OBT Forum

Very nice, the level of critical thinking that is obviously behind your writing is very impressive - you continually fix problems and point out things that I would have never thought of in a situation like this.

I eagerly await the continuation (and hopefully an assault on New Samarkand that would really shake things up)

Landing, Tellman’s Mistake
Principality of Regulus, Free Worlds League
25 April 2577

The Ares Conventions prohibited commanders from taking battle into populated areas. Marcus Barton had seen the Conventions honoured more in the breach than not on occasion but he was relieved to see that this did not appear to be one of them.

The Twentieth Division, spread out over a dozen bases, hadn’t managed to regroup in the two weeks since those bases were obliterated from orbit. Not only were the transport links of the colony simply not up to moving hundreds of tanks, ‘Mechs and supply trucks around, but also the tiny handful of aerospace fighters at their disposal were unable to prevent naval fighters from seeking the scattered regiments and battalions out.

On paper, Barton’s Brigade was no match for the massed forces of nine SLDF ‘Mech regiments along with their conventional support, but wars were not fought just on paper. This fragment of the whole was made up of just two combined-arms regiments, perhaps half their number made up by BattleMechs and the rest a mess of Davion-built Tiger medium tanks and infantry carriers. They’d dug in on heights overlooking the planetary capital and even managed to set up some decent air defences.

That had put them on Marcus’ list and the previous evening dropships had descended just over two hundred kilometers away to deposit his own Second McCarron’s Armored Cavalry, the Fourth Canopian Light Horse, First Magistracy Highlanders. In support of these ‘BattleMech regiments were the Third Light and Fifth Heavy Magistracy Brigades: each providing aviation, infantry and armoured regiments to the force.

The odds were heavily in the Canopian’s favour. That was fine with Marcus. War wasn’t often fair.

Pausing his Awesome on the military crest of the next line of hills he watched the rest of his regiment form up. It didn’t take long: most of them were in ‘Mechs that could outpace the lumbering eight-ton warmachine, but even powerful machines like Bill Styles’ Dragon or Elaine Parks’ Archer respected the firepower and durability of their commander’s BattleMech.

Once he was sure only a handful of sensors were above the ridge, Marcus punched open a command channel. “Base, what’s the situation with the Highlanders and the Light Horse.”

“Both regiments report that they aare deployed and ready for action,” replied the comm-tech back aboard the battered Command Overlord that Marcus had managed to have assigned to the transport flotilla for the mission. A slightly repressive tone sneaked into the woman’s voice. “So are the Light and Heavy Brigades.”

He grinned in the privacy of his cockpit. “Naturally they are, those boys and girls aren’t as flighty as we Mechwarriors.” Word of that little quip would get around, he knew, and the typical soldier would have a bit more of a swagger in their step for a few days. What old soldier was it that had claimed the moral was ten times as important as the physical? “Okay, see if you can get in touch with whoever is in command of the Slobs outside Landing, would you?”

The patience to wait didn’t come easily to Marcus and he half wished that he was making the contact himself but that would be stupid: anyone with half a brain would be able to pick out his ‘Mech as the command unit and then where would he be?

“I have a Lieutenant-General Mae. Putting you through now.”

“General Mae, this is Colonel Marcus Barton of the Magistracy Army. Your forces are surrounded by superior numbers and unless I miss my guess you aren’t all that well off for supplies. I am offering you the chance to surrender.”

The voice that replied was in accented English – somewhat similar to that he’d heard ComStar staff use back when they were still operating. “Thank you for the courtesy, Colonel. However I do not consider my position to be untenable.”

Marcus nodded. He hadn’t expected anything else. “It’s your funeral, General.”

“Not just mine, but we will fight anyway.”

For a moment he was tempted to wish the woman luck, which would have been idiotic under the circumstances. Instead he simply cut off the channel and opened another, signalling to the command centre to relay his message to all officers in the force.

“This is Colonel Barton. The Slobs have declined the opportunity to surrender so we’re going ahead with the attack. You all know the plan and this one is by the numbers and on the bounce. First number is on the mark...” The clock on his controls ticked up to the minute. “Mark.”

Nothing happened, which was precisely according to plan. The first four minutes of the plotted out attack plan was set aside for any officers whose troops weren’t one hundred percent ready for their role to rectify that fact.

As scores of other men and women were doing, Marcus checked the rest of his lance. The Archer of Elaine Parks was crouched slightly to keep its large missile racks below the ridgeline, which gave it the appearance of restrained eagerness. On the other side of Elaine, he could see Bill’s Dragon simply standing at rest – squatter than the rest of the lance, not even the domed cockpit would be visible from the heights.

It had taken Marcus a while to pick out a replacement for Ning-Ti Liao, the former Capellan having accepted an offer to take on a battalion command in the Third Andermax Volunteers. Marcus rather suspected it was time he looked at finding a promotion for Elaine as well before the Magestrix badgered Archie into posting her outside the Armored Cavarly. Perhaps nominate her for command of the Seventh regiment, if rumour was right about it being raised in a year or so?

In any case, Marcus Baxter was shaping up well as the fourth man, despite the unfortunate coincidence in first names. Baxter’s Striker was a command model, fresh off the production lines only three years before, but unlike the rest of the Command Lance it hadn’t been refitted with advanced technologies. Still, it was solid. Like the man inside.

Marcus watched the clock tick over and then stabbed the button for the battalion open channel. “Move out.”

More than thirty BattleMechs followed him as he walked his Awesome over the ridgeline. There was no rush, just a two staggered lines of heavy and assault machines, covering a frontage of a kilometre and a half. Off to the left, two more battalions were doing the same and ten kilometres past them, the Magistracy Highlanders and the tank regiment of the Heavy Brigade were moving up, pincering the Star League Defense Force’s position from north and east.

There was movement on the hill now and Marcus saw what could only be ‘Mechs and armoured fighting vehicles moving up into pre-dug fighting positions that would cover legs or tracks while they fired into the advancing Armoured Cavalry.

Normally Marcus would want to move as fast as he could, to get in amongst them. Most of the ‘Mechs was seeing were long-range fighters – Griffins and Shadow Hawks similar to those built in the Magistracy, along with a smattering of Dervishes. The irony that these ancient designs would still be in production and service four hundred years later would probably bemuse their mechwarriors but Marcus had grown up with the idea. It was only in the last decade or so that engineers had started to innovate beyond patching together designs based on technologies developed by the Star League.

Still advancing at a steady thirty kilometres an hours, Marcus  knew that his forces would be tempting targets for the SLDF gunners as soon as they entered range.

Sure enough, as the range dropped below seven hundred metres, a volley of long range missiles rocketed out of the hillside and fell short of a Marauder halfway along the battalion front. Since it wasn’t part of a concerted volley and had been fired a hair too soon, Marcus could only assume that the gunner had been over-eager. Amateur, he thought scornfully.

Intentional or not, the attempt spurred others to join in and soon a barrage was erupting from the hill towards Marcus and his battalion. “Mongol!” he barked and the battalion obediently followed the plan, turning from their advance to march in a long, shallow loop along a notional line almost six hundred metres from the nearest SLDF position. They also kicked up their speed, Marcus’ Awesome pounding along at its top speed of fifty kilometres per hour, significantly impeding the accuracy of the SLDF, and returned fire.

In the heat of action, it would have taken a detached observer, or a genuine veteran, to recognise that the only weapons being fired by Barton’s Regiment were lasers and PPC – Marcus in particular blazing away with no real expecation that the four PPCs on his Awesome would hit anything but cover, though reveling in the chance to cut loose without overstressing his heatsinks as would have been the case before the upgrades had been made.

He didn’t need to give an order for what came next. The SLDF were making themselves entirely obvious both to infra-red sensors and even to the Mark One eyeball. Now the aviation regiments of both brigades took full advantage, their Dragonfly helicopters hurtling across the low ground in front of the heights at high speed, practically flying sideways as their nose-mounted PPCs spat lightning at the startled ‘Mechs and vehicles.

A few of the helicopters were unfortunate enough to cross paths with weapons fire, intentional or otherwise, and Marcus saw two of them crash to the, damaged rotors still whirling in desperate attempts to soften the landings. The others cruised onwards, protected by speed and distance.

“Sarmatia,” Marcus roared and dug the heel of the Awesome into the ground, turning sharply. There was a ragged cheer from the rest of the battalion as they joined and then in some cases overtook his charge, all weapons firing now.

The defenders, caught off-guard by the sudden aerial attack, and in many cases sporting damaged armour and depleted ammunition from their earlier volleys, were unprepared by the sudden ferocity of the fire they were under, much less for the suddenly closing ranges.

Marcus picked out a Shadow Hawk that had made the mistake of freezing as its mechwarrior hesitated over who he should target. All four shots crashed into the medium ‘Mech, two of them nailing the centre of the chest while his left arm PPC smashed into the protection over the Shadow Hawk’s right shoulder. The PPC in the Awesome’s right arm smashed its charge directly into the SLDF ‘Mech’s faceplate however, peeling away layer after layer of armour and frying the sensitive electronics there.

