two names, and each of the white-clad prisoners came forward, shuffling their shackle-clad feet and looking as nervous as lambs going to slaughter.

“You gentlemen told me the truth when you denied having ever used a weapon.  With the apologies of Her Imperial Majesty for your confinement, gentlemen, you are free to go.  Caesar Julia has instructed me—with her own voice, no less—to give each of you compensation for your time here, and to extend to you an offer.  If you wish to remain here in your country, with your families, that is of course your right.  But if instead, you—and your family—wish to swear allegiance and fealty to Her Imperial Majesty, then we will accept you as subjects of the Empire.  Be warned gentlemen, such oaths are not given lightly, and if you lie to me, then, well, let us say that bad things will happen.”

“You will be given clothing, money, and a good filling meal before you leave—and if any of you have any medical needs, my staff will see to your care.  Think hard about our offer, gentlemen, and make the right decision for you, for your wives, and for your children.”

Kim nodded, and Sergeant Hall waved the twenty-two forward through the door.

“As for the rest of you—well, all but two of you lied to me.  Gentlemen, I do not care for being lied to; it presumes that you believe me incompetent at my job, which I assure you I am not.  Khalid Adjani and Pashmir Khan—the two of you told me the truth about killing Coalition troops and or unarmed civilians.  Thank you for having the honor to admit what you have done, for being men enough to take responsibility for your own actions.  I regret to tell you, however, that your punishment will be the same as those who lied to me.  Staff Sergeant Hall—you may execute your orders.”

“Sir!” the trooper replied with a salute, and then—as one—all nine members of the squad brought up their Reapers and opened fire on the crowded yard as Colonel Nash, United States Army watched—eyes wide with horror—the atrocity happening directly before him.

************************************************************************

“The instructions from your government are quite simple, General Keller,” Miles snapped at the Frenchman commanding the NATO contingent.  “Return to your base camps immediately while my Legion neutralizes the insurgency.  Can you not follow your orders, sir?”

“Oui, Monsieur Generale, I understand my orders perfectly well.  But I will not stand by while you use these hell-rounds of yours upon the people of Afghanistan.  Such a thing is not needed.”

“I beg to differ, General,” Miles said as he lit another cigarette and took a long puff, which in turn caused Jagues Heller to frown again.  Bloody health-Nazis, Miles thought to himself.

“Point the first:  those are Taliban holed up in that old mountain fort—and you Frogs have failed repeatedly to remove them.”

“Point the second:  all sixty-three of those people are armed, so any idea that common Afghan people are there is bullshit; that flag ain’t gonna fly, not today.”

“Point the third:  as much as I detest Centurion Yarrow, he is quite right that sometimes you just gotta send a message.  And that message today, General Heller, is if you shoot at MY boys, then you are going to get slapped down pretty damned hard.”

The Frenchman waved his hand in dismissal.  “Using this weapon is not necessary—your infantry can clear that in fifteen minutes.”

“Of course they can,” Miles snorted.  “You think that is a concern of mine?  Please, General, worry about anything else—my boys could clear that place in five minutes flat.  But for right now, I need to put the fear of God-almighty and my Legion in everyone watching, insurgent and civilian alike.”

A kilometer away from the mobile command center, one of the mobile howitzers attached to the 501st fired; the boom of the shot echoing across the valley floor as a dull POMPH from this distance.  The French general’s shoulders sagged and he shook his head.

“This is not what warfare should be, mon Generale,” he said sadly, “where is the honor in this?”

“War is not about honor, General Keller,” Miles quietly replied as an immense fireball erupted against the flank of a distant mountain, the mushroom cloud rising high into the sky above, “nor about fair-play.  It is about kicking the other side so hard he cries uncle and hoping you survive in the process.  It is about keeping as many of your own alive for as long as you can, and killing as many of your foes as possible in the meantime.  War is Hell, Jacques; it has never been anything but.  If you plan to wage it, however, then you best damn well be prepared to do whatever it takes to win it.  Otherwise, why the hell even bother?”

