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The Triad, Tharkad City
Tharkad, Lyran Commonwealth
10 November 2577

The three Steiner-Dinesen children sat on a couch, faces pale. The seventeen year old Kevin and Mark, flanked their sister Sarah who was five years younger. Behind them, Robert Dinesen rested his hands on Sarah and Mark’s shoulders. When Kevin looked back he got a shrug from his father as if to say ‘hey, I only have two hands, it doesn’t mean I’m not here for you’.

Reassured, Kevin turned to the servant at the door. “Please admit my guests.”

The man obediently opened the double doors and Kevin rose to greet the two men who entered.

Duke Selwin Kelswa’s face was unmoved by emotion even under these circumstances: the stony-faced Duke of Tamar was said to be equally cold-hearted although Kevin knew from the duke’s daughter that he was a loving father and husband, simply one who believed an excess of emotion had no place in government.

After shaking Kevin’s hand firmly - one man to another – Kelswa moved to one of the armchairs facing the couch. He’d barely stepped aside before an unusually subdued Aldo Lestrade took him by the shoulder. “Your grandmother was there for me when my father died, Kevin. I hope you will let me be there for you and your family in this time of loss.”

The young Archon had to choke down emotion. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely and escorted the Duke of Skye to the chair next to Kelswa before resuming his seat.

Now that he was faced with the two statesmen, carefully prepared words escaped Kevin so he resorted to simplicity. “Gentlemen, I need your help. With my mother’s death, I am the Archon. Unfortunately I am also not yet of age and mother appears to have neglected to update her provisions for that circumstance.”

“I’m sure she left instructions,” protested Lestrade. “Viola was nothing if not prepared.”

Robert cleared his throat. “That is correct, yes. However those instructions predate certain revelations regarding members of the Estates General. Specifically, they assume an active and loyal Estates General to recognise Kevin as Archon and to carry some of the burden of government until his majority in three and a half years. Of course, given that even if we assembled all those members of the Estates General not currently enjoying the hospitality of the prison system, we’ll border on not having a quorum anyway.”

“That does lead to a related issue,” Kelswa observed. “A petition has been placed before the Judiciary that it is unjust to arrest a citizen of the Lyran Commonwealth on the basis of a crime that the evidence clearly indicates they have yet to commit and of which there is no evidence they have thus far planned.”

Kevin blinked. “You mean Gram and his conspirators?”

“Precisely. Absent evidence that they were already in conspiracy to abduct you at the time they were arrested – logically unlikely as that course of action depended on your mother leaving which they could not in fact have been aware that she would do, their release is almost certain.” The Duke of Tamar seemed entirely unconcerned about this.

“Could today get any worse?”

The three adults exchanged looks. “Kevin,” his father said mildly. “There’s no need to tempt the universe.”

“We’re looking at a known traitor as Speaker of the Estates General right when we need to rely on that body? Mother trusted you to rule the Commonwealth with me while she was away. From the histories we’ve been provided with, she should have trusted you even more. So, what do you think I should do?”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to be honest. I strongly recommend that you make a deal. I realise it is frowned on to speak ill of the dead but your mother made a grave mistake in arresting him. The judicial system was never going to uphold the arrest, the smarter thing to do would be to try Gram in the court of public opinion: destroy his political credibility and oust him from the Estates General. Now that he can play the martyr card that will be far harder.”

“This is a man who would lock me away for almost a year and framed the two of you for that. I can’t work with him!”

“Remember that when you talk to the press,” advised Lestrade. “It’ll play well: remember, the Estates General needs you as much as you need it. It isn’t in their interests to elect someone that you can’t stand. There’s a very good chance that you won’t need to deal with him as Speaker.”

“Duke Lestrade is correct,” Kelswa confirmed. “You must release Gram and his peers. However, by doing so yourself you will undermine any attempt on their part to use their imprisonment against you. Your mother’s part will be swept under the carpet, it serves no one to stain the memory of a martyr.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Well there is one way of getting out of it,” Robert suggested drily. “You could disqualify him from membership of the Estates-General with the stroke of a pen.”

Kevin frowned. “I don’t follow... oh.” He grimaced. “That would have to be the most backhanded...”

“Oh now that’s clever,” Lestrade admitted. “You mean elevate him to the title of Graf? His personal wealth merits it and as the Estates General is barred to the middle and upper nobility, he’d be unable to participate.”

“Not quite.” Kevin’s father smiled slightly. “The SLDF is taking the lead in fighting the Rim Worlds Republic – excuse me, the Republic of the Outer Reaches, I should say – but there will still need to be a local commander of the LCAF forces. I’m sure a man as able as Henry Gram could do excellent work there as Margave. That would also give him little reason to be on Tharkad making trouble, instead of out on Trell One, leading his district.”

Kevin nodded. “Alright, that will at least get rid of him. But it brings me to a third point: mother may have trusted me to at as one of her regents while she was absent but it would be a bit...”

“Recursive?” Mark suggested.

“Yes, recursive for me to be my own regent.”

Kelswa nodded. “It wouldn’t be impossible – shared responsibility during your minority – but there are arguements either way. What do you suggest?”

“I think the triumvirate makes sense and I’d hope that the two of you will continue as two of my regents.” Kevin raised his chin slightly. “I suggest that my father act as the third.”

Across the table, both Dukes eyes narrowed as they switched their gaze to Robert Dinesen – in theory their equal but in practise considerably less influential.

Lestrade was first to speak. “What are your thoughts, Robert?”

“I would be willing to serve,” he said calmly. “Equally, there would be perceptions of undue influence, which is probably why Viola decided against appointing me earlier. If you think that this would not be advisable then perhaps Elric Steiner would be a possible choice.”

“Great Uncle Elric?” Kevin asked. “Honestly, dad?”

“He was commanding general of the Armed Forces for a good many years,” Robert reminded his elder son. “That’s not bad preparation. And he’s a Steiner by more than marriage, one of the few I don’t think has aspirations for the throne himself.”

“I think either of you would be good choices,” Lestrade said diplomatically. “We should probably discuss this with him as well – whichever choice is made, his support would be invaluable.”

The two made their excuses and left.

Kevin sighed. “No more responsibility for another three years. It’s more of a relief than I thought.”

Robert leant over towards him. “If you feel the need for stress at any time, consider how you intend to wrest the power back when you turn twenty-one. I’m almost certain that it will be harder than giving it up was.”

Wow! Didn't see that comming.

Only a true leader would even entertain the thought of giving up his post for the greater good of the nation, a rare and honorable move by a Davion.

Just because a monarch no longer reigns, does NOT mean he no longer rules.  Were I the Taurians being offered such assurances/concessions, I would also want some way to be assured that the new ruler was not merely a figurehead put in place to give the appearance of a change in leadership, while the real power stayed firmly in the hands of puppet-master Alexander.

Chateau Filtvet, Filtvet
Periphery March, Federated Commonwealth
8 December 2577 (7 December 3032 local calendar)

Henry Davion had the uncomfortable suspicion that some would call his mission treason. Of course, it was hard to reconcile treason with obeying the instructions of your ruler, but it was also difficult to carry out instructions that meant abandoning bridges that he’d spent years building with representatives of the other Star League member states.

Rachel Calderon met him in the same chamber as before, looking out over the ornamental pond and then over the edge of the Chateau’s fortifications. The small redhead was composed. “I imagine you’re here to tell me the reaction of the Star League Council to their offer being declined.”