Since the Shadow Hawk didn’t immediately go limp, Marcus guessed that the mechwarrior’s cockpit must not have been breached, quite, but that wasn’t going to save the unlucky Slob. Elaine had also seen the easy target and let it have a full salvo in punishment for the carelessness of the Mechwarrior. Forty long-range missiles roared out of the huge launchers that made up the torso of her Archer and every last one of them crashed against the luckless Shadow Hawk. That would have been superb shooting, even for an elite mechwarrior like Marcus’ second, but the Streak technology she’d had retrofitted onto the ancient Archer made it almost routine. Unsurprisingly the SLDF machine went down like a ninepin.

Under other circumstances, Marcus might have joked with Elaine about the advantages of leaving something to salvage but he saw a Missile Carrier appear in a previously vacant firing position. It was clearly unmarked and must have held back earlier, which could only mean it wasn’t carrying missiles that would have reached so far. “Bill! Left!”

Near the head of the charge and having missed seeing the Carrier that was in perfect position to catch him in the flank, Bill Styles nonetheless jerked his Dragon to the left upon that command and the massive volley of short range missiles sailed past him, only a handful exploding against the heavy ‘Mechs armour.

Marcus didn’t give the tank a second chance to fire: turning slightly he brought all four PPCs to bear and closed his fingers on all four triggers. Blazing particle beams ripped through the armour of the carrier’s missile racks. For a moment there was no evidence of the hits except for four blackened holes in the structure and then the entire contents of the firing position were consumed by a fireball as the missile carrier disintegrated into a million pieces.

Without wasting the movement of his evasion, Bill dropped the muzzle of his autocannon and with a staccato rattle the weapon slammed a chain of submuntions along the side f a Tiger tank. The armoured vehicle ground to a halt as one of the tracks snapped but its turret began to swing to bear. Then Baxter’s Striker crested the side of an embankment, planted its next stride on top of the turret and stepped over it, apparently not even noticing the Tiger as he walked on (not that Marcus believed it, but it was stylishly done). Given that the turret was not only flattened but that the tank barrel was actually bent, none of them wasted more firepower on it.

As Marcus started up the slope he saw SLDF ‘Mechs begin to retreat up the hill. Many had jump-jets and were using them to bound upwards and backwards, exposing themselves in the air, but making better speed than the heavier machines chasing them could match.

It wasn’t necessary for him to order the battalion onwards. They knew their job and each lance advanced as a coherent force, not falling into disorder as they systematically tore through any remaining resistance and maintained pressure on those who fled. A pair of Canopian-built Griffins fired their own jumpjets to close up the range. The multi-missile launchers on their shoulders spat salvos of short-range missiles into one of their SLDF counterparts, who lacked the ability to switch from LRMs and found his return fire failing to detonate against their armour. The ‘Mech jumped back again, its hunters in close pursuit.

It was worse for the SLDF tanks – they couldn’t hope to get away and so they twisted and turned, trying to buy time for their comrades to escape. A Marauder fell as a Tiger rammed directly into one leg and Marcus saw infantrymen scrambling up onto the fallen ‘Mech with suicidal bravery.

A second Marauder paused and aimed the pulse lasers mounted in each claw-like ‘hand’ at the infantry, cutting them down without regard for the damage done to its fellow Canopian ‘Mech. That done it turned the fury of its PPCs on the tank, which practically melted under the barrage.

Marcus moved on, although he kept an eye on the scene until he was sure that the first Marauder was standing. He would lose ‘Mechs and probably mechwarriors during this attack – it was the price of doing business – but he wasn’t going to lose any to inattention.

There was a roar of autocannon fire and Marcus jerked his attention forwards a lance of heavies – two Banshees, a Warhammer and a Striker – charging the wrong direction: downhill and towards him. A second later and he realised they were all painted in the same camouflage pattern as the lighter SLDF ‘Mechs.

Baxter was nearest, too close to avoid the charge, he instead braced his Striker and met his counterpart with a full salvo of laser, autocannon and PPC. It wasn’t enough to slow the eighty-ton ‘Mechs’ downhill momentum but it did put it off-balance for the collision that followed. Baxter’s ‘Mech spun to one side under the impact and crashed face first onto the hill before half-rolling and coming to rest face up, entire sheets of armour plating torn away from its centre chest.

The other Striker literally left the ground, tumbling head over heels down the slope, one leg coming away entirely, and landed skewered on the up-raised barrel of a wrecked tank’s cannon, the brutalised muzzle actually jutting up out of the front torso, having ripped through rear armour and gyro like a stake through the heart.

Not that Marcus had much time to worry about that. The most dangerous of the three remaining ‘Mechs was the Warhammer, which was conveniently also the least heavily armoured. He, Bill and Elaine all focused their weapons directly upon the heavy ‘Mech. At this range, the LRMs should be having trouble arming but Canopian finance had bought an advanced Marian design a few years previously and the Warhammer staggered out of the explosions, two thirds of its armour torn away and one arm hanging by a few ragged myomers, the internal skeleton having sheared away.

Despite this, the Slob in the cockpit kept coming. Marcus had to give him credit for balls, even if by doing so he was blocking the fire of the Banshees towards Elaine, whose Archer they were trying to target.

In response, Elaine pumped off a volley of missiles up and over the Warhammer to start wearing down the left-most Banshee, while Marcus sidestepped to rake the other’s legs with his PPCs. They kept coming and he realised that they were trying to break out rather than hold them back. Which would rather make a waste out of having the Canopian Light Horse and the tanks of the Light Brigade covering the routes west.

Marcus would accept letting the Slobs retreat south into Landing because he could think of almost nothing more likely to win the local populace over to the Canopian side than having the SLDF use them as human shields, but north? Not happening. He fired again, now feeling even the advanced cooling system beginning to strain but also seeing armour peel away from the vulnerable myomers of the Banshee’s legs. Missiles and autocannon fire from Bill ripped into the bundles of artificial muscle, bringing the towering assault ‘Mech down.

Elaine stepped up to handle the Warhammer, using the powerful fists of her Archer to tear away the still operational arm and then bring it crashing down upon the other heavy BattleMech’s chest, smashing three of the structural ‘ribs’ around the reactor.

Now alone, the remaining Banshee slowed to a halt, seeing all three McCarron ‘Mechs drawing a bead on him. Slowly the two great arms rose until they were pointed directly upwards and a voice came from the speakers: “I surrender! I surrender!”

Marcus reached for his own external speakers but Elaine beat him to it. “Then punch out, right now.”

There was a second’s hesitation and then the canopy popped off and the mechwarrior within was propelled skywards by his ejection seat.

Left standing, on the hillside, the Banshee wobbled and then fell backwards with slow dignity, like a great tree, until it crashed onto the hillside and moved no more.

Just caught up again, very nice.

The Forbidden City, Sian
Sian Commonality, Capellan Confederation
3 May 2577

It was ironic. The Forbidden City of Sian had survived almost all the way through the four hundred and fifty odd years of history separating the current Star League from the Periphery. It was a cultural and political icon for the Capellan Confederation.

And then Elizabeth Jordan Liao decided she wasn’t going to be taken alive by the multi-national force that had battered their way through the orbital defences to put an end to the terrorist attacks being perpetrated by the Maskirova in her name. One hundred megaton nuclear weapon later, the Forbidden City and leading elements of the Second Donegal Guards were part of Sian’s irradiated atmosphere.

The climb up the steps to the central hall really hammered in to Babara Langmyr that she had travelled back in time. Standing somewhere that no longer existed in her era... it sent a tingle down her spine.

The interior of the hall was gold-trimmed jade, far darker than the equivalent chamber in the Crystal Palace. The throne that one day would have hosted the exalted rear-ends of such luminaries as Barbara Liao, Maximilian Liao and Elizabeth Jordan Liao was now occupied by an austere looking woman in her mid-twenties.

“Madame Chancellor,” Langmyr offered, dropping to one knee. The soldiers spaced around the wall were another difference from the Crystal Palace. The Magestrix’s security was more discreet. Unfortunately the Canopian diplomatic corp had been gutted by the temporal dislocation, with thousands of experienced personnel having been in foreign embassies that had, of course, remained behind.

The woman leant forwards, the subtle shadows cast by the lighting having previously disguised some of her features. Now, exposed more to light she was clearly recognisable as Ursula Liao. “Madame Ambassador. I am surprised to find that the Magistracy of Canopus is seeking representation at my court.”

“Given the events of Christmas last year, the Magestrix believed opening an avenue of communication might be advisable.”

“Ah yes. Perhaps then, Ambassador, you can explain why several dozen Capellan worlds are no longer acknowledging my borders?”

“Yes Chancellor, I can explain that.” It wasn’t as if the question was unexpected.

.oOo.

“Your explanation agrees with my other sources of information.” Ursula had maintained a neutral expression throughout the explanation. “However, this still places me in a difficult position. Simply accepting the loss of such a large portion of my realm is hardly politically acceptable for me. When this situation is publicised, I will be placed under significant pressure to assist the SLDF in their invasions, to reclaim the lost worlds if nothing else.”