************************************************************************

Two dozen members of the Taliban shouted and yelled at the Imperial troopers standing in the middle of the village.  Each of the unkempt and ragged band held a screaming, crying woman—girls, really—before them as a shield against the soldiers.

Corporal Esteban Ramirez waited until his on-board computer finished uploading his instructions to the eight-men of his squad, listening to the demands of the hostage takers.

“. . . and you will leave, leave now,” the software in his armor translated the language into English.  “Leave, or we kill the whores!”

Ain’t gonna happen, you piece of shit, Ramirez thought.  “Ok, ok,” he said aloud, disengaging his Reaper and laying it on the ground, even as the remainder of his squad did the same.  “Let the girls go, and we will give you our armor.”

The Afghani’s eyes went wide, and Ramirez knew he had him hooked.  “NO.  You will give us the armor NOW; then we let the whores go.  With your armor, we will drive you into the desert and the Jihad will triumph!”

“Sure, helmets off, boys,” the squad leader said as the reached up to remove his helmet—and the preprogrammed computer command activated.  Nine suits fired eighteen forearm mounted sub-machines at the exact same instant; a three-round burst aimed by the computer directly into the face of one of the hostiles.  Ramirez and two of his men swiveled slightly and a second burst fired, dropping the last six Afghan insurgents before they could react.  Zero point eight seconds passed between the first shot and the last.

Corporal Ramirez knelt down and reattached the Reaper to his right arm, then cranked up his external loud-speaker.  “These assholes won’t be bothering you good folks again,” he said.  Reaching down to a compartment on the leg of his suit, he took out a small comm-link and handed it to the village head-man.  “Any others like them come back, then you just give us a call.  Fifteen minutes at most, and the Legion will be here to take care of your vermin problem.”

He switched channels.  “Hotel Three-Six, Hotel Three-Baker Six.  Village secured; zero civilian casualties.  Twenty-four enemy KIA.  Villagers look like they could use a doc and some hot food—some of the women and girls might need a shrink as well.”

“Roger that, Three-Baker Six,” the speaker in helmet crackled.  “Support and Service Brigade has elements en route.  Proceed on mission, Three-Six out.”

“You heard the man, Baker Squad.  Upwards and onwards and all of that,” he said as the squad began to move towards the next village on the list.

************************************************************************

“You have got to be shitting me,” Captain Antonio Vargas whispered as his holotank aboard ISS Perth showed the incoming mortar rounds.  His ships sensors had detected the weapons the moment the first shell launched itself into the air on a ballistic arc towards the assault ships.

“Point-defense is ready, Captain,” his XO called out from his station.  Vargas snorted.  Point-defense was barely required—the mortars were only 81mm shells, and those paltry warheads would not even ding his hull.  Still, even if the odds were against the shells, stranger things had happened—and besides, there were friendlies on the ground below, unloading equipment, supplies, and munitions from the ships cavernous holds.

“Point-defense free, mass-drivers engage the shells,” he said.  “Guns, I want fire from every five-ce-em that can bear on the launch zone.  Saturate the entire area the bastards hid in.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the two men replied.  Vargas could feel the slight vibration as nine quad-mounted 3cm mass driver cannons went to rapid-fire mode, and the three shells displayed in the holotank vanished in mid-flight.  Then the 5cm plasma cannons opened fire—seven quad turrets each firing one round a second.   For sixteen seconds, the plasma guns hammered the area where the insurgents had launch the mortar shells, every bolt exploding with the force of ten metric tons of TNT.  One hundred and twelve plasma bolts impacted a grid almost a kilometer square, the heat of the detonations fusing the sand of the desert floor into glass, wherever it didn’t leave craters, that is.

The ships computer calculated the odds of the launch crew surviving and ran one final sensor sweep.  Satisfied with the results, the soft and sultry feminine voice that some unknown computer designer had given it spoke up, “Targets destroyed.”