“Not quite.” Henry answered with a forced smile. “I imagine that they’ve heard it by now but the response will take a little longer to arrive. No, this is a message from my father.” He paused. “One that the rest of the Star League does not know about.”

“Oh?” Rachel seated herself. “What exactly does Alexander have in mind then?”

“While he doesn’t believe that the risk of a civil war is as high as you believe, father does agree that such a reunion would cause problems if rushed into. So he has asked me to explore another option. How far can the Federated Suns look to you for support if we secede from the Star League?”

Rachel blinked and then smiled. “Quite a long way,” she assured him. “How seriously is your father considering this?”

“I haven’t spoken to him directly, but quite seriously. You understand that secession will place us in a very difficult position, flanked by the Confederation, the Combine and the Hegemony. We’ll need diplomatic and military assistance if we’re to survive that, particularly given our recent losses.”

“Alright,” the Archduchess agreed. “You’ve told me what you’re offering, so what exactly are you looking for in terms of price?”

Henry nodded. “Firstly, a mutual defense treatment: we will guarantee not only to leave the Star League but to defend you from them but we must have your commitment that you will send troops and ships to our aid.”

“That’s not a problem.” Rachel looked thoughtful. “We can at least provide as many regiments as you lost as Estuan, with a covering task force of warships. Quite possibly more, but of course I’m not really near your other borders so except for parts of the Draconis March, it would take some time for them to arrive.”

“Yes, speaking of Estuan. I gather that the regiments captured there are actually in your custody.” Henry looked appealingly at her. “As the conflict is now over, surely they would be allowed to return home?”

“That’s a little more complicated. Not impossible, but you’ll need to appease Jack Calderon. I might be holding onto them for him – for their own safety, generally – but they are his prisoners,” pointed out Rachel. “I suppose you want me to intercede with the Magestrix for any Federated Suns citizens amongst her captives from Tellman’s Mistake?”

“Ideally yes. There’s no possible way that this can work without settling the issues between the Federated Suns and the Taurian Concordat. You managed it in the thirty-first century, can it be done here.”

“Oddly, it would probably be easier. For all the conflicts that you had with the Concordat in the Age of War they pale in the face of the current conflict. Hanse made peace by returning the worlds lost to the Suns during the next twenty years – although honestly, I suspect that after four hundred years in the Federated Suns, they’ve turned into more of a headache for Jack than he’d like to admit. Prince Alexander can’t make a similar concession because he’s not occupying worlds, not that I’m complaining.”

“Nor we. So the key is to find something to offer him?”

“To be honest, allying with the Taurians against the Star League will probably be enough,” Rachel assured him. “I’m fairly sure that I can sway him if necessary.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Family influence?”

“No, but I’m on pretty good terms with Savitri Centrella and he’s borrowing billions, if not trillions, from her to finance the war. If she vouches for you, it should be enough to settle any doubts he have. So, does that sound good enough?”

“It sounds tempting.”

“Now you know how I felt about your own offer a few weeks ago.” Rachel shrugged. “I’ll be honest: the only real issue we have with the Federated Suns is your membership of the Star League. It’s not in our interest to make this hard for you.”

FSS Tancredi, Zenith Point
Uninhabited System, Filtvet Commonwealth
15 December 2577

Pitcairn didn’t expect to be accosted by Commodore Elliott as he exited his ‘Mech. For lack of anything else productive to do, he and half his battalion had been out on the hull, assisting the work-crews patching up the damage to the Tancredi’s hull with heavy lifting and the occasional welding with their lasers tuned down.

He’d have sent all his battalion out, but one of the missiles that had hit the Tancredi had taken out half of the drop-bays while the ‘Mechs were still loaded for the drop. Fortunately only three Mechwarriors and seven techs had been in the compartment at the time, but thirteen battlemechs were reduced to scrap metal and four more, although repairable, were simply not high enough on the list of priorities

“Well you’re getting your wish!”

“You found strawberries?” he asked, unstrapping his cooling vest.

“No.” She glared at him. “Remember how I told you that given the damage we took getting away from McRae we’d have to return to a safe shipyard.”

“I do, “ Pitcairn agreed amicably. “And once you’d explained it to me in small enough words, I agreed that it would unfortunately be necessary to abort our mission. We even told the spyship to take word ahead that we would need to return via the nearest shipyard.”

Elliott nodded. At least he assumed that that was why her her forehead kept hitting the bulkhead. “It is now necessary, due to the damage taken at McRae, that we resume our mission.”

“...smaller words please. I’m just a dumb ground-pounder.”

“We just found out the jumpsail has not been charging the jump core. Something wrong with the feed, probably due to damage when we hot-charged. And we don’t have the tools to repair that.”

Pitcairn frowned. “Well if we can’t charge the drive...”

“Oh we can charge it alright, but only from the reactor. Which means we’re going to run through our hydrogen fairly quickly.” Elliot removed her cap and ran her fingers through her sweaty hair before replacing it. “We jettisoned a lot of our tanks when we were escaping McRae it was that or have the onboard fires reach them. But now we only have enough hydrogen to charge the jump drive twice – maybe three times if we hot-charge to reduce the time we’re sitting on full life support. Which I wouldn’t recommend even if we hadn’t already done one hot-charge, we’d be operating on batteries and need to be towed off the jump point when we arrive.”

“And our nearest safe port is Jesup, which is seventy light years away. Unfortunate.” The colonel thought for a moment. “So we’ll need to get some more hydrogen. That’s going to be tricky.” He glanced at the washroom across from the mech bays. “I’ll need to think about it, give me a few minutes.”

Elliott nodded and watched him enter the room for a moment and then shook her head.

Inside the cramped washroom, Pitcairn stripped down and began to wipe at his sweat-soaked skin with a washcloth. Water was too closely rationed aboard the Tancredi for him to take the long cold shower that he craved after several hours in his BattleMech cockpit.

“So we need hydrogen,” he mused. “Who has more hydrogen? Other jumpships and – if we can find one – a recharge station. Dropships? Probably not enough unless they were tankers. Something to think about. Two jumps. One to reach a target system, one to leave it. That means we have to arrive covertly and recharge before they know we’re there. That’ll be tricky. Could we jump in outside the system and coast in while we recharge...”

“Maybe.”

Pitcairn turned quickly, having been too engrossed in his thoughts to hear anyone enter. Commodore Elliot was peeling off her jumpsuit over at the next tap, obviously having some cleaning up of her own to take care of. “Kate?”

“The timing would be tricky,” she told him, wetting her own cloth before starting to clean herself. “But for a system we have good data on, it might be possible to jump in without too much risk of satellite detection.”

“So we gamble on intercepting a suitable ship?” he asked.

Elliott nodded, which did interesting things to the rest of her in micro-gravity. “Honestly? It’s that or surrender.”

“Well we don’t want that,” Pitcairn agreed. “Wash your back?”

“You think I had another reason to join you in here?” she asked, incredulously, and stepped closer.

Why do I suddenly get the feeling Alexander Davion is going to announce his switching sides on New Years Day in an act of magnificent bastardry that even Hanse would have been proud of?

---

Crystal Palace, Crimson
Canopus IV, Magistracy of Canopus
31 December 2577 (30 December 3032 local calendar)

It was the last day of two years, but Savitri Centrella couldn’t help but feel just a touch cheated out of the thirty-first day of December. Of course, it was exactly three-hundred and sixty-five days since the last New Year’s Eve, but this was supposed to have been a leap year.