Langmyr nodded calmly. “That would seem likely. Of course, such an invasion – pitted against our more advanced militaries – might not fare well, The loss of life would be a tragic waste. It is regrettable that the Star League’s hostile position towards Canopus prevents us from offering some favourable treaty to compensate you for the inconvenience caused by the change in borders.”

“Oh really?” Ursula seemed intrigued. “You seem quite proud of this advanced technology but my informants indicated that there had been a substantial period of technical stagnation and even regression.”

“That’s quite true, Chancellor. However, that followed a lengthy period of increasing levels of technology and we have improved even upon the levels achieved then. Tragic as wars might be, they do tend to inspire innovation. That, I suppose, would be the reason that the military clashes so far between the Star League and states we are referring to as ‘uptimers’ have gone so poorly.”

“What can you offer me then.”

“I have been authorised to offer you the future history of the Confederation. A considerably number of history texts, including specialist information on socioeconomics, that will let you and your advisors see the general path that the Capellan Confederation and by extension your neighbours took over the next four and a half centuries. It includes information on colonisable worlds within your borders – the Magestrix is conscious that by our arrival we have to some extent blocked off a possible direction of expansion. Who you share the information with is you to you.”

She met the Chancellor’s eyes evenly. “If the embargo insisted on by the Star League were no longer to be an issue, then the Magestrix would be glad to open trade between our nations. I am sure that we both have much to offer each other.”

The Chancellor smiled slightly, the first sign of favour she had shown. “I must think more upon this, Ambassador. Suitable accommodation has been prepared for you. I will examine the books you have brought and consult my advisors. In the meantime, you are of course my honoured guest.”

Langmyr bowed her head and retreated backwards down the hall, in full accordance with protocol.

Once the great doors were closed and she was sure that the ambassador was well out of earshot, Ursula gestured to one of the guards, who removed his helmet to reveal the face of the head of the Maskirova.

“You are quite sure that she can be kept from the Taurian emissaries?”

“Undoubtedly, your eminence.” Her left-hand man had served in the Third Andurien War as a soldier before his more subtle talents found employment with the Maskirova. “May I enquire as to your impressions.”

Ursula shrugged. “She is correct, of course. What she can offer us if trade opens will be very useful. But doing so would risk censure, perhaps even conflict, with our current allies. I see no need to act hastily.”

.oOo.

Golden Star Hotel, Cogdell
Periphery March, Federated Commonwealth
9 May 2577 (8 May 3032 local time)

Cogdell didn’t have much to recommend it to Rachel as a meeting place with her ancestor’s emissary, except that it was a world that he wouldn’t be familiar with since it hadn’t been colonised until well into the Star League era.

Her theory – hope rather – was that speaking to him on a world verifiably not habitable in the twenty-sixth century would support her credibility. Cogdell had been surveyed and the terraforming techniques used on it were as yet unknown to anyone in the Star League.

And so she stood, wrapped in a heavy fur coat, in the winter winds of the planetary capital waiting for the helicopter carrying the representative of the First Prince. She was uncomfortably aware that the coat, which was more than just a little bulky, gave her somewhat the appearance of a small girl borrowing from her elder sister’s wardrobe.

The down-draft from the helicopter drove cold air against her cheeks and for a moment Rachel wished she was in her BattleMech’s cockpit. The baking heat of an alpha-strike would be a pleasant change from having her cheeks numbed.  Rubbing at them with the cuff of one sleeve warmed them briefly and when she lowered her arm, she saw Henry Davion climbing out of the passenger door of the helicopter. His face was familiar to her, of course, since she had studied historical records of all the members of House Davion in this era.

Alexander’s first son by his second wife. He’d be thirty-two now – five years in the AFFS and later represented New Avalon on the High Council until resigning his seat to join the Foreign Ministry. That was well after the Federated Suns had joined the Star League, so not fair to hold that against him but it was unlikely he opposed it, either.

“Lord Davion,” she called out in greeting, raising her hand. His overcoat and business suit probably weren’t best suited for this weather. “I’m Rachel Calderon-Davion-Gallagher. Welcome to Cogdell.”

“Thank you,” he said urbanely, although he kept his hands firmly buried in his coat pockets. “I don’t mean to be a bad guest, but it is it always this cold here?”

“I don’t know, it’s the first time I’ve visited,” she replied. “Why don’t we step inside where it’s warmer.”

“Thank you,” he said fervently and followed her through the revolving door that led from the helipad into the foyer that separated the upper floors of the hotel from the penthouse above.

The warm air hit them both in turn and Rachel opened up the front of her coat. “Before we deal with anything political, I’m going to have ask: are you particularly religious?”

“Well that’s not a question that I expected to be fielding,” Henry replied. “I’ve never felt the call to be more than communicant with the Church. Catholic, of course.”

“I can work with that,” Rachel said. “If any reporters ask you to comment on any religious matter, I strongly advise you to disclaim any expertise in the field. It’s already a minor headache.”

“How so?” asked the perplexed Henry.

“The Cardinal-Archbishop of Filtvet declared himself Pope on Easter Sunday.”
 â€œI see.”

“Um, no you don’t. It’s technically legitimate: he’s not claiming to be Pope of the Roman Catholic Church – although there are almost no Roman-Catholics in the March according to the last census. The problem is that he’s legal head of the New Avalon Catholic Church and recruiting missionaries to bring the rest of the Federated Suns into line with the ‘true forms of the church as laid down by Pope Thomas X’.”

“The New Avalon Catholic Church? I take it that this is something I wouldn’t know about it. Would you support such a... crusade?”

“No, but that probably won’t stop him and I’m not only the most prominent member of the Church in the March, I generally take mass at his cathedral. He performed my wedding ceremony, which gives him a certain amount of political influence just by association.” She shook her head. “Just don’t throw any sparks on the oil. Neither of us needs the trouble it would make.”

“Alright, I’ll do that. Might I ask a question? You claimed descent from father in the letter, but we didn’t get any details...”

“That’s right. My father could trace unbroken male descent, father to son, all the way back to your older half-brother Vincent.” Rachel smiled ruefully. “And before you ask, yes, I’m a Calderon on my mother’s side of the family. Quite a distant cousin of the current Protector and specifically debarred from the succession following some negotatitions a few years ago. His daughters still call me Auntie Rache though.”

Henry paused at the elevator door, politely allowing her to enter first while he considered the consequences of that not particularly subtle hint: Rachel was on close and presumably fond terms with the Taurian Protector. Not exactly ideal, given his mission, but not necessarily disasterous. “I suppose it’s your turn to ask a question.”

“You go ahead. I’m sure you have many more.”

“What exactly was your status in the Federated Suns before last Christmas?”

She chuckled. “Oh, your father won’t like this. My legal title is Arch-Duchess, which made me the fourth-ranking noble of the Federated Suns after the First Prince and the Arch-Dukes of New Syrtis and Robinson. The title of Arch-Duke is specifically limited to the noble head of a March, of which were seven including the Crucis March, and where competent the Arch-Duke also holds the offices of Minster and Marshal of their March. In essence, I had almost as much authority within the Periphery March as one of the Princes would have had before your father ended their independence.”

“You’re right.” The doors to the elevator opened and Henry once again let Rachel take the lead, the two of them walking out into the penthouse foyer. “Father will not approve.”

“And I can understand why.  It’s why the Marches are deliberately kept small and some thought was being given to further dividing the Capellan March. But that was then and this is now.”

“I’ll be honest: I’m here to try to persuade you to submit to the authority of New Avalon.”

Rachel nodded. “I expected no less, Lord Davion. And I, through you, am going to try to convince your father to withdraw from the Star League before it all comes down on his head.”

“Did that happen?”

“Not to your father, no. Once you’ve settled in, I’ll tell you about what happened to John Davion though.”

.oOo.

High Orbit, Leximon
Lothian Worlds, Marian League
12 May 2577 (15 May 3032 local time)

“There’s no way I can persuade you to change your mind?”

The grey in Marcus O’Reilly’s hair had long since spread from his temples until only strands of black remained. Losing his first wife to an assassin had hurt him, but losing a child and that child’s mother to the vagaries of time itself had visually aged the Caesar of the Marian Hegemony, Lord-Regent of the Lothian Worlds, Count-Palatine of Illyria and in the eyes of a disturbingly sincere religious movement, a living incarnation of Zeus-Odin.

The woman on the other end of the video link was a little younger and wore the uniform of a FWLN captain, which would have rather surprised the hierarchy of that particular navy. “No Caesar, there is not. You have our gratitude for extending citizenship to those of the crew who have decided not to return to the League but we still have enough of a crew who want to make it back there that I’ve no intention of turning back.”

She looked at him for a moment and then asked her own question: “Will you try to stop us?”

It was a pertinent question. After spending more than a year making lengthy repairs to their jumpdrive, FWLS Harpy was preparing to leave the orbit of Leximon. Positioned in parallel orbit was the battleship MIS Loretta Heart, massing almost twice as much and well positioned to take the Harpy under fire with her batteries of heavy naval particle cannon.