Vargas smiled.  The computer may be an idiot-savant, but it was a damned sexy sounding idiot-savant.  “I hope it was good for you too, darling,” he drawled as his bridge crew erupted in a fit of laughter.

“Easy now, Skipper,” his XO said, “If you make Perth decide she wants to have a smoke and bask in the afterglow, I don’t want to be the one assigned to roll it!”

More laughter erupted, and Vargas too joined in.
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #72 on: September 17, 2009, 01:37:39 PM »
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You should have written Oui, mon Général and Jacques Heller.
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #73 on: September 17, 2009, 02:35:16 PM »
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“Thank you gentlemen for flying out here today; I fear that we are inconveniently placed in relation to the major financial centers here in Vancouver,” Julia said to the two dozen men (and four women) who stood when she entered the conference room overlooking the Pacific coast of the Island.

Two of her Praetorians stood either side of the door—in full uniform and not battle armor—while another six were spaced around the spacious gallery overhanging the rolling waves below.  One walked forward and pulled out a chair for the Empress, and she gave him a sparkling smile as she sat.  That Praetorian did not return to his post, but remained standing slightly behind her and to her right—giving his pistol arm a clear field of fire at the captains of industry gathered together.

“Now, then,” she said as she opened the black leather folder on the table before her.  “Each of your companies has signaled your intention to open offices here in the Empire—and that was even before you read about our tax laws.  There are, however, a few points of law that you may be unaware of that you will need to carefully consider before making a final decision.”

The head of the board of GE leaned forward.  “You Majesty, I am certain we can come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial to both of us—you and your Empire will need raw materials, and I am quite certain that you do not want to make the global economy collapse.”

“Oh, dear.  Well,” she said as she closed the briefing folder and shook her head.  “We should go ahead and clear the air now, I guess.  You seem to mistake me and my government for everyone else on this planet, sir.  The Empire does not make accommodations in its laws—not for anyone.  They bind me just as they bind the lowest resident, subject, or citizen.  And if you choose to open offices here, they will bind you as well.  There is no amount of money, influence, or resources that you have which would in any way alter that.”

She smiled at the GE exec, and then turned her head to look over everyone at the table.  “To operate in the Empire, you must form a separate corporation that is headquartered in the Empire, ladies and gentlemen.  It may be affiliated with you, but will be a separate institution—perhaps something like General Electric Imperial, or Ford Motors Vancouver.  Your stock will be publicly traded, but the Imperial government will purchase fifteen percent at market price the day you open your doors.  I will—personally—purchase an additional ten percent that will belong to the throne.  That twenty-five of your corporation will remain in the hands of my family and this government in perpetuity, gentlemen.”

“I believe that such a large piece of your stock gives me and this government a seat on your board—I don’t need such a post, nor do I want it.  My own job keeps me quite busy.  However, as a major stake-holder, both I and my government will have full access to your books whenever we wish.  Expect a full audit at least once every quarter.”

Whispered murmurs down the table became audible as Caesar paused.  The additional start-up capital would be incredible, but the very idea of letting any government—especially this one!—have such a large stake was frightening.

“You do not have to agree, ladies and gentlemen,” the young lady who was the Empress of Humanity softly said.  “If you do not, however, then you will not be allowed to do business within the territories claimed or controlled by the Empire.  Nor will you be allowed to bid on any equipment that the Imperial armed forces wish to purchase.  Nor will I or my government make any investments with you, or for that matter allow you to hold our currency or our precious metal reserves.”

“You will find that our regulations are fairly quaint, particularly when compared to the quagmire of the United States confusing and complex codes.  We will insist on one thing and one thing only in your operation:  you WILL do what you promise my people.  If your corporation makes a statement, it had best be true, or you will bankrupt yourself making it so; that, ladies and gentlemen, is a promise.”

“Oh, and one little thing more,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.  “The Empire does recognize that corporations were created to shield shareholders from liability.  And we firmly agree with that—individual shareholders have no day-to-day control over the corporation as a whole, so that will not change.  As for the board of directors and the chief executive officer; well, the Empire holds them personally responsible—fiscally, morally, and criminally—for the conduct and actions of their company.”