Oh well. It had been her own idea to trim off the last day of the year and it was a sight too late to change her mind, woman’s pregorative or no woman’s pregorative.

There were fireworks outside, and behind her was a warm bed with warmer bedmates... not Richard, but that was a common enough, no doubt he had found a willing companion. Savitri’s hand crept to her belly and she smiled sly for a moment before turning her mind back to the brightly coloured lights in the sky.

Third of April, 2584 – a little more than six years from now – had also been marked by fire in the sky. Crystalla Centrella had wryly pointed out a pretty new star: the FWLS Albert Marik in geostationary orbit in menacing orbit above her capital at Delphi. And scores of dropships had brought the SLDF down onto Salonika to do battle in the untouched wilderness surrounding the cities of the capital.

Now the artificial constellations were of Canopian artifice: dozens of shipyards and hundreds of defense platforms, eight powerful dreadnoughts permanently stationed as the heart of the defensive fleet and uncountable dropships... and the landscape beneath them was torn and polluted as a result of a century of reckless exploitation in order maintain some level of industrial output during the Succession Wars. Terraforming projects were beginning to repair the worst of the damage, but they would take decades to complete.

A discreet movement in the pocket of her dressing gown alerted the Magestrix to an incoming message. Reaching one hand into a pocket, she touched the bracelet, de-activating the alert before crossing the room on bare feet and slipping out the door.

Savitri’s private study was nothing like the more formal offices used for meetings and the occasional recording of a public announcement. It was actually slightly larger, but cluttered with cabinets and shelving to the point that there was not room for much more than a couple of armchairs and computer terminals.

Slipping into one of the chairs, Savitri took the blanket folded over one arm and spread it across her lap, letting the folds spill down her legs to cover her feet. The Crystal Palace was spectacular but despite her best efforts it wasn’t particularly cozy.

Keying a code into the work terminal at her side, a screen lit up a few yards away, displaying another office – this one halfway across the city in the Magistracy Intelligence Ministry’s office complex. It took her a moment to Barbara Mawdsley, the section chief of the still-reconstituting Capella desk.

“Your highness,” the silver-haired official reported. “I’m sorry to disturb you but we have had an alarming report from the Confederation. HMS Brontosaur has jumped into the Westerhand System and reports being engaged by three Du Shi Wang battleships of the Capellan Navy.”

Savitri frowned. The Brontosaur was a Canopus-class cruiser that she had stationed outside the Capellan system of Altorra to act as a relay for communications with the Chancellor. A severing of communications could mean only one thing: the war had gained a new front. “I understand,” she replied. “Until otherwise informed, we shall assume that the Capellans are now hostile. Circulate this information to all commands.”

Mawdsley bowed her head slightly. “Already underway.”

“Thank you.” Savitri closed the channel unceremoniously and punched another set of commands into her terminal, dialling the command centre of the Canopian Navy Royal.

“Magestrix?” the surprised voice of the duty officer manning the headquarters at this late hour replied. “How can I serve you?”

Under other circumstances, the Magestrix might have asked the young ComCapt if she had plans for the following evening, but this wasn’t the time. “Send a priority message to all commands. Capellan vessels are to be considered potentially hostile and all shipments embarking for the Confederation are to be halted on my authority.”

“My lady?”

“Expect a report from the Brontosaur to cross your desk soon.” It didn’t surprise Savitri that Naval Headquarters was nto yet informed of the situation: MIM’s procedures focused on streamlined reporting to central authority while the CNR would first deal with a crisis locally, rather than wait for instructions that might not arrive for days. The lag would only be a day at most – hardly a concern on an interstellar scale – while the detailed report went from Westerhand to sector headquarters at Betelgeuse, then the District Command Centre on Andurien and finally to Canopus IV.

Even in the thirty-first century, a commander in the field had to use initiative and – hopefully – good judgement.

All thoughts of sleep banished, Savitri felt the urge to think and cast the blanket aside so that she could stand and thread her way back and forth through the clutter of the room.

Losing access to Capellan markets wasn’t going to do anything good to the economy. She wasn’t advertising the fact but the reserves of foreign capital she’d built up were being spent faster than they were accumulating despite austerity measures when it came to civilian spending. It wasn’t a crisis, yet, but it offended her thrifty soul.

It wasn’t bad enough that war was expensive, it was also cutting into her sources of income. There was only so much she could squeeze out of the wealthy of the periphery in payment for prolong and rejuvenation treatments before their own economies began to suffer, taking her right back to square one.

A chirp from the terminal indicated a new message had arrived for her, although the lack of an accompanying vibration inn the bracelet she now wore suggested it was not of the highest urgency. Nonetheless, since she was awake anyway...

Recognising the encoded contents as a diplomatic missive from Filtvet, Savitri went to a bookshelf and selected one volume from a long running Lyran science fiction series. The cipher for the communications was built around using one of the hundreds of books in the saga – a different one each time, as a source of substitutions.

Working with a reporter’s notepad and pen it took almost an hour for the Magestrix to decode it, but a message of this kind was not the sort of thing to be delegated. Her excitement grew as word by word the contents became clear. When it was finally done she took a moment to read it and then laughed. No, she positively chortled.

The small fireplace in her study wasn’t entirely ornamental and she used it to burn her notes from the decryption, raking the ashes over to ensure that they were completely destroyed.

The message from Rachel Calderon-Davion-Gallagher or whatever order she was listing her names in this week didn’t shed light on the Capellan situation but it did offer the possibility of a more than worthy substitute. Nonetheless she remained concerned about Ursula Liao’s change of policy – assuming of course that Ursula was behind it. The fact that it would be four hundred years before a Chancellor was successfully usurped in the history she knew of didn’t mean that it couldn’t happen much sooner in this new history that they were making.

The news of Capellan aggression would need to be spread, but it didn’t merit such a secure code. Best to keep the private personal codes for messages such as Rachel’s. Instead she brought up one of the encryption programmes on her terminal, picking out one-time encodes from the list of many exchanged by the diplomats of all states. She’d need to communicate the news to all her allies so it was fortunate that the computer could do in split seconds what had taken her an hour to manage.

---

Unity City, North America
Terra, Terran Hegemony
2 January 2578

There was an elephant in the chamber of the Star League Council.

Metaphorically, of course – there was probably enough space in the chamber for a literal elephant, but why would a large endangered mammal be brought to face the Star League Council?

Alistair Liao didn’t look particularly elephantine. In fact he looked rather petulant, which might have had something to do with the fact that his inaugural speech wasn’t gripping the rest of the Council. Aldo Lestrade, representing the Lyran Commonwealth during Kevin Steiner-Dinesen’s minority, had even yawned although that could be ascribed to the Duke having spent the last two nights at lavish parties and the meeting having begun before noon.

“Thank you, Chancellor,” Ian Cameron said when Alistair was done. “I’m glad to welcome yourself and Duke Lestrade to our Council. While there is quite a bit of routine business to take care of, I feel we should start by discussing the Periphery.”

There were a few murmers of agreement.

Alistair, perhaps hoping to retain the spotlight, cleared his throat. “The ambassador sent to speak to Protector Calderon was rejected in rather harsh terms. He did discover, however, that were the Protector to be incapacited for any reason then his wife would act as regent for the Concordat. As a Steiner it might be hoped that she could be appealed to.”