“I probably should.” That was, if anything, an understatement. “You’re probably the biggest conceivable source of information that I could hand to Ian Marik: navigational data, your own knowledge of my naval and military capabilities... can you even think of one reason that I shouldn’t stop you from going back to the League and spilling all of that?”

“Put like that...” Grace Jones, Captain of the Harpy, shook her head. “Only one.”

Marcus didn’t respond other than raising one eyebrow slightly.

“You’ll have to kill us to stop us,” she said simply.

He nodded, believing her resolve. “I know. I hope Ian Marik deserves what he is getting. You would make a fine Roman, Captain Jones.”

“You mean...?”

“I mean you have my permission to depart. I’ve sent word to all systems that the Harpy has free transit of the Marian League until I say otherwise, which won’t be until you’ve entered Marik space safely.”

“If you don’t mind my asking...”

“Why?” he asked. “You have proven honourable allies.” That had been something of a surprise given that less than a decade before, a Free Worlds League invasion had had to be repelled but whoever said that politics made strange bedfellows had been onto something. “It is probably that in the future you will be among the ranks of my enemies. But I hope that you will be an honourable enemy, and House Marik prove itself an adversary with whom I can make peace.”

Jones nodded her understanding and then hesitated a moment before offering him a Marian salute. “Ave Caesar.”

A thin smile crossed his face and he returned her salute in the Marik fashion. “Be off with you, Captain. You have a long voyage ahead of you.”

.oOo.

Fourteen hours and a hair over twenty-five light years away, as the Harpy unfolded its jump sail to begin picking up free solar energy to charge its drives, Jones turned to Lieutenant-Commander Claudian bin Sahid. “Claude, we still have a separate, purgable memory core for sensitive data, don’t we?”

“We do,” he agreed hesitantly. He wasn’t the original executive officer: that worthy had accepted a commission in the Marian Imperial Navy. “May I ask why?”

“I want you to move all navigation, military and intelligence data on the Marian League, its military, worlds and leaders to that database and overwrite the original locations in the main memory cores.”

“Aye, captain. You’re planning to purge that information.”

“Yes. Oh, I’ll no doubt be debriefed extensively as to what I remember, as will we all. But that will only provide a fraction of the information that the Free Worlds League would otherwise have.”

“They’ll court martial you, you know,” bin Sahid pointed out.

“Until otherwise informed, the Marian League is an ally of the Free Worlds League. I will not betray an ally to a power whose intentions may be hostile,” she said and then shrugged. “Besides, we may be allies again one day. Who knows? Are you going to stop me?”

Bin Sahid gave her an innocent look. “But Captain, that would be mutiny. They shoot people for that, you know?”

.oOo.

High Orbit, Estuan
Pleiades Union, Taurian Concordat
14 May 2577 (15 May 3032 local time)

The jump point defences had done their best but against eighty-two warships there was never much chance that they would managed to stop the assault force. They’d certainly managed to mark them up though: two of the warships left to guard the transport jumpships were clearly of limited combat value and the wreckage of three others, including a FSN Musketeer-class battlecruiser, was slowly drifting apart into a navigation target that someone was going to have to deal with.

That was just fine with Commodore Rukia Fukuda. By sheer chance none of the Taurian Concordat Navy’s few admirals had been able to make it here yet since the HPG transmission warning of the invasion force had begun to circulate. What was bad luck for them was good luck for Rukia: not only had she been able to make it here with her battle group, built around four Hyades-class missile cruisers, but she had a thin edge of seniority over the other Commodores present. Which meant that unless one of the Admirals busted his rear getting here - fairly unlikely at this late stage – she was going to command a major fleet action, something that would look very good on her record, next time the Protector was picking someone for promotion to Admiral.

“It’s about time for the fighters to launch,” she ordered, looking around the orderly bridge. On the monitors, she could see the apparently orderly lines of ships that would soon be converted into a chaotic jumble if the exercises she had experienced were anything to judge by.

Out on their final approach, the fusion torches of sixty four warships were lighting the way of the enemy as they arrived. Behind them, well behind, transport dropships were doing likewise, slowing even more rapidly. They and their previous cargos had no business in a serious fight. They wouldn’t slow too much though. The warships would be trying to punch a hole in the defences for the dropships to make their landing through and they would need some of their inherent velocity to make use of it.

The fighters beginning to launch from the various ships of her force – and to rise from the surface – were going to make that difficult, as were the literally hundreds of gunships that formed part of Estuan’s fixed defences. In theory a full fleet would field over eight thousand small craft but not even the TCN could man so many, yet, and the only carrier to respond was being held in reserve.

Still, there were a lot of them.

The enemy – it was shorter and more to the point than trying to differentiate FSN from SLDF at this point – was dividing their formation, she saw. A few warship – probably dedicated transports, were hanging back to cover the dropships. The rest were forming up into three walls: first the destroyers: heavily armed to punch aside the smaller Taurian warships. Behind them the enemy frigates, assault dropships and corvettes, poised to drive into any weakness that could be forced in her lines. And then, at the back, the cruisers and battleships and carriers that would strike the most decisive blow.

It was a formation that Rukia had studied but never actually seen. Some said the Hegemony had devised it based upon infantry tactics dating back to the Roman Republic. If so, it was about to become just as much of a piece of history as ancient Rome, because they were running headlong into something just a touch more up to date.

The first capital missiles from the SLDF destroyers began to streak ahead of the formation, their fighters holding back to provide coverage to the warships. Across the Taurian fleet, officers activated point defense systems and in many cases said quiet prayers that the equipment would function as well as it had in simulation.

The enemy destroyers were mostly Hegemony-built Barons and FedSuns Davions. The latter had no capital tubes while the former were firing only White Sharks, medium missiles that were sensibly being aimed at corvettes and cutters that might be vulnerable to take penetrating hits. However, very few of them made contact as heavy turrets turned and cannon designed for anti-shipping work instead spat out flak rounds that smashed missiles out of existence like birdshot against a quail.

Then the eight Hyades-class cruisers, including Rukia’s own TCS Brimstone, all of which had turned sharply to unmask their broadsides. More than a few ships in the TCN had forward firing tubes, but Hyades were designed for exactly this and each could bring thirty-two missile tubes to bear on the oncoming destroyers.

The volley of missiles fired by the Taurians was far more numerous and most their missiles were what they called SantaAnas, a fifty-ton Killer Whale missile, each carrying a five hundred kiloton nuclear warhead. The Davion destroyers did sport rudimentary point defense lasers, but nothing approaching the efficient systems of the Taruians. The Barons, in contrast, had nothing of the sort.

Of the more than two hundred missiles fired, just over a third made contact with their targets. Twenty-four enemy destroyers out of the twenty-five in the first wave were killed – grossly overkilled in fact – by the nuclear explosions that ripped through their hulls before they could fire more than a handful of shots.

On her command deck, Rukia nodded calmly despite the temptation to jump up and cheer like a school girl. “Very good. Now move on to stage two.”

The Hyades, having slowed to fire off their broadsides, fell behind the main formation slightly as the less-specialised battlecruisers and cruisers moved up into the lead, their own drives flaring furiously as they lunged for the enemy’s secondline, disdaining to even fire on the lone surviving destroyer as wings of gunships closed in on it.

.oOo.

One and a half million kilometres away from Estuan, a sudden burst of radiation was the only warning that the jumpship flotilla and their escorts had of the arrival of a new player: one large and two small warships.

It wasn’t a close arrival: that would have been reckless in the extreme. But it was close enough for immediate detection and for panic to set in as the ships recognised that they were facing an imminent attack.

The fighter pilots launching from TCS David Santos’ bays were, in contrast, not at all panicked. Most of them were young, few more than a few years out of flight school, and they were heading for their ancestral enemies: the armed forces of the Star League and the Federated Suns.

They were flying large, advanced fighters, almost all the squadrons were equipped with Tomcat superiority fighters, rocket packs mounted on the hardpoints of their stubby wings. They didn’t need more firepower than that to intimidate lightly protected jumpships and even the battleship SLS Typhoon, which could only launch a single wing of fighters to cover it and its charges, would have been  be well advised to respect the menace.

A Taurian Unity-class carrier carried almost three hundred aerospace fighters. Three-quarters of the Santos’ onboard capacity descended upon the flotilla.

Commodore Robin Laws knew an untenable situation when he saw one, but he also knew his duty.

“Put me on general broadcast to all ships,” he ordered bleakly. “And bring us around, I want an intercept course on that carrier.”

“You’re on general broadcast, sir,” he was told as the aged battleship began to turn.

“All ships, this is flotilla command. Any jumpship which has not yet finished charging its jumpdrive is to set their drives to overload and then take to their lifeboats. Those jumpships that can jump, take onboard lifeboats as best you can and then jump for Naka Pabni. All warships of the escort force are to follow Typhoon. That is all.”

“Sir.” Major Giles Tewdor leant over quietly. “I’d be remiss not to point out that the Typhoon, Archer and April all have charged jump drives.” The second-in-command of the battleship looked miserable, not afraid. “Standing orders from Army HQ are that in the face of overwhelming numbers, the priority is to preserve our forces.”