Jaws dropped around the table and eyes went wide.

“You play games in MY Empire, ladies and gentlemen, with MY people, and so help me God above I will put your collective ass in a sling and send you into orbit.”

She smiled at her guests again and stood, clasping her hands together.  “Why don’t you give this some thought; in the meantime, my chef has prepared a light afternoon brunch.  You all look as though you could use a drink or two,” she said cheerfully.
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #74 on: September 17, 2009, 04:00:38 PM »
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LOL, now that is what I call some Trust Busting.  Wink

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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #90 on: September 22, 2009, 10:15:46 AM »
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You mean something like this, MechRat?  LOL

"Look, you have fusion engines, right?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"And you have the computer systems that can handle the problems with balance and orientation?"

"YES, BUT . . ."

"And with your contra-gravity, they can even Fly!" the Japanese scientist finished, his eyes glazed over with the possibilities.

"NO.  We are NOT going to fund your research into these 'Mecha' as you call them," Caesar Julia finally finished saying.

"But they would be so cool, your Majesty," another of her visitors--this one a famous animator--said.

"NO!"

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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #91 on: September 22, 2009, 11:26:43 AM »
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Well, it could happen. Grin Nothing is impossible, just highly improbable. Wink




If it did happen, that would be so awesome!
« Last Edit: September 22, 2009, 11:28:16 AM by MechRat »    Report to moderator   24.187.239.35 (?)
All I want is just a nibble of 'Mech armor & myomer... is that so wrong? Wink
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #92 on: September 22, 2009, 12:15:47 PM »
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Strange that Americans (so patriotic usually) would go against their government and nation...
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #93 on: September 22, 2009, 01:32:52 PM »
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For years, NASA has been viewed with mistrust by the US government--ever since the end of the Apollo program, in fact.  They ARE Americans and--by and large--are patriots.  BUT, many of them tend to view space exploration first and any domestic or international government policy as strictly secondary.  It's true.

Now, the military officers who become astronauts would be torn between the two callings, but for many of the engineers and scientists and hands-on technicians, they would jump at the chance to go to Mars or the Moon--or ALPHA CENTAURI--even if it meant doing so under a different flag.  Even the sworn officers of NASA from the USAF, USN, and USMC would be tempted, I think--because they are ALL true believers in the cause of manned exploration.

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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #94 on: September 22, 2009, 02:01:25 PM »
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I agree with master arminas that there are many at NASA that are interested in the pursuit of science for science's sake rather than for the advancement of the nation. However I would not be surprised if there were a few within NASA that would try to stop the mass defection, possibly tipping off the government ahead of time.
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All I want is just a nibble of 'Mech armor & myomer... is that so wrong? Wink
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #95 on: September 23, 2009, 09:22:27 AM »
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(FINALLY I can post here!!!!!!)

I agree that MANY members of NASA would JUMP at the chance. However, SOMEONE along the way will decide that their DUTY requires them to report what is going on in time to mess everything up.

Great story Master Arminas. I hope you can get it published.
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"Know thy Friends and Enemies alike. What is an Enemy today may be a Friend tomorrow..... as long as your Friends are NOT in the category of 'with friends like this, who needs enemies?' you should be ok" Col. T. Jackson 51st Heavy Brigade, Outreach may 1, 3051
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #96 on: September 23, 2009, 02:20:58 PM »
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Quote from: master arminas on September 22, 2009, 10:15:46 AM
"NO.  We are NOT going to fund your research into these 'Mecha' as you call them," Caesar Julia finally finished saying.

"But they would be so cool, your Majesty," another of her visitors--this one a famous animator--said.