The Duke of Skye leant forwards. “As Protector Calderon does not appear to have a military background it is unlikely that he will take the forefront of battle. His death or incapacity might help our cause but it does not appear likely.”

“Also,” Ian Marik added, “The reports from your sister’s ambassador indicate that there is a deep degree of opposition to the Star League within the Concordat. It is possible that if Lady Steiner-Calderon were to seek a detente with us that she would be overthrown. There is recent example...”

“If that is a slight upon me...!” Alistair accused sharply.

“I believe it is a reference to the fate of Lord Amaris,” Ian Cameron said soothingly.

“It was,” Ian Marik agreed. “But if the shoe fits, Chancellor, I hope that it is a comfortable one.”

“We are getting away from the point.” Hehiro Kurita’s demeanor remained cool despite recent reverses. “Taurus, Canopus and Prince Davion’s rebellious province have all declined to make peace. However, with the exception of the attack on New Syrtis they have thus far been content to remain within their borders. Our overall strategy with regard to them appears to be successful for the moment. It is the situation with regard to the Outworlds and the Rim Worlds that should concern us.”

Under other circumstances Lestrade might have felt satisfaction at the embarrassment that Hehiro must be feeling at having his capital invaded. With Viola Steiner-Dinesen’s death a recent wound, he was surprised to find that he actually felt sympathy for the Coordinator. Obviously he was in need of medication.

“Currently the advance on Apollo is deadlocked on Persistance and Treeline,” he reported. “We’ve gathered considerable information and it’s clear that the Rim Worlds Republic has essentially been torn apart.”

“They are putting up formidable resistance for a nation in such a state,” Alistair pointed out.

“I said torn apart, not collapsed. It’s clear that there is a seventh state from the future, this one somewhere beyond the Dark Nebula. Their leader – Queen Grimm, I gather – pushed the situation on Apollo past the breaking point and then stitched the coreward regions of the Republic into a coalition. No doubt she will move from that to direct incorporation given time but right at the moment they ned her support against us too much to look too closely at her motives.”

“And the rest of the Rim Worlds Republic?” asked Ian.

Lestrade shrugged. “They were strongholds of the Rift Republicans for the most part – far enough away from Queen Grimm’s Confederation that they decided to go their own way. Of course from what I hear they have the Marians to worry about now.”

“Yes, the Marians.” Ian Marik looked thoughtful. “We know little enough about them. I’d rather have them invading the Rim Worlds than the Free Worlds though.”

Ian Cameron cleared his throat. “The Central Intelligence Directorate has been putting together a profile on the minor periphery states. I will have copies of the full details forwarded to each of you but in general it would seem that the Periphery in the thirty-first century was divided into the major realms – former Star League territorial states – and minor realms that for the most part got their start as pirate strongholds. The Tortugans, for example, were apparently a plague upon the outer regions of the Federated Suns for almost three centuries before an ambitious Lyran mercenary conquered them and got something approximating civilisation started.”

The other Ian at the table shook his head. “I have a few sources of information about the Marian League, largely because they were Free Worlds League allies in the thirty-first century so some FWLM personnel were present and managed to cross the border.”

“You have the floor, Captain-General.”

“The Marians were deliberately founded just over a hundred years ago by the O’Reilly dynasty in a deliberate attempt to mimic ancient Rome. The money ran out before they were self-sufficent so they started raiding worlds sworn to House Marik or House Centrella for resources. Since both had other concerns, they got away with it until a crackdown on pirates in the 3020s. At that point they got respectable and absorbed several neighbouring states through diplomatic means.”

“My sources have been quite cagey about Marian military capability but they appear to be numerically equivalent to what we were expecting from the Canopians before last Christmas: a dozen or so BattleMech regiments with conventional regiments in the usual ratios, along with perhaps thirty warships. As usual their technological level is in advance of our own but I’m getting the distinct impression that despite being smaller and less established that the Marians have managed to stay, if anything, ahead of their neighbours in some respects.”

Aldo Lestrade choked out: “Are you saying that the Commonwealth’s new neighbours might be worse than the Taurians?”

The Captain-General thought about that for a moment. “Not yet, but I get the impression they’re working on that.”

---

FSS Tancredi, Zenith Point
Ebro, Filtvet Commonwealth
26 January 2578

Stealth in space was both very easy and very hard.

Easy because space was huge and it was difficult to look at all of it at once. Hard because space was largely empty and therefore it was fairly hard to obstruct or conceal something’s presence.

Something like four hundred thousand tons of warship, for example.

However if you’re outside of effective radar range and operating on very low power power levels, you can hope that no one is looking for you. The Tancredi had jumped into Ebro’s star system well outside any of the generally utilised regions of the system and coasted gently in towards the Zenith jump point, using only secondary thrusters far less likely to be detected than the massive (and fuel consuming) fusion torches that usually propelled her.

The military transport had fully charged jumpdrives now, but without more reactor mass than she had at the moment, the next jump would be her last.

“How does that one look as a prospect?”

Kate Elliott nodded as she saw the telemetry from one of the lurking small craft that were acting as the Tancredi’s eyes and ears. “Look at those engines,” she said. “Externally mounted? Far too vulnerable for a military craft. She must be a freight hauler.”

“Big enough?” asked Pitcairn. His principal interest in spacecraft had been ‘will it get my Mech there in one piece’ but he’d learned a great deal more before setting out on this expedition.

“Fifty kilotons or thereabouts. They’d be mad to have less than two hundred tons of fuel aboard. Yes, that will do.” She tapped a control. “This is Elliott. Be ready to move in and jam the communications for that dropship and the jumpship waiting for it. We’re going to need to do this quickly or there will be a great deal of trouble jumping in on top of us before we can get the fuel moved across.”

The dropship in question was moving out towards the jump point where a civilian-looking jumpship, two of its three collars already loaded with freighters, was waiting for it. Ebro, being roughly halfway between the systems of Sherwood and Memphis, was usually skipped past by the main trading routes as modern jumpships could easily jump from Sherwood to Memphis or vice versa without needing to stop at the mid-way point.

As a result, trade was not busy and there were few targets for this little bit of commerce raiding. Piracy, in all but the legal definition. On the other hand, while Sherwood (or Memphis, or both) might well have some patrolling warships, Ebro didn’t appear to have any. No doubt one could arrive with reasonable speed from a neighbouring system but it would take time.

Due to the speed of light, it would be take ten or fifteen minutes for anyone on Ebro to realise that communication with the dropship and jumpship was being jammed, in the event that they were watching – which Pitcairn assumed they would be. He was confident that responses would then follow at the much slower speed of bureaucracy, meaning perhaps an hour before word could be sent via their HPG to a neighbouring system. And then a response force would need to ready themselves for action.

Which meant one or more warships could arrive in two hours – perhaps less. Ridiculously fast for interstellar response time.

Pitcairn’s little command had that long to carry out their heist and their getaway. Which meant striking at the last possible moment and then departing at the earliest possible moment after that.

In the event, things went both well and poorly. A pair of gunships ‘bounced’ both the jumpship and the dropship, blankieting them with jamming that would reduce any broadcast transmissions to background static before using tightbeam microwave transmission to demand surrender.

So far, so good.

The jumpship’s response was – Pitcairn hoped – atypical. Firstly it opened fire on the gunships, something more or less pointless since the two lasers on the jumpship were significantly outgunned by the weapons array of the gunships. Secondly it jumped out out of the system, taking with it the aft half of one gunship, which had seen the danger and very nearly managed to get out of the jumpfield.