“That is correct, Major. However, I see only three warships out there. We have five.” Laws was mildly astonished that he managed to keep his face straight while including the lamed FSS Markesan and SLS Indus in his count of ships. The latter, a Davion-class destroyer, was hard-pressed to maintain a gravity of thrust and the Federated Suns carrier – the third ship of the entire armada to arrive in-system - had lost both flight-decks and most of her portside armament to a Taurian defense platform. Fortunately, she’d been able to launch almost all her wings first. “Added to the fact that the Taurian fighters will likely reach the jumpships before they can take all our lifeboats aboard, I rather think it will be necessary for us to provide a diversion.”

“Of course, Commodore. Thank you for clarifying the situation for me.”

It was an odd thing, Laws mused. Tewdor was actually more relaxed when he stepped away towards his position overseeing the gunnery team, than he had been. We’re a funny group of people in the military, the Commodore concluded. More afraid of being thought cowards than we are of death itself.

“I rather think those fighters are going to be in range soon,” he heard the Major say. “Let’s see how they like a one ton autocannon shell through the canopy, eh?”

.oOo.

 â€œIt’s all over but the shouting.” General Troy Neville, AFFS, had first heard the saying from his father, commenting on a colleague’s marriage. The colleague in question, a Major in the Syrtis Fusiliers, had walked out of his house and moved into Bachelor Officer Quarters that night. Neville’s mother had ended the conversation before the ten-year-old Neville learned who the Major had found sharing his wife’s bed.

A lifelong bachelor himself, Neville had never faced that particular humiliation. It could not conceivably be worse than that he felt on realising the consequences of the view out the window of the dropship carrying his command section and two companies of BattleMechs towards Estuan.

Outside the window, FSS Lucien Davion was adrift. Looming behind the two blackened halves of what had been an Iron Duke-class battleship was another ship, one that was clearly still under power. He didn’t know what to call the class, but it was one of the ships responsible for the barrage of nuclear weapons that had shattered the fleet’s frontline. The markings along the bow were legible.

TCS Brimstone.

“George,” he called to his aide. “Spread the word. I want our databases purged. Then have the technicial staff pull the memory cores and destroy them. Magnets, heat... shoot the  damn things if you have to. Hardcopies too. We may not have many choices left but we’re not going to give the Taurians any information they don’t already have.”

Which, he did not have to say, must have included the details of their attack. To have dozens of warships arrive so quickly in response to the invasion force’s presence would require either infernal luck or a traitor somewhere in the Task Force’s staff. Neville knew what his money was on.

“We could pull key components out of the Mechs as well, sir.” His aide was a sharp-minded young man – Neville thought that he could go far if he avoided making too many enemies.

“If we have time.” The warship could obliterate them at any moment, of course, rendering the whole matter moot, but that it had refrained so far suggested very strongly that it would not. No, they’d want prisoners, captured equipment and information. “Get on with it. I’ll have the captain relay word to the other ships.”

“Oh, and George?”

The leftenant paused on the threshold. “Sir?”

“Make sure the regimental colours are burned.”

.oOo.

Government Mansion, Samantha
Taurus, Taurian Concordat
15 May 2577 (14 May 3032 local calendar)

“Payback’s a bitch,” Jack Calderon said out loud and then belatedly checked his office to make sure none of his children were in the room to learn the bad language. They’d undoubtled learn enough from their peers without his contributing.

Concluding that he was in the clear he pressed a button on his desk and a portrait on the wall slid down as the wires holding it up spooled out. The mechanism was supposed to ease cleaning the ancient oil portrait of Mitchell Calderon, but it also now revealed a life-sized head-and-shoulders photograph of the Terran Hegemony’s Director General.

Jack reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, produced a toy gun and proceeded to amuse himself by bouncing rubber darts off the face of Ian Calderon.

When his ammunition was exhausted, the Protector raised the portrait up to mask his concealed target and gathered up his ammunition, reloading the ‘weapon’ before putting it back in the drawer and going back to his actual job.

The media didn’t have the full report yet, although it was too juicy not to get leaked. Rukia Fukuda had requested the Taurian Brand for the crews of the corvettes and cutters that had bird-dogged much heavier SLN ships, drawing fire and delaying them so that they could not escape the systematic destruction being dealt out by the heavier Taurian cruisers. Fourteen ships had been destroyed entirely and nine crippled to the point they might not be worth the time or expense of repairing.

For a victory on this scale – out of eighty-two warships only four had fought their way to pirate jump-points and escaped – Jack felt that that was too modest. Barring strong objections, he intended to award the crews of every ship that participated the Brand, and would personally pin the Concordat Sunburst to Commodore Fukuda once she’d sweated out the After Action Review in the teeth of all three available Admirals.

Nor were the lopsided numbers for the warship losses the full story, of course. Fully a third of the jumpships that had brought the invasion force had been abandoned and destroyed, which would cripple SLDF operations for months or even years, and of course, more than fifty regiments of SLDF and AFFS soldiers were being landed, a few at a time, in preparation for internment.

Their equipment would no doubt find a welcome home in many a planetary militia, but the morale boost of the victory would be even more valuable. It dwarfed the historical victory of Tentativa and gave ample proof to the people of the Concordat – and to all their allies – that the SLDF could be beaten.

“Today, is a good day.”

.oOo.

Golden Star Hotel, Cogdell
Periphery March, Federated Commonwealth
16 May 2577 (15 May 3032 local time)

It was difficult to keep a secret.

In this case, it was something that Rachel supposed that in justice she ought to tell Henry Davion. She liked the man and it felt wrong to keep news from him, but that was no justification for letting the Star League know about the HPGs.

And there was no reasonable way that even a ‘pony express’ of jumpship couriers would have made it to Cogdell from Estuan in just two days.

As a result she made sure she was securely locked up in her suite before putting together a formal acceptance of Jack Calderon’s request that she handle the Prisoner of War captured as a result of the battle. Where she’d put nearly twenty thousand disarmed military personnel she  wasn’t sure, but there was no denying that they would be safer under her protection than they would be in the Concordat.

Taurians had long memories, and little fondness for the SLDF or the AFFS. The risk of... incidents, was not a trival one.

It was best, she felt, not to let Henry Davion not know the vengeance that his countrymen might face for crimes they had not yet and might never commit.

“I’ll be honest,” she told him instead. “I’ve tested the waters a little – surveys on the street, straw polls among local legislatures, nothing formal – and there’s surprisingly little enthusiasm among most of my populace for rejoining the Federated Suns.”

“I’m rather disappointed.” Henry glanced out the window over the city. “You seem to be ruling a fairly prosperous region – at least from what little I’ve seen of it. I wouldn’t have thought there was serious discontent.”

“Oh, there isn’t. It’s rather embarrassing but from their point of view, the only Davion who’s done much for them in the last few centuries is... well, me. From their point of view, they already have the Davion they want.”

Henry’s expression conveyed the considerable sincerity of a professional diplomat: “There’s no question that any arrangement we might reach will include recognition of your title as Arch-duchess as long it’s compatible with the government of... no?”

Rachel shook her head. “A surprising number seem to feel that New Avalon has a history of neglecting them. And then of course there are the vocal and extreme minorities.”

“Oh let me guess. Some of them think that you should replace my father on the throne?”

“A few, yes. Most oppose that simply because I’m ‘their’ Davion and they prefer I be closer to home. The more informed, of course, realise that it would be logistically impossible for me to conquer the Suns.”

“Of course.”

“New Avalon, perhaps, but as Prince Alexander found out in his youth, control of the capital is not the same as control of the entire state.” She smiled sadly. “The same reasons that my March could be of great benefit to the Federated Suns make me a credible threat: scores of factories producing some of the most modern military equipment of the thirty-first century. You saw the troops on parade yesterday: what did you think of their equipment?”

“It seemed a little light, for what I assume to be your household troops but... yes, I take your point. Almost all of it was fairly new.”

“Henry... those were the planetary militia.”

He whistled. “That’s a lot of militia... twenty regiments or so?”

“Eight infantry, four armoured and a single ‘Mech regiment. Admittedly our regiments are rather larger than the Star League’s standard.”

“Why in the worlds would you have over two hundred BattleMechs in local troops? Were you planning a revolt against your own First Prince?” He realised it was a stupid question the minute he asked it, but Rachel laughed.

“Against Uncle Hanse? I’d never have the nerve. No, we had a pirate problem when I first took over. And a, ahem, ‘pirate’ problem.”

“They’re still doing that?” Pirate bands were the traditional deniable assets of all the major states.

“Unfortunately, yes. That dodge never seems to get old. But with a militia like this? Pirates may check in but they never check out again.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.” Henry was too canny to lick his lips or allow himself any other telltales of feeling nervous. “However, given my father’s history with overly powerful principalities there would be the concern that your children or grandchildren might include another Dimitri Rostov or David Varnay. I really can’t see him – or my brother Vincent, for that matter, agreeing to leaving you or your heirs with the option of mobilising a private army of more than forty regiments of BattleMechs.”