YES!!!
YES!!!
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #97 on: September 23, 2009, 03:04:43 PM »
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I totally agree with you, Ice! Just don't hold your breath waiting for master arminas to write them into the story... Sad
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All I want is just a nibble of 'Mech armor & myomer... is that so wrong? Wink
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #98 on: September 23, 2009, 04:12:02 PM »
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“Their general is here to see you, Your Excellency,” Hamid Karzai’s major-domo said to the newly reelected President of Afghanistan.  The President sat back in his seat as he savored the title once again.  Let the West say his election—his reelection—was corrupt; it was no matter.  They needed him to retain the little stability they had in his country.  And so what if his extended family had become Ministers of state and judges and chiefs of police?  The best government was kept in the family, was it not?

“Yes, Jamil, show him in please—and offer him some chilled pomegranate juice.”

“General Tuturola, mister President,” the man announced a moment later as he held the door open for the Imperial.  The Westerner was short and stocky, Karzai saw, and accompanied by another of the Imperials, though this one was darker skinned, with a thick neatly trimmed black beard.  That one could have passed for any one of the president’s tribal leaders, if he had a bit more dirt and grim scattered on his uniform.  Both of the men wore field camo, and each carried a sidearm; holstered in the presence of the President of Afghanistan, of course.

“Ah, thank you for coming, General Tuturola,” Karzai said with a beaming smile after both of his guests turned down the offer of the juice—or even of water.  “Your troops are making excellent progress against the rebels, and I have wanted to speak with you in private.”

“Well, go on, Mister President,” the general said amicably.  “Major Khan is a member of my staff at the moment, and since he grew up in Kabul—in our time—has been an invaluable source on the region.”

“Quite,” the Afghani said, and then paused as he carefully decided on his next words.  “There are some in the tribes who lack a certain amount of respect for our central government, General.  Now that your Legion has dealt with the warlords who sided with Mullah Omar and the Taliban has fled into Pakistan, we must set our house in order to assure that chaos does not return.”

“You got that right, Mister President,” the General replied with a smile of his own, “which is why you will announce within the next twenty-four hours that you are voluntarily stepping down as President and going into foreign exile.  So that your countries wounds can heal without a leader present many regard as illegitimate.”

Karzai blinked once, then twice, and he emitted a short bark of laughter.  “I had not known for you to have such a lively sense of humor, General,” he said, but his eyes were not laughing; his skin had turned a pale white, and his hands were shaking slightly.

“I have a very good sense of humor, Mister President, don’t I Amir?”

“As the General says,” his aide replied.

“Only, I’m not joking today, Mister Karzai,” the General finished as he lit one of his cigarettes and inhaled deeply, releasing the smoke through his nose.

“WHY?” Karzai wailed.

“You stole the election, which means that at heart you have become nothing more a fraud, sir.  Maybe others play that way, but we don’t.  I’m sure you were fairly honest and wanted the best for your country when you began this, but when you just asked me to break the heads and hearts of people politically opposed to you—rather than people who are actually pointing guns at you—that only confirmed the Empress’s decision for me.  No, Mister Karzai, you gotta go.”

“And if I decide not to?” the seething almost-former President managed to utter past clenched jaws.

“In that case, I will bury you myself.  The choice is between going into exile and spending the rest of your natural life in luxury, Mister Karzai, and being carried out of this palace in a body bag.  I’ll let you make your own decision.”

“And who replaces me?  That flea-bitten son of a whore I ran against . . .”

“No.  Right now, Mister Karzai, there is NO ONE in this country—from this time—either I or the Empress will trust with putting the Afghani people first.”

“From this time,” Karzai whispered.  And then he grew red in the face, and stood to shout, “You intend to install one of your own as President?”

“SIT DOWN, Mister Karzai,” Miles said in a forceful voice, dangerous and flat.  Even as angered as he was, Karzai still retained enough sense to follow that instruction.