“Nasty,” Elliott observed coldly while the other gunship of that pair picked up survivors. “I don’t know where they’ll wind up with another hundred tons of metal inside their field but if they do jump safely we just lost a lot of time.”

“Then we go with Plan B?”

“I still think we should have called it Plan D.” The commodore paused. “For dumb.”

“I prefer ‘danger’ myself,” Pitcairn replied lightly. “Do it.”

She nodded and ordered: “Take us in.” The time for stealth was over. The decks of the Tancredi rumbled as the engines spun up and then for the first time in several days the crew was under gravity again as the transport closed in on the jump-point at one-gravity of acceleration.

“What do you want from us, we don’t have a valuable cargo!” the dropship’s captain was protesting. “The navy will hunt you down for piracy if you do this!”

“Just dock the damn ship,” ordered Elliott. “We’ll take what we came here for and we’ll leave you behind. No fuss, no one gets hurt, nothing taken that your insurance won’t cover. Now do I need to have the gunships out there prod you a little?”

“Jesu, no!” the man blurted. “You’d kill us all! There’s nothing in the holds but hydrogen fuel!”

Pitcairn and Elliot looked at each other.

“It’s better to be lucky that good,” Pitcairn told her with a grin.

“A man gets lucky once and it goes to his head.” Elliott didn’t notice the double entendre until she’d spoken and then only years of maintaining a command face kept a blush off her cheeks. The commodore turned the microphone, which she’d muted for her conversation. “That’s more your problem than ours. Now unless you’re as fanatical as a DCMS kamikaze, get ready to dock your ship nice and easy.”

The dropship crew had time to talk it over in the twenty minutes while they and the Tancredi slowed down to a nice, safe closing speed and orientated themselves probably. Only one of the crew voiced the idea of going out in a blaze of glory – since igniting the thirty-thousand tonnes of liquid hydrogen aboard would pretty definitely cripple or destroy the Tancredi if they did so while docked. The looks of scepticism quelled him almost immediately but the rest of the crew decided it would be safest for him to stay locked in a bunkroom while they did whatever the warship overing over them demanded.

Which was apparently to pump five hundred tons of liquid hydrogen from their cargo into the reserve fuel tank of the Tancredi. The AFFS Colonel who appeared to be in charge even paid them, if a verigraphed piece of paper promising that the value of the hydrogen could be redeemed from the Federated Suns government once the war was over counted as payment.

And then they were undocked and the Tancredi jumped away, leaving the crew to wonder when their Navy would arrive and more importantly, what was going to happen about their jump transit to Sherwood.

---

Sela-Sys, Stewart
Stewart Commonwealth, Free Worlds League
1 February 2578

Grace Jones had spent no small amount of time looking at Thera-class warships from space. It happened every time she took a shuttle to or from FWLS Harpy. She’d always find a way to look out a window at her ship, just to remind herself of how it looked from outside, rather than the calculated tangle of compartments and compartments that she saw most of the time.

But now, for the first time in almost two years, when she traced the shape with her eyes she was not looking at the Harpy.

Each of the four principal docks at Sela-Sys largest shipyard contained incomplete hulls for ships intended to duplicate her beloved warship.

“I can’t believe it’s been done so quickly, Claude.”

Claudian bin Sahid, now wearing the same rank insignia as Grace, took a moment to turn his gaze from the leftmost dock where his own command was being constructed: FWLS Lexington. “I know. It seems startling but remember – we’re looking at almost another year to complete the work. Major components like this are relatively easy – it’s the internal fittings that will take most of the time.”

“The Marians could build faster – in fact I’m sure they are building faster.”

“I know.” Claude looked again at the Lexington. “But those modern, efficient yards took years to build. Remember: the Canopians started building up their navy in 3021 – it took them more than a decade to go from constructing light dropships to having yards that could build appreciable numbers of warships.”

“Being only ten years behind them may not be a comfort,” pointed out Grace with a trace of worry evident in her voice.

“Please, six years at worst.”

“Six years then. Do you really think that the war will last ten years? The Captain General asked me before I came out here how many ships I thought that the Canopians would have by now.”

Claude thought back to the intelligence reports he’d read back in the thirty-first century. “Forty or so of those corvettes they call battlecruisers – they stole a march on us with those, building them without jumpdrives as a bluff – and forty or so cruisers from the yards at Canopus and Andurien. They probably have more under construction though.”

“There are also rumours of at least one other shipyard possibly at Luxen,” Grace told him, knowing that that nugget of intelligence hadn’t been declassified to his old rank. “And there are their ‘pocket warship’ dropships. Right now that probably means that Canopus has a slight edge in numbers as well as their technical advantage. If the Marians decide to back off from fighting the Rim Worlders they could throw in their fleet and we guess that as being about half the size of Canopian navy.”

“If thay’re that much ahead, then why haven’t they attacked? You know how Canopians wage war: they could have had squadrons of warships striking at Oriente and Regulan yards before now and that would have crippled our war efforts. But instead they’re holding back inside their borders.”

They looked at each other. “It’s going to be big, isn’t it?”

Grace nodded. “That’s my guess. Centrella is holding back until she completes her current production and has it ready to attack and then she’ll send a massive force out. The only question is whether she’ll strike for Atreus to take out our leadership or Capella to place Ursula Liao back on her throne.”

“I think we have to assume that it will be Atreus,” Claude warned. “The Taurians are supposed to have a much larger fleet and they’re just as near to Capella as she is.”

“You don’t think that Calderon will be dealing with New Avalon?”

“Not with Archduchess Calderon-Davion on his flank – the AFFS is dispersed to cover against her and... well, how effective do you think they’d be? This isn’t Hanse Davion’s crack troops or the Federated Commonwealth Navy that we’re talking about. I asked around and the Federated Suns doesn’t have the finest military reputation in this era. The Taurians have very little to worry about right now. They can easily spare ships and regiments for Capella.”

Grace nodded. “I see your logic. Still that leaves us the problem of defending Atreus – particularly when the SLDF are asking for greater reinforcements.”

“Unless you’ve got a hundred warships in your pocket that’s a tall order... I know that look in your eye. What do you have in mind?”

She pointed away from the powerful lines of FWLS Lexington and toward the Sela-sys dropship construction facility. “Those can be built an awful lot faster, can’t they? How small a dropship could be made and still contain a capital weapon – a missile launcher, say?”

“Pretty small. A Buccaneer probably has the tonnage although I’d really not suggest taking one into battle against even a Canopian dropship, much less one of their cruisers.”

“Not one, no. But what about twenty or fifty? Particularly if each was carrying nuclear-tipped missiles?”

Claude swallowed. “I know I’d not enjoy being on the receiving end.”

---

Terra Prime, Apollo
Republic of the Outer Reaches
2 February 2578

Jervis Siever rather enjoyed the office that he’d earmarked as his own. The Consul wasn’t quite sure what Gregory Amaris had used it for, but it suited him down to the ground, with spectacular views over the capital and sumptuous furnishings. The staff of the palace were unctuous and efficient in serving his needs... he had to admit to himself that he dreaded the thought of returning to his own less sophisticated headquarters upon Barcelona.

Still, that might not be necessary. The only thing that was stopping him from governing the Rift Republic as well as his own Rim Worlds was the fact that he was sharing power with his fellow Consul Charlotte Grimm and she was insisting upon an election for a new Consul to represent the Rift Republic.