“What do you want me to do, disarm them?”

Henry nodded silently.

“You...” Rachel shook her head. “Those regiments are their protection. The defences that they can rely when the AFFS regulars and the March Militia are called away to fight the Kuritas or the Mariks.”

“We’re all in the Star League now, so that really isn’t very likely.”

“Remind me to tell you about the War of Davion Succession.” She stood, straightening her jacket. “Even if I was willing to betray them like that, I simply couldn’t. They’d vote with those guns. And I’m not fool enough to end up like Gregory Amaris.”

.oOo.

House of Government, Atreus
Marik Commonwealth, Free Worlds League
25 May 2577

Facing Parliament was not entirely outside Ortega’s experience, although this time she didn’t see any of the familiar faces she had seen during her previous career. There were also many fewer of them, only two hundred representatives rather than the five hundred she was used to, seated in an entirely different chamber of the sprawling complex of buildings from which the Free Worlds League was ruled.

It was particularly uncanny to realise that the man at the head of the Oriente delegation must be an Allison, the founding House of the Duchy. Their line had ended during the Second Succesion War, replaced with the House Halas that she was familiar with.

Then again, she must be almost as alien to them. Instinctively she compared the suits being worn beneath the purple tunics of the Members of Parliament to her own and noted she was out of step with current fashions. Would she wind up adjusting her wardrobe to match them or would she set a new trend?

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Parliament, the honourable Jacquelynn Ortega, of late Ambassador of the Free Worlds to the Court of Canopus.” Ian Marik directed a reassuring smile to her as he directed her to take the floor.

“Honorable Members of Parliament,” she began. “I have been asked to speak here by two people. Firstly, by Duke Brion Marik, who wishes me to acquaint you all with the capabilities of the Magistracy of Canopus. And secondly, by Magestrix Savitri Centralla, who desires that you should know the character of Canopus.”

“The history of Canopus spans some five hundred years. For two centuries, as they see it, they were shackled by the Star League: conquered, subjected to rule by a military governor and when that was removed, granted voice but no vote within the Star League Council. It would be remiss of me to say that no good was done for Canopus by the Star League: they themselves have particularly honoured Captain-General Marion Marik for refraining from the atrocities that would mark the subjugation of the other Periphery realms and Duchess Melissa Humphreys, their first military governor for endeavouring to provide a fair and even handed administration.”

“However, nor can it be denied that they were a conquered and exploited province. That their liberties were taken from them by force. That the Star League Council levied extraordinary taxation upon them in order to fund their own military build-ups. That their economies and even the ecologies of their colonies were left dependent upon the Terran Hegemony for critical technologies that could be withdrawn at any time.”

“And so they know, bone-deep, each and every one of them, that the Star League fell far short of its high ideals. In my own lifetime, I have seen them wage war furiously for their independence and that of their allies. I have also seen them go to enormous lengths to spare and save human lives. The Magistracy has, in my own lifetime, gone from being an impoverished frontier state, barely protecting itself from pirates, to an industrial and technological powerhouse closely comparable to the Terran Hegemony in this day and age.”

“Duke Brion asked me to draw your particular attention to the Canopian Navy Royal. I am sure that you were all previously advised of the Magistracy’s Navy as being a handful of foreign-built corvettes, vastly out-numbered and out-classed by the ships of the Free Worlds League. The Magistracy you are familiar with can deploy seventeen regiments of BattleMechs, many of the mercenaries. This is not what you are now facing.”

“The Magistracy that I know can field more than sixty BattleMech regiments, supported by over one hundred and fifty conventional regiments. Their navy is made up of at least twenty modern cruisers and fifty pocket battlecruisers with no less than four first class battleships. They have no less than four major shipyards, one of which Duke Marik and I have personally observed to be constructing a further twenty cruisers.”

“And that is not the true strength of Canopus. It is an open secret that their navy was being built up to counter the otherwise unassailable naval power of Taurus. Nor is it any secret that this extraordinary investment in their military was paid for by the export of their unparalleled medical expertise. The Canopian medical establishment have devised an admittedly expensive means of retarding and to a limited degree even reversing the aging process.”

There was an incredulous silence and she could almost hear them thinking that she couldn’t really have said that.

“I assure you that this is the complete and literal truth. There is a treatment, available only from the Magistracy of Canopus, that can extend the human life expectancy to well over two centuries. The wealth of nations has poured into Canopus and they have used that wealth to import from us and the rest of the Inner Sphere, whatever they wanted. The result, for Canopus and for all their trading partners, was an incredible rise in commerce and by extension of tax revenues.”

“The Magestrix, before I left, asked me to pass on the following message: ‘remember the rich reward of those who cut open their golden goose’.”

.oOo.

Unity City, North America
Terra, Terran Hegemony
26 May 2577

Ian Cameron was no stranger to adversity. Marriage, fatherhood and a highly successful military career had made up an early life that could hardly be considered free of challenges. Then, half of his lifetime ago, an assassin’s bullet had pushed him into politics and the rule of a nation.

Not since Joseph’s murder had he felt so shattered by events.

Somehow the Periphery had leapt forward dramatically in power and in presence. Years of diplomacy and of careful preparation for war had been flushed away. And the only explanation that was being presented for this extraordinary event was one right out of a bad holovid.

Dozens of astrophysicists and other theorists had been called in to consider the information sent to him by the Captain-General, Chancellor and now First Prince. None had been able to explain how such a thing could happen, at least not in words that made any sense to him.

The reports from Amos Forlough and Charles Wexworth were at least more intelligible, if not at all palatable. The Outworlds Alliance was putting up more resistance than expected, with II Corps having lost half a division while securing only one world and a foothold on a second. He could almost feel Forlough’s frustration: faulty intelligence and an opponent that he couldn’t come to grips with. There was a temptation to replace him with someone more flexible but no real justification for doing so.

The lack of any reports from what was left of VII Corps told its own tale. No news was most assuredly not good news, but at least he could hold out some faint hope there.

Not with Wexworth. Whatever his other faults, the General had made no efforts to spare himself in recounting the disasterous Battle of Estuan. Literally half the Federated Suns’ warships had been lost in the battle, leaving their navy essentially out of action for the next few years, and dozens of SLDF ships had also been lost. The fate of the Federated Suns Auxiliary Corps and the SLDF’s Sixteenth and Eighteenth Divisions remained unknown.

The good news was that following reports from spyships sent into Taurian space, Wexworth had concluded that the number of warships picked up on patrol precluded launching the other two proposed attacks. That decision had undoubtedly prevented the destruction of another four divisions and their escorts.

“What do you think?” he asked his wife as Shandra finally set aside the analysis of Wexworth’s reports.

She grimaced. “I think the public is going to be demanding someone’s head on a platter. More to the point, so will Alexander Davion and you’re going to need his support badly.”

“I was hoping for a more concrete suggestion, which isn’t to say you’re wrong,” he admitted.

“Well, in that case, I think that General Kincaid’s recommendation makes a lot of sense.”

Ian blinked and paged back through his copy of the report. “Pull the Aegis-class back into service? Shandra, those hulks were retired almost forty years ago. And the Quixote frigates was a white elephant from the beginning.”

“That’s true, but they’re two of the most common ships in the reserves and the Quixotes are built around massed missile attacks, which is exactly what the Taurians are using against us,” she pointed out. “Forlough is crying out for heavy ships to counter the Outworlders and reconditioning, say, twenty of each for him would be a matter of weeks. How long would it take to build him those cruisers? I can promise you that we’re not going to be able to pull them off any of the other fronts.”

“I see. We could offer a few to Ian and Alexander as well, to make good some of their losses.”

“Agreed.” Shandra looked at her notes. “We’re going to have to tie up our dockyards refitting the rest of them with better anti-missile defences though. Going up against the Taurians without that is tantamount to suicide.”

Ian nodded. “That’s not as much of a problem as it might be. Our designers will need to reconsider what we’re building anyway and make alterations. Let’s concentrate on getting Aegis cruisers repaired for Forlough and to restore the national fleets to full numbers. That’ll give us time to get the Titan yards cleared to carry out serious refits of the Quixote. We’ll want to be able to provide Wexworth or whoever is in charge there by then with a substantial number.”

“I don’t recommend replacing him. Talk to Carlos if you want...”

“I already have.” Ian lowered the report and walked over to the window. The evening sun was painting the half-finished buildings in ruddy hues. “I’m not going to relieve him now. But if we have another disaster like this one...”

“Should we proceed at all?”

“What!?” he exclaimed, turning around sharply. “You can’t possibly mean...”

His wife stretched lightly in her chair, unfazed by his explosive response. “We spent years of diplomacy trying to bring the contemporary periphery states into the League before we resorted to military action. The battles so far have been localised. Maybe we should back off and approach them diplomatically again. They’re larger and wealthier now: they’d be enormously more valuable to the League as members, and they’ve also had more time to mature, to see the benefits.”

“There are two groups who’d have to be convinced that, Shandra. Firstly the Star League Council and secondly the Periphery Lords themselves. Whether we like it or not, this is not like Bloody Santiago or Malagrotta... the first Malagrotta.”