“There will not be a President.  Quite frankly, your people are not ready for democracy; not without corruption and whole-sale incompetence.  You are still a tribal people, not a united society by any stretch of the imagination.  Major Khan is a direct descendent of Amanullah Khan, the last legitimate King of Afghanistan.  You, having discovered that he is in fact the last son of Shah Khan, will announce tomorrow along with your chief rivals for the presidency that you are all going into exile, renouncing all claims of future power among the tribes of Afghanistan in favor of crowning Amir Khan as King in Kabul.”

“His ascension to that ancestral throne will calm the pashtun tribesman; his being an Imperial and our even-handed treatment of men and women in the north will calm the teljik and uzbek tribesmen that the Taliban will not be returning as well.  The rest will learn to accept your new King—and so will Pakistan.”

“What of the mullahs,” Karzai asked sourly.

“What of them?” replied Miles.

“They remember Amanullah Khan—they deposed him for lightening the restrictions of shariah law, for letting women decide whether or not to wear the veil, to learn to read and write, for taking away their role in the courts.  They will oppose your man.”

Major—soon-to-be King—Amir Khan smiled at the now-former in all but name President.  “Let them try, Hamid.  Let the bastards try.”
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #99 on: September 23, 2009, 04:34:01 PM »
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You should rename this story, too good to be true. Grin I loved the "you gotta to go" and your mixing of the fantastic with real time fact is truly interesting for those interested in some fun escapism.
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« Reply #100 on: September 24, 2009, 09:24:26 AM »
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“What have they done now?” asked the President as Rahm entered the Oval Office, his face pinched and narrow.

“They just restored the Kingdom of Afghanistan—Karzai and those who opposed him in the campaign are all going into exile, supposedly voluntarily,” his Chief of Staff answered bluntly.

Barak’s jaw dropped and his eyes grew wide.  “They overthrew the government?”

Rahm nodded.  “Turns out one of their people is direct descendant of one of the Afghan Kings deposed back in the ‘20s, they just finished crowning him a few minutes ago.”

The President opened a small drawer on his desk, and took out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches along with an ashtray.  Striking a match, he lit one of the smokes and took a deep inhalation, holding it for several seconds before releasing the cloud of smoke into the air.

“Did they give a reason?”

“Speaking to Her Majesty’s spokesman, he said that the Karzai government recognized their legitimacy was in question, and after having—serendipitously—discovered that one Major Amir Khan was in fact the great-great-great-great-great-and-so-on grandson of Amanullah Khan, he and all of his opponents in the recent race decided that the people of Afghanistan needed to be united behind a monarch that none could accuse of corruption.  On the bright side, the new King—although his official title is Shah—declared that he would retain the national assembly, but he would not tolerate any corruption among the delegates, or his police, or his army.  He pledged to serve the people of Afghanistan, regardless of tribe, and offered amnesty to any member of the Taliban or any member of the various militias run by local Warlords who are willing to lay down arms and swear allegiance to the throne.  Then he said that anyone continuing to bear arms against his government would be staked out in the desert for women to mutilate.”

Barak’s eyes goggled, but Rahm shook his head.  “It sounds more poetic in Pashtun, Mister President.  It is a traditional form of punishment that most Afghanis take to mean any type of death sentence.  I’m not at all certain he actually meant it.”

“After this past week, Rahm, I won’t bet the farm on it,” the President replied coldly as he rapidly finished with the cigarette and crushed out the lit coal.

“Will the Afghans accept this—I mean the Imperials putting one of their own on the throne?”

Rahm shrugged.  “Amir Khan was born and raised in the Kabul of their time—he IS an Afghan.  He knows the people, the culture, their society, their history, and shares their religion.  The question is, Mister President, will the Afghans see him as an outsider or as a knight in shining armor come to rescue them from their nightmare?”

Barak nodded.  “And the down-side?”

“Other than they just installed one of their own as a head-of-state and deposed the standing government?  Other than they have given up on democracy and returned to a monarchy?” the advisor shrugged.  “Your guess is as good as mine, sir.  The left will scream bloody murder—if they haven’t already screamed themselves hoarse, that is—and if Shah Amir pledges his fealty to Her Imperial Majesty, bringing Afghanistan into the Empire of Humanity as a province, it will cause a lot of tension in the region.  Especially with China and Iran.”