“It would be terribly unfortunate if some accident were to befall Queen Grimm,” he mused out loud. “I might have to declare a state of emergency.”

“One Consul, effectively unlimited authority... that would take us back to Gregory’s day wouldn’t it, Consul Siever,” his guest asked drily. The replacement of the Rim Worlds Republic had done nothing to improve Silvio Cana’s place in the world – his regiment was participating in the fighting against the Lyran Commonwealth but not under his command. Instead he’d received a sideways promotion into a staff position that might in theory be the stepping stone to higher things... but no such prospect beckoned.

“That was only a year or two ago.” Jervis gauged the disgruntled officer’s mood and added. “I suppose you’d call them the good old days though.”

“To an extent,” Cana agreed cynically. “Let’s not get too enthusiastic. Whatever the legitimacy or otherwise of House Amaris’ claims, they’re moot now. There are quite a number of opportunities for those with the ambition to seek them out. But of course, there are always many ambitious men and women, and now we are competing against the favourites of the pirate queen.”

“Make no mistake, Silvio, her Oberon Confederation is necessary, unless we suddenly declare ourselves part of the Star League. Which does not appear to be particularly wise given their current position,” pointed out Jervis coldly. “Fortunately the Queen has an heir, and a husband who is likely to be able to hold them together in her absence. Just as long as her demise is not seen as the work of anyone within the Outer Reaches.”

The colonel nodded. “You know what I want in return.”

“I have been considering an expedition into what used to be Finmark Province. No doubt they will think more favourably of us now that they face annexation by the Marians. I can’t think of anyone better than yourself to handle the operation, Silvio.”

“That’s acceptable.” Cana rose to stand. “I don’t suppose that the details are of interest to you.”

The consul matched him. “You are correct.” He bowed. Little people enjoyed receiving token gestures of respect. The two walked to the door and Jervis held the door for Jonathon. Another little gesture to bind the boy to him and he wished to speak to his secretaries anyway.

“Is there any new business?” Jervis asked his senior secretary. There were three women in the room – Olive Orbison, the sixty-something who’d been part of his staff for the last twenty years and two younger women who had been picked as much for their looks as for their ability to handle paperwork. Not more so – both were competent but they also provided what Jervis felt was a desirable image for himself.

Olive shook her head. “No appointments sir, just the paperwork I updated for you at lunchtime.”

“Alright. I’m almost done with that.” Jervis glanced at the two under-secretaries. “I believe there will be a security sweep this afternoon. Give me a heads up ten minutes before that’s due please. Miss Stavros, if you would assist me now.”

The young ethnic greek nodded and closed up her terminal before walking past Jervis into the office as he held the door for her in a gentlemanly fashion.

Above the doorway an exquisitely concealed recording device did its work. Security sweeps had missed it before. They would miss it again.

The security of the Consul’s palace had been updated extensively over the last year based on input from the Oberon Confederation’s Rangers. Nobody entirely trusted the Rangers, but no one entirely trusted House Amaris’ existing security apparatus either and so the two had been jammed awkwardly together.

The Rangers had taught the former-Makos everything they needed to know about the height of surveillance and counter-surveillance as per the heights of twenty-eighth century technology. That wasn’t quite the same as teaching them everything the Rangers knew about that same subject.

---

Matam, Panpour
Crucis March, Federated Suns
4 February 2578

It wasn’t much more than a generation since Panpour had been heart of an independent realm. The Treaty of Basantapur, admitting the United Hindu Collective into the Federated Suns had guaranteed them autonomy in gratitude for the support they had given to a much younger Alexander Davion. Now the First Prince stood beside the son of his old ally waiting for two future allies.

The landing of the dropships had been a cautious one – there was the suspicion on both sides that this could be some kind of trap. Only when an advance party had scoured the surroundings did the emissaries land.

But they had landed.

Now in a pavilion set inside a beautifully sculpted park, Alexander watched two black hover limousines – Deusenbergs, apparently the name in luxury automobiles in the thirty-first century – slide up the hill, preceded by an honour guard of four BattleMechs. The lance was divided by paint scheme: two in the colours of the Davion Guards and two marked as the Taurian Guards. Symbolically, the pairs were split diagonally, two in each colour in front of each limousine.

Behind them, marching in parade formation, were soldiers in dress uniforms of the TCAF and AFFS. Both little columns were picture perfect in their drill. As they reached the plaza before the pavilion, the columns split apart to line three sides of the square in double ranks. The officers who had headed each column walked to the doors of the limousines and opened them for those inside.

Alexander frowned at the officer gallantly offering Rachel Calderon-Davion a hand out of the low-slung black limousine. “Is it just me or does that look a lot like Troy Neville?”

Duke Vemuri Ramesh Reddy leant forwards slightly and squinted. “It’s... not just you, your highness. I think he’s caught a bit of sun.”

“That may not be all he’s caught.”

Jack Calderon, having exited his own limousine, joined his distant cousin in walking up the few steps dividing plaza from pavilion. They paused just short of entering and Alexander saw the Protector’s eyes flick across him.

“General Neville,” the Calderon said. “You go first.”

Apologetically, the AFFS general stepped around the pair and entered the pavilion’s shade. He was not only tanned but weatherbeaten – wherever he’d been it had left him outside a great deal of the time.

“Sir,” Neville said, offering a salute to the First Prince. “General Neville reporting with a detail of fourteen thousand men under arms and ready for service.”

“Fourteen thousand?” Ramesh exclaimed. “Under arms.”

“Sir.” Neville turned to the Duke and saluted again. “Yes sir. The whole AFFS Auxiliary Corps is here. We don’t have all our original equipment – I gather much had been disposed off in one way or another, but Duchess Calderon-Davion has been quite generous about making good the losses.”

“Has she now?” The general found himself speared by his First Prince’s eyes. “Keep yourself handy. I’ll want to hear all about this.” He gestured for Neville to make way for the two heads of state waiting patiently behind him. “Protector, Arch-Duchess. Welcome to the Federated Suns.”

Jack nodded acknowledgement but Rachel took a half-step forward and offered Alexander her hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, great-grandfather.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The First Prince paused. “I’ve seen a certain poster, great-granddaughter. Since we’re on family terms now, I hope there aren’t any newer versions.”

Rachel shook her head, sending her red hair flicking back and forth. “Not since I was granted my first landhold on Filtvet,” she promised. “Shall we get down to business? Jack’s on his best behaviour but who knows how long that will last.”

“I am standing right here, you know.” Jack sounded disgruntled about that fact. He moved to look at the documents laid out on the table in the pavilion. There were three identical copies and he read each in turn, ensuring that they correctly laid out the terms of what had been negotiated by proxy over the last few weeks.

Stripped of the legal verbiage, the treaty commited the Federated Suns, Filtvet Commonwealth and Taurian Concordat to accept their respective borders as they existed as of New Years Day 2578 and commited each to the defense of the other two against aggression, individually or collectively, by the Star League and its Member States.

Figuratively speaking it could well prove a death blow to the Star League, which was at a stroke losing more than a fifth of its volume, just over a seventh of its income and access to scores of regiments and warships.

Jack signed each in turn and then offered the pen to Alexander, who did likewise.

Rachel paused for a moment before following suite. She’d have been willing to risk reunification with the Federated Suns but Alexander and Jack had persuaded her not to complicate matters at that point.