“No. It isn’t. But do you honestly think we can push on with attacks on Canopus or Taurus right now? VII Corps was our strongest single corps and it’s completely gone. VI Corps is a shell. If either of them goes on the offensive, we’re going to be hard-pressed to stop them. At worst, talking buys us time.”

“And at best?”

“At best, divide and conquer. It’s pretty clear that the new Outworlds Alliance is not the strongest of them and they’re out and exposed. So we can discreetly keep up a little pressure there, Lord Kurita will hardly complain about that. And while we’re building up our forces... well, think about who didn’t get brought back in time.”

Ian nodded slowly. “The Rim Worlds.”

“Exactly. Gregory Amaris is a toad, but he’s our toad. And besides which, there is an SLDF garrison on Apollo.”

“Yes. And bringing the Republic into the Star League would have some significant economic and political advantages. Viola is already one of our strongest allies on the Council. Restoring the Rim Worlds as a source of cheap goods for the Lyran economy – and to some extent, the Combine and the Free Worlds League will benefit too.”

Shandra nodded encouragingly. “And a propaganda triumph as one of the periphery states enters the Star League will do wonders for morale.”

“You’re right. Forlough wants ships more than he wants men. Giving some of the Aegis cruisers and priority for replacements will keep him happy, without giving him the resources to get reckless. Meanwhile we can send the VIII Corps that we were assembling, reinforced with Auxiliaries from the Lyrans and Draconians to bring the Rim Worlds under our control.” He sat down again. “It’s one hell of a way to win a...”

“Ian?” His wife walked over to stand next to him.

“I was going to say, one hell of a way to win a war,” he said soberly. “But this isn’t just any war, is it?”

“It’s going to be terrible,” she agreed. “You remember what they called the First World War? Back before the Second one?”

He searched his memory. “The Great War?”

“The War-To-End-All-Wars.” Shandra rested one hand on his shoulder. “That’s what we’re fighting for, Ian. To make this the last war.”

.oOo.

Terra Prime, Apollo
Rim Worlds Republic
1 June 2577

“We’re not alone.”

“What?” Jerric looked up from where he was reviewing the minutes of the Constitutional Convention.

“I sent a couple of Ranger teams into the Commonwealth and the Combine to get a feel for how reliable our information on them,” Charlotte told him. “They just reported back. Apparently the entire Star League is in a panic over losing contact with dozens of worlds across the rimwards regions of the Inner Sphere. Care to guess where the line is drawn?”

“Ah... the old Taurian-Andurien border with the League and the Suns.”

“Give yourself a prize,” Charlotte agreed disgustedly. “The Taurians, the Canopians, the Periphery March of the Federated Suns, and probably a good number of the small fry that hover around them. The Star League is trying to keep it quiet, but my best guess is that they sent a probing attack across the line and got their groin kicked rather brutally.”

Jerric thought for a moment about the best estimates of the military capability of the Star League compared to the more advanced weapons that the Oberon Confederation could field and then applied that to the rather larger armies of the rimwards periphery. His expression said it all.

“Exactly. Which means the Star League is going to be reacting to them and not just us. Which could be really good or really bad. They have to know that something strange is happening which means that they’ll be looking for us.”

“But on the flip side,” he offered, “They can’t focus all that many resources against us when they have those three... is it three? Are the Outworlds there?”

“I don’t know, reports are mixed. But either way, our ability to predict what they’re up to just collapsed.” She sank into a chair, apparently feeling more than her relatively modest age. “Please tell me you have some good news?”

“It’s a bit mixed,” Jerric admitted.

“That means some of it is good. Spill,” his wife ordered imperiously.

The duke (who would probably never see his duchy again, due to the distance and the fact his branch of House Davion didn’t exist yet to have it granted to them) rubbed his temples. “The good news is that without Gregory Amaris’ remaining authority as First Consul, there is a pretty solid base of support for rejecting the Star League. The regiments that are still accepting orders from Apollo are preparing to move to the border and resist invasion.”

“What about their ships?”

“Those that are in operation are doing the same, but honestly almost half their fleet needs serious work. I’ve offered on your behalf the use of our yards to repair and upgrade them.” There was a note of challenge in his voice.

“That’s somewhat in excess of the authority I granted you.” Charlotte was smiling though. “Did they agree?”

Jerric nodded.

“Then well done. I’ll give the necessary orders.” She stretched, cat-like. “What about the bad news?”

“Weeeelll,” he told her, drawing the word out teasingly. “They’re still arguing about just about everything else.”

“Oh dear Omnipotent Being that sent us here, why didn’t I just conquer this place?”

Her husband rolled his eyes. Charlotte’s ‘religion’ for want of a better word seemed to be congealing around the idea of an unnamed but selectively malevolent deity. It was probably going to offend someone someday. “Because you need the manpower?”

“There is that. Perhaps...” Charlotte frowned in thought. “Hmm, how many of the more... vocal personalities are from Timbuktu? Or Finmark for that matter?”

“A few.” Jerric thought a moment, matching names to homeworlds. “Perhaps more than a few. They’re further from their planetary governments, less directly accountable. Why?”

“Two-thirds of the rebel regiments were posted there. They’re a long way from Apollo, the RRA was fairly strong in those provinces and I don’t think they grasp how important a strong government will be.” The queen pursed her lips in thought for a moment. “Work on the delegates from worlds near Apollo. See if you can get them to agree on a single plan. I’ll let it be known that I’m considering excluding a few of the worlds with more awkward representative from the new Republic, whatever form it takes. That should bring in the moderates.”

“Would you? It would leave them swinging in the breeze when the League invades, you know.”

“They’ll bleed as well fighting for their homes as they will fighting for us,” Charlotte pointed out coldly. “And start thinking about a confederation of cantons, each with its own government structure but tied together by mutual defence and trade.”

“That sounds awfully like the five principalities... which ended up in Civil War. In living memory, actually, in this day and age.”

“Well if memory serves, the Davions made it work for a couple of generations. If it doesn’t work, Hendrik and his children will just have to think of something else.”

Jerric conceded the point although he couldn’t avoid one last word: “You’re prolonged, dear. It could easily still be your problem a hundred years from now.”

.oOo.

Crystal Palace, Crimson
Canopus IV, Magistracy of Canopus
3 June 2577 (local time 2 June 3032)

There was no pacing around the Central Committee Chamber for the Magestrix this time. The Committee was in full, formal meeting with the Crimson Council occupying their modest box to the right of her throne and her senior advisors mirroring them to her left.

“The proposal before the Committee is that our calendar be regularised with that of the Inner Sphere.” She checked the notes in her hand. “The recommendation of the Magestrix, following consultation with affected parties, is that the thirty-first day of December 3032 be omitted from the calendar, proceeding instead from the thirtieth directly to the first of January of next year, to be officially recorded as 2578.”

The representative of New Abilene stood, requesting permission to speak. Jasmine Cullen’s homeworld had been among those ravaged by Capellan mercenaries twelve years ago and the Secretariat of Immigration strongly advised colonists from the former Capellan Confederation not to seek permission to settle on the world. “Why should we conform to the Inner Sphere,” she demanded. “We’ve four hundred years of seniority over them, should they not be the ones adapting to us?”

“I regret to say, Ms. Cullen, that the Star League will no doubt adapt to our presence sooner than I would like.” Savitri scanned the benches opposite the representative of New Abilene and marked out a possibility. “Ms. Wujick, would you like to respond?”

The native of Vakarel, who had been shifting irritably in her seat, shot to her feet. “Thank you, Magestrix, I would be glad to. What the honourably lady from New Abilene appears to have forgotten is that the economy of Canopus is built around trade with the Inner Sphere. A substantial fraction of our workforce manufacture goods for sale abroad or require components not currently available within the Magistracy. While this dependency has been reduced somewhat in recent years, many companies have been left in dire financial straits by the loss of their markets or suppliers.”

“The Magistrix has generously subsidised efforts to retool to cover the gaps but unless trade resumes soon we are facing a severe recession. Aligning our national calendar with that of the Inner Sphere will ease co-ordination of shipping schedules and communication with the foreign markets that we need in order to survive.”

“If you’re concerned about national pride, ask yourself how many of your people even care about the national calendar? The planetary calendar, which most of your people actually live by, won’t need to change at all.”

“Thank you, Ms. Wujick,” Savitri interjected smoothly, before the woman could continue her argument. She made a mental note to keep an eye on the woman, there was no such thing as having too many Committee representatives aligned with the government. “I would add that while government reserves are substantial, they are not limitless and a large portion of our foreign currency are now worthless, since the Star League is not currently accepting the Eagles or Ryu that we had banked. Fortunately sufficient of the Federated Suns survives that the Kroner-Pound is still viable, if rather devalued.”

“Fortunately, Ambassador Langmyr has been doing sterling work on Sian and the Chancellor of the Capellan Confederation has decreed – very discreetly – that as she does not relinquish her historical claims upon Andurien, she will regard all trade across that boundary as being internal to the Capellan Confederation. There are some slight complications, in that she will require all trade to be in Yuan until a trade delegation from the Capella Commonality Bank has visited and established what strength they can ascribe to the Canopian dollar but there is reasonable hope that this may be accomplished with a minimum of friction.”

The deal had also included an under-the-table bribe – the delegation would be largely made up of noble scions in their early twenties, ideally aged to receive prolong treatment – but Savitri didn’t see any point in publicizing that.

“In the interests of restoring our foreign trading links," she said instead, “I ask for a vote on the calendar issue. Six months should be more than long enough for our record keeping to be made ready for the change.”

There being no objection, a quick electronic ballot passed the motion. Democracy in action, but it was better than the alternative. The Committee couldn’t propose legislation, which didn’t stop the representatives forwarding petitions to her as private individuals...

Still, it was better than the Federated Suns. From what she’d heard from Rachel when they were younger and considerably more optimistic, the High Council of the Federated Suns gathered once a year, voted unanimously to approve whatever the First Prince had decreed through the year and proceeded to get drunk at said Prince’s expense. It was probably an exaggeration. Probably.

“The next motion I would like to place before the committee is a declaration of war against the Star League.”

There was a ripple of confusion in the chamber.

Ms. Wujick stood. “Uh, Magestrix. Aren’t we already at war? I mean, you’ve already invaded the Free Worlds League.”

Savitri’s smile was toothy. “That was a mere defensive action. It’s not as if we had any objectives on Tellman’s Mistake other than the removal of the Twentieth Division. With that done, our borders are secure and we could, in theory, stand back for a few years.”

“But that’s not your intention, is it?”

Shaking her head, the Magestrix replied: “After that point, the Star League Defense Force will be back. They will be prepared for us and pose a far more significant threat than ever. Make no mistake, the Pollux Proclaimation makes no room for compromise. So long as it exists, the Star League consitutes a long term threat to our independence.”

“There are options here,” she admitted. “We could, as I indicated, take a defensive position. However, that didn’t work out very well for Crystalla Centrella. I see no reason to believe that it would go any better for us in the long run, other than to draw out the war.”

“There is also a reasonable chance that the Magistracy could seek to enter the Star League as an equal member, with voice and status equal to any of the others. Given the choice between admitting Canopus or conquering it, I think it is fair to say that a majority of the Star League Council would vote in favour of such a petition.” Savitri removed the tiara upon her head, holding it above her lap in both hands. “If that is the desire of the Central Committee, however, then you will need to find a new Magestrix.”

Seeing no takers she replaced the tiara upon her ebon locks, not realising

Bloody hell. Sorry, must have hit a post limit and not realised. Heres the rest of the scene

---

Seeing no takers she replaced the tiara upon her ebon locks, not realising that it was at a slight but jaunty angle. “We didn’t beat the Free Worlds League by sitting back here on our plush chairs and waiting to be attacked. If we’re going to break the Star League then we must take the offensive. That’s not popular with the electorate, I know, but it’s rather an improvement over having the battles of this war waged on Canopian soil.”

Archibald McCarron cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could be more specific,” he suggested from his place among the other senior military and civil officials.

Savitri nodded. “I have been contacted by Protector Calderon, as have the rulers of every state that has been cast back in time. He is inviting us to join the Taurian Concordat and every other willing ally in the endeavour of bring the Star League apart. To do this, we must take the war to them.”

“I have not yet sent my response, because first I would have your approval.” She stood. “If I may?”

Unsurprisingly, there was no objection. She folded her hands behind her back and took a deep breath.

“We shall not bow to the tyranny of Terra. We shall not grovel to the past when we may freely choose the future. We shall never rest until the boots that they would place upon our necks have been jammed down their throats. To this we pledge our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honour.”

No one could ever say where the applause began, but it went on and on as the men and women in the chamber and in the viewing galleries rose to their feet in approval of their leader and the beginnings of tears glittered in the corners of her eyes.

Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!

I love it, this is getting better and better!keep it coming!

High Orbit, Taurus
Hyades Cluster, Taurian Concordat
10 July 2577 (9 July 3032 local calendar)

The pair of aerospace fighters duelling thousands of kilometres above the capital of the Taurian Concordat were both clearly derived from the Tengo Aerospace Lightning, a popular and much licensed design among mercenaries and for smaller states with limited domestic aerospace industry.

Both pilots had cut their teeth on the classic LTN-G15 model and both had taken a hand in designing the versions they were flying: the Outworlder’s LTN-16A against the Canopian LTN-G15C.

A hundred eyes were watching them from rescue craft, observation domes and remotely via the sensors that kept ‘Downtown’, the orbital training area of the Concordat Aerospace Flight School, under exquisitely detailed surveillance at all time. Despite this, the clash was a private one: no outside feeds were permitted that the media might use to inadvertently bring national pride down for or against victor and defeated.

Not that the holders of those two titles was confirmed yet, of course.

Savitri Centrella hissed as the rear-mounted laser of the 16A fired, narrowly failing to score on her own fighter as she slid past the tempting aft of her opponent. The near escape didn’t hinder her from bringing the fifty-ton fighting up and around, thumbs lightly touching the Target Interlock Circuits that would trigger the formidable array of lasers and particle cannons nestled in the nose and wings of the G15C. She didn’t close the contact though: the 16A was outside her arc of fire and twisting around to take its own shots.

Reflexively, the Magestrix flared her engines, muscles straining to keep control as she brought the fighter around and away from the thread. The heat signature of the G15C indicated plainly that Callum Avellar had fired on her, but with no damage showing on her status monitors, he must have missed.

The indecisive nature of the duel was unusual, but with both pilots having been trained the same way – half a life time ago, Savitri had travelled to the Outworlds Alliance to train as a pilot there – and flying machines almost entirely matched in performance, it was all but inevitable.

Callum’s advantage lay in the 16A’s greater armour and the accuracy of the paired pulse lasers mounted in the nose but in contrast, Savitri’s G15C sported almost twice the firepower. Ultimately whoever made the first mistake would almost certainly be making the last and both were determined that it would not be them.

One such mistake would be running out of fuel: both fighters had a hard limit on how much thrust they could use and Savitri had been deliberately sparing with hers. Winning by being the last one with fuel in her tanks would be less than satisfactory outcome, but better than the alternative.

Still, there was a time for prudence and a time for daring. Before becoming Magestrix in 3020 she’d been one of the stars of the small Canopian Navy’s aerosquadrons. She hadn’t made her reputation on prudence alone and now she punched her throttle wide open, along with half the manoeuvring thrusters. The sudden strain rattled the airframe: it might be almost new and technically within tolerances but developing a delta-v of over forty-four metres per second squared was still not an everyday occurrence.

Riding the ragged edge of that bought her a fraction of a second before Callum realised his danger and went into an evasive manoeuvre, a split second that was just long enough for her to connect with her lasers, although the twin particle beams sizzled barely below one wing of the 16A.

The damage done wasn’t enough to punch through the other fighter’s armour, but it did leave it dangerously weakened, cutting Callum’s options down as he now had to shield that flank from further salvos out of the G15C: a solid hit from the PPCs could not only penetrate damaged wing, but potentially cause crippling damage – albeit simulated.

That wasn’t to say that he was going to make it easy for her: Callum McManus, before adopting the Avellar name on assuming the Presidency, hadn’t had quite the same level of notoriety as his opponent but that was at least in part because he was member of a force known for taking excellence in its pilots far past the levels required by other forces.

That meant he knew how to gamble too and reversing his orientation at the right moment had the pair of them sliding past each other almost nose to nose: a deflection shot at point-blank range, hoping that the difficulty of the shots would combine with the surprise to keep him secure from Savitri’s guns.

It wasn’t quite enough – it wasn’t Savitri’s temper that was on a hair-trigger – and if their weapons hadn’t been in training mode, both fighters would have been in need of serious repairs.

In fact, according to Savitri’s status board, she’d have been dependent on her flight suit for survival as one pulse laser shot had traced along the flank of her cockpit, probably hard enough to damage the vaccum seal and almost certainly to leave the life support gear there a wreck.
 
Still, she wasn’t out of the fight and was already coming about to bring herself up above the 16A when her radio crackled. “The honours are yours, Sav.”

“Oh?”

Callum’s fighter rolled onto what was unmistakeably a trajectory towards the dropship that had carried him here to the Concordat. “You took out my pulse lasers,” he replied. “Without those, I don’t fancy my chances against that monster of yours.”

“Nice little scrap.” The Magestrix pulled her own Lightning around and began to cruise back towards the vessel she herself was operating off. Unlike Callum’s relatively modest dropship that had been ferried across uninhabited systems in the Federated Suns’ Draconis March to reach the Arch-Duchy of Filtvet and the command circuit waiting for it, she’d had access to a substantial circuit of large jumpships capable of carrying her usual flagship, the battlecruiser HMS Concubine, across the four hundred light year distance in less than two weeks.

In the middle distance, the arrival of a jumpship in that same chain at a pirate point heralded the arrival of the last of the rulers of the Independent States of the Periphery, Marcus O’Reilly.