The Chinese were already upset with the Empress over the casual use of nukes in Afghanistan—as were the majority of countries across the globe, Barak thought.  That, and the way which they dealt with the terrorists they captured—or got from us—had threatened to split his own party in twain.  The left had gone completely nuts, calling for the renouncement of all points of agreement for the multiple human rights violations, while the more moderate center had condemned it but espoused the don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater philosophy.  The right-wing (of course) had thrown celebrations over how—in their words—the Imps were kicking ass and taking names.  Iran, well, he wanted Iran to be nervous, it could be a lever to use against their pursuit of nuclear weapons.  Although having a neighbor who had them—and used them, no less—might have the opposite effect.

China, on the other hand, could be a major problem.  China had been thoroughly rebuffed by Her Majesty and her husband after they had insisted on being given access to the Imperial military technology.  And when China’s leadership had coldly lectured the Empress that a third of the world’s population looked to China for leadership, she had smiled and replied that can change in a heart-beat.  Whether or not she meant to imply that her ships could bombard mainland China back to the Stone Age from orbit, the government in Beijing choose to interpret it that way.

And when the Empress had visited Taipei last week, the People’s Republic went ballistic.  She emerged from her meetings with the Taiwanese Prime Minister with signed contracts for those fusion plants, along with a basing agreement—and Taiwan had forged a defensive treaty with her as well.  Any attack on the island or people of the Republic of China would be considered an attack on the Empire, she oh-so-sweetly had announced on live TV from the Prime Minister’s front lawn in Taipei.

To call the Chinese government miffed would be like saying the Pacific Ocean was just a little bit bigger than your average back-yard puddle.

And the distraction of everything these all-go no-stop Imperials were doing had—once again—put a hold on pushing heath care reform through the Congress.  The Speaker had seemingly forgot about the domestic legislation, calling for hearing after hearing on the actions of the Imperials—and the devil’s bargain he had made them with them.  The Senate was not much better, but with fewer young and idealistic firebrands in office there, at least it was more restrained.

The phone on his desk buzzed, stirring the President out of his momentary reverie.  He hit the speaker button.  “Yes, Margaret?”

“Mister President, the Attorney General is here—and he says it is urgent.”

Barak and Rahm exchanged a worried look, and then he answered, “Send him directly in, Margaret.”

The curved door set into the wall of the Oval opened and Alvin Holder, Attorney General of the United States stepped into the President’s office.

“Afternoon, Alvin,” Barak said as he stood, extending his hand to the man.  “What brings you to this part of town today?”

“Mister President, we have a situation with NASA that requires your immediate attention.”

************************************************************************

The Empress groaned with pleasure as she lay back on the couch, her eyes closed.  “That’s the spot,” she whispered to Jason as he massaged her bare feet.  “Right—ooph—there; press just a little harder.”

She sighed, as the day’s tension began to ebb away.  A flash of lightning from the storm clouds still far out over the Pacific lit the room around them for a moment; already, the breakers below the house overlooking the ocean were white-capped and rough.  Soon enough, the storm would be here.  She sighed again, and then sat up, tucking her feet beneath her legs.

“Jas,” she whispered, as he bent over to kiss her, “we need to talk first.”

The Admiral—her Admiral—smiled.  “After all that work, I get nothing?”

“Spoilsport!  You are supposed to like doing that for me!” she laughed.

“What’s on your mind, love?”

Her smile faded.  “We can’t do this—there aren’t enough of us, Jas.”

“Of course we can; we show them how the Empire works, better than any government they have—we help them out, and they will eventually join us.”

“Eventually, they will join us.  But will it be before the Ordan-Kraal come?  We don’t know when they will expand in this direction—we know when they did in OUR TIME, but everything is changed now.  What if they detected our time-jump?  What if they come looking NOW?”