“So, when do you want me to start clearing the Star League occupiers off your worlds?” Jack asked rhetorically while Duke Ramesh signed as a witness. Taurian Task Forces would be crossing the border as soon as they had word of the treaty being signed, which would of course be long before the regiments on those worlds learned of it. Assuming that anyone was gauche enough to share the news in the first place after the First Prince had quietly explained to the media that he felt that no news was good news and he considerately wanted his SLDF guests to have nothing but good news.

The media of the Federated Suns was not under state control but it was generally understood that their freedoms did not include undermining the government. It was a restriction House Davion used sparingly and almost always to good effect.

“You can get started as soon as you like,” Alexander said calmly. There were three SLDF Corps – almost a hundred regiments – stationed along the Federated Suns border with the Taurian Concardat. Neutralising them was critical to ensuring a clean break from the Star League and would also soak up a good deal of the Taurian enthusiasm for the war.

Some enthusiasm was good of course, but not all the atrocities of the historical wars of reunification had been commited by the Star League.

Letting the Taurians handle it – and then not so subtly position their forces along the border with Alistair Liao’s Capellan Confederation – would spare the AFFS the casualties they might take dislodging Wexworth’s forces and let Alexander redeploy them to cover his borders with the rest of the Star League.

He’d need to have most of his forces available for that, and Neville’s soldiers...

“General,” he said, turning back towards Neville. “I don’t believe that that is the unit patch of the Syrtis Fusiliers.”

Neville looked even more uneasy. “No sir. We burnt our colours rather than letting them be taken and didn’t feel it would be right to reconstitute without them.”

Alexander nodded encouragingly, mentally wondering how long it would take the general to get to the point of answering the implied question.

“We did get the chance to read up on some history. Apparently after the Star League fell apart, many of the SLDF soldiers who joined the AFFS were formed into a corps of regiments called the Crucis Lancers. And since quite a number of SLDF soldiers did join us in coming back to the Federated Suns it seemed the name was appropriate.”

Alexander frowned. “There were only fourteen thousand soldiers in your Corps, General Neville. If you’ve made up numbers using SLDF recruits then where did you lose personnel?”

The expression on Neville’s face was pained. “It’s not so much losing them as that they have other pressing duties, sir.” He saw Alexander’s expression and hastened: “Child care, sir. The Duchess provided well for us as prisoners but she seems to have overlooked the need for contraceptives in camps that weren’t gender segregated.”

Rachel tried to look innocent. Alexander, a father and a grandfather, didn’t believe her for a second.

---

Terra Prime, Apollo
Republic of the Outer Reaches
9 February 2578

The weather was atypically poor during the ceremonial opening of the Senate. It was only the second time that they had ever gathered formally so there were no traditions as such but that wasn’t going to prevent people from trying to establish them.

Thus each Consul arrived in a formal fashion with their limousines escorted by an honour guard of two battlemechs and several cars carrying security and aides (which was particularly pointless for Jervis Siever who’d been living in the same building for months). A number of the senate had the privilege of standing under the cover of the palace’s portico to welcome the Consuls, while crowds had been allowed to access the gardens so several thousand people were watching from under umbrellas, hats or in some cases just wet hair.

There was a muted cheer as Jervis left his own car and walked up the steps to the palace, trailed by his entourage. The Consul raised one hand in salutation to the crowd and then walked up the stairs towards the doors. As he reached the portico Jervis stepped to one side and gestured for the aides to enter it’s shelter from the weather while he himself paused to greet Hakim Wbika, who stood amongst his fellow senators.

“Terrible weather,” Jervis murmered. “Dare I hope we can find a few moments to talk out the naval expenditure for the next fiscal year? I don’t want to leave our fleet short-changed when it’s our most vital tool against the Star league.”

The senator eyed him for a moment before answering: “I’d be more than happy to make time for you, Consul.”

“Splendid. I’m sure that Charlotte will have her own thoughts, so it might be three of us.”

Once again the former admiral waited a fraction before answering. It struck Jervis as strange – the man was hardly known for being indecisive. “Of course. I look forward to it.”

The car carrying Queen Charlotte Grimm, Consul of the Oberon Confederation drew up and the crowds’ cheers grew louder as they caught sight of the very visibly pregnant Charlotte.

Jervis smiled, forcing the smile to be a fond one rather than one of anticipation. “Everything seems to be going smoothly.” And let the senator assume that he meant the choregraphy of the ceremonial opening of the Senate rather than other arrangements.

However, Charlotte walked up the steps without interruption. Blast it, Jervis would be happier if he knew for sure what Silvio Cana had in mind. This seemed like the most vulnerable moment – how could the man kills Queen Grimm inside the Consul’s Palace? Had something gone wrong perhaps?

“A pleasure to see you, Jervis,” Charlotte said with a beaming smile. “You’ve very much been on my mind of late.”

“Flattering as that is for a man my age to hear, your highness, I haven’t forgotten how roughly your husband handled the last man to speak imprudently of you. I shudder to think what he might do if he felt I was going to cross the boundaries of good manners.”

Charlotte nodded. “Well I must say that poor Colonel Cana does seem to be on people’s minds, Jervis. A sad end for a gallant soldier.”

“I... beg your pardon?” His mind raced. What had happened? “You don’t mean that he’s suffered a misfortune?”

“I’m afraid that I do.” She shook her head. “A car accident, it seems. Just this morning – you hadn’t heard?”

Jervis shook his head. “I truly had not. How terribly sad.” The Consul shook his head to clear it of concerns. “But surely we should talk inside, out of the rain.”

“How very wise.” Charlotte turned and curtseyed to the crowd, eliciting a roar of approval, before entering the door which Hakim Wbika was politely holding for her, having waved off a servant whose main task that was.

Her fellow consul followed her. A car accident!? Of all the terrible luck... or was it luck? Had one of Charlotte’s partisans perhaps found out the truth and then murdered Cana to prevent him from carrying out the assassination. In that case, Charlotte might already be aware of Jervis’ involvement and be planning her own measures to rid herself of him.

A chill went down Jervis Siever’s spine at the thought.

---

FSS Tancredi, Pirate Point
Hortense, Federated Suns
15 February 2578

A burst of radiation heralded the return of the Tancredi to the Federated Suns.

Pitcairn looked around the command deck. “Are we on fire?”

It was a pertinent question. The jump from Ebro had had an exciting aftermath when the energy charge from the jump set three compartments on fire, requiring them to be quickly vented. Fortunately no one had been inside the compartments, but given their proximity to the remaining hydrogen fuels, it had been a touch worrying.

Elliott glanced around. “I don’t believe that we are. Which is probably good – we’re a bit short of hydrogen as it is. Communications, get in touch with the local naval station. I believe Colonel Pitcairn needs to contact his insurance company to make a claim for our repair bill.” She looked over at Pitcairn slyly. “I don’t think you’re going to be getting your deposit back.”

“There goes my no claims bonus,” he agreed. “Do you think I’ll be able to get through their automated telephone system before we run out of fuel?”

There was a ripple of laughter – more out of relief at their escape than due to any humour at the statement. And then the crew went back to moving the Tancredi out of the pirate point. It wouldn’t do to still be occupying the point when someone else jumped into it. That was notoriously messy. And usually fatal for someone.

“We’re receiving a challenge from the surface, sir,” reported the communications officer. “Standard codes. The duty officers are going to have to wake up their commanders.”

“Naturally we would arrive in the local night cycle,” Pitcairn sighed. “I suppose we can wait an hour or two for them to get out of bed with their mistresses, make excuses to their wives and get to a radio.”

“They might be a little more alert along a hostile border.”

Pitcairn shrugged, a wordless concession to Commodore Elliot that she had a point. “I guess we’ll...”

“Jump signatures!”

Heads turned sharply towards the bridge officer who had all but squeaked in reporting that.

“Many jump signatures,” the young officer expanded the report, apparently unaware of how his voice had squeaked with the first words.

The crew were already at battlestations and the Commodore was about to order manuvering power but remembered that they didn’t have the fuel for that. “Helm, get us turned around to screen the damaged flank,” she ordered instead. Hopefully this was simply a FSN deployment along the border.

Hopes of that was dashed almost immediately: “There are nineteen warships, ma’am. We have ID on a battleship – same class as we saw at McRae. Electronic signature is almost indentical – might even be the same ship.”

Under other circumstances Elliott might have twitted Pitcairn about the ship following him, but there were more obvious concerns. “Non-essential personnel to the escape pods,” she ordered. There was no way to avoid action at this range, particularly with only enough fuel for minimal position adjustments.

“Commodore...”

Elliott turned towards Pitcairn. “Under these circumstances, Colonel, you and your mechwarriors are non-essential. Our remaining aerospace wing will try to get you to the surface, hopefully you can hold out there until relief arrives.”

Their eyes met for a long moment and then Elias Pitcairn drew himself up and offered a parade-ground salute. “Commodore.”

Kate Elliot returned the salute. “Colonel.”

“Ma’am, a transmission from the battleship.”

“Let me guess, Admiral Jaeger aboard the FCS Pitcairn is demanding our immediate surrender?”

The technican frowned and tapped his headphones. “Uh, not quite captain.” He adjusted a control and a female voice spilled over the command deck’s speakers.

“FSS Tancredi, this is Admiral Jaeger aboard the FCS Pitcairn. Quite a coincidence to meet you here after our last little encounter.”

Elliott frowned. It didn’t sound to her that the voice was gloating: not that she’d have denied that the other woman had a right to feel some satisfaction after the Tancredi had slipped past her at McRae.

“My congratulations,” Jaeger continued, “On a race well won, and on your exemplary performance at McRae. I look forward to meeting you under more congenial circumstances.”

Pitcairn blinked. “More congenial circumstances.”

Unaware of the Colonel’s words, the Filtvet admiral spoke on, without hesitation. “I presume that you have learned from your colleagues on planetside of the new circumstances. In the spirit of our leaders’ agreement, please advise if there is any assistance we can provide in light of your evident damage. We have a yardship within easy range of Hortense, that I am sure could arrive here faster than any equivalent vessel in the Federated Suns Navy.”

Elliott glanced at the communications officer. “Send an acknowledgement of the message, lieutenant. And then see if you can find out from those idiots on Hortense what the devil’s been going on. If none of the officers know, ask a Sergeant Major – they’re generally more aware in my experience.”

---

Geneva, Europe
Terra, Terran Hegemony
28 February 2578

The Director-General’s private office was of course at the centre of a web of electronic communications. However, when it was in ‘privacy mode’ as it was colloquially known, sophisticated security measures made it practically impossible to communicate even the simplest message to or from the chamber.

In theory, of course, Shandra Noruff-Cameron could have simply had one of the many guards call on her husband to remind him that he was late. In practise she had delegated the task to their son Nicholas, who had decided that the office of the Director-General might provide a suitable refuge from the many eligible daughters of the Terran Hegemony’s nobility.

Nodding to the security detail, Nicholas touched the intercom button by the door. “Father, it’s Nicholas.”

There was no reply.

“He sounded pretty grim, sir,” one of the SLDF soldiers on guard advised. “Might be best to leave him to it.”

“Unfortunately a higher authority demands his presence.”

“A higher authority?”

There was a wealth of meaning in Nicholas’s voice as he explained: “Mother.”

“Ah.” The sergeant nodded. “A fearsome authority indeed.”

Nicholas thumbed the button again. “Father, look at the time.”

For another moment there was silence and then the door slid open soundlessly, offering Nicholas admission to the chamber beyond. He accepted the invitation, straightening the uniform that marked him as a final year student at the Royal Sandhurst Military Academy.

As the young Cameron heir crossed the threshold of the room he passed a zone of white noise and heard Alexander Davion’s voice: “...a firm au revoir.” A recording, presumably, since as far as Nicholas knew the First Prince of the Federated Suns was on New Avalon, or at least somewhere in his vast realm.

There was a click as recording ended and Nicholas saw his father’s chair was facing away from the door, towards the large view screen that made up most of one wall. The screen flickered and then began to replay the same message, having been set to loop the recording apparently.

Alexander Davion sat upon his throne in the gloriously gaudy red-trimmed gold of Mount Davion’s Royal Palace. He was flanked upon the subsidiary thrones by Princess Veronique and Vincent Davion, the Prince Imperial, sat to his left. The shot focused in upon Alexander. An official message then, with the First Prince speaking, quite literally, from the throne.

“You’re late,” he admonished his father.

The Director-General of the Terran Hegemony and First Lord of the Star League waved Nicholas to silence. “You should watch this. Thousands of others will be doing so all too soon.”

On the view screen Alexander looked directly into the camera. “I am speaking now, not only to the Lords of the Star League but also to billions who have elected to follow their leaders into the Star League.”

“For somewhat more than ten years I have been one of those Lords and the Federated Suns has been among the members of the Star League. We have sought peace and prosperity. What has resulted has been war, one that I must accept no small share of responsibility for, and economic turmoil – not helped by the deliberate manipulations of the other member-states. We have also seen the Star League conspire to overthrow one of its Lords, a betrayal of trust that cannot be ignored.”

“In the winter of 2676 we all received a telling rebuke from our descendants, four and a half centuries into the future, who have cited the Star League as being at best a well-intentioned tyranny and at worst, a tool of Terran megalomania.”

Alexander paused, which gave the stunned Nicholas a chance to grapple with the meaning of the speech. It wasn’t... it couldn’t be... the implication was unthinkable...

“I do not believe Ian Cameron to be a megalomaniac. I give him full credit for desiring an end to the conflicts of the last two centuries. Yet his solution, the Star League, would lead to wars of such savagery that the civilian deathtoll of any one of them would far exceed those of every military conflict since the early twenty-fourth century. I must therefore accept his solution, the Star League, as being tragically flawed.”

“And I will not endorse a course of action we now know to be a failure.”

“By my decree, the Federated Suns hereby renounces the New Avalon Accords of 2567 and the Star League Accords of 2571. We will seek peace with all our neighbours, whether of the Inner Sphere of the Periphery, and remain interested in international co-operation.”

“This is not a farewell forever to the other member states, but pending significant reform of the League and its intentions, I must bid the Star League a firm au revoir.”

Nicholas swallowed. Oh shit. “Dad...”

His father nodded slightly and the recording started over.

“I am speaking now, not only -”

“Dammit, dad!” Nicholas found the controls on the desk and shut the screen down. Then he looked again at his father. Ian Cameron looked as if simply watching the message had aged him a year. And god knows how many times he’d watched it over. He’s in shock, the younger Cameron realised.

“I don’t know what to do,” Ian admitted.

“Dad...” Nicholas had to admit he was half-stunned himself. Even in his degree studies – he was working towards a bachelor’s degree in interstellar relations – had never discussed a secession from the Star League