“Then we fight.  The 342nd can handle their initial expedition alone—and the effects of that battle might force everyone to unite behind us to resist the main force when they arrive later.”

“It isn’t enough, Jas,” the young woman said.  “I know you—and your men—want to keep as much tech as possible out of these people’s hands.  That’s why we are setting things up here so that Vancouver—and Heinlein, when that gets up and running—will produce our weapons.  But there is only so much room here, and there is so much to do.”

“What do you want?” her husband asked, the warmth in his voice fading away.

“We can’t have a, oh, call it a bunker mentality, love.  These people are smart, they are industrious—it’s just their governments that are utterly unworkable.  Give it to them, Jason, give them the entire data-base—all of our technology, except for the weapons tech.  THEY will set up the means to produce what we need, and who knows, some young genius out there might come up with something we haven’t thought of.”

“You are serious about this?”

“Dead serious, Jas.  There are TOO FEW of us to hoard this information.  But there are SIX BILLION of them, and their own interests will drive them to produce what they can themselves—for them and for us.  You can keep the weapons tech, and we can produce it here and on the Moon, but if we get them to do the rest, that means we can concentrate on preparing for the confrontation.  We aren’t businessmen and women, Jason, we aren’t magnates of industry; I’m just Caesar’s daughter with a degree in political science, and you—and your people—are soldiers and sailors.  We have to bring everyone on this planet to the table, or we risk losing everything, husband.”

“You are not Caesar’s daughter, Julia, you are Caesar,” the man she loved said softly.  “I swore an oath to obey you, and I will hold to that oath.”

“Even if you don’t agree with me?” she asked sadly.

“Even if I don’t agree with you, love,” he replied gently.  “It would help us boot-strap them to modern times a bit faster,” he mused.

“And it would let you get your engineers back to the Fleet, instead of running around trying to explain how to construct this or that widget,” she said with a little smile.

“How many of the NASA people do you think we will wind up getting?”

“Half,” she answered, after considering the question.  “At least half, and about the same again from the ESA, the Russians, and the Japanese.”

“That will help ease some of the pressure on my people.  Are you certain you want to do this?  With all of these new men and women . . .”

“They don’t know how to build factories anymore than you or I do, Jas.  We HAVE to incorporate a LOT more people, or we will come up short when the balloon goes up.”

“All right, then we do it your way.  When do you want to make the announcement?”

“Tomorrow, if we can.  If you can have copies of the data-base ready by then,” she paused as she chewed on her lower lip.  “This is really the first command decision I’ve had to make, Jas—I mean where you and I don’t agree.”

“Yes.  But you—not I, not anyone else—are Caesar.  You are.  I will support you, now and later in public—and so will my officers.  So will the men.”

“Have I told you today how much I love you?” she whispered as she fell into his arms, tears trickling down from her cheeks.

“After all that work I put into your feet, I would certainly hope so,” he answered with a chuckle, as the Empress joined in.  “You are, of course, free to tell me again what a great catch you made.”

Against the angled windows set in the wall, the first heavy drops of the rain began to splatter.  The storm had arrived.
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mikeTn1
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #101 on: September 24, 2009, 09:29:43 AM »
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about the idea of Mecha..... with what the Imperial forces have for weaponry.... who needs them in this timeline? I love the idea of Mecha (after all I am a long time BTech fan from 2nd edition) I just do not see where they would fit in properly. That is up to Master Arminas though. If he wants to include them, then he will do so.
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"Know thy Friends and Enemies alike. What is an Enemy today may be a Friend tomorrow..... as long as your Friends are NOT in the category of 'with friends like this, who needs enemies?' you should be ok" Col. T. Jackson 51st Heavy Brigade, Outreach may 1, 3051
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #102 on: September 24, 2009, 02:43:12 PM »
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Changing their minds...
Lucky for them that the military obeys to the political power.
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: In Harm's Way
« Reply #103 on: October 20, 2009, 07:55:37 PM »
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Wow, just found this, excelent work master a, i'm looking forward to the next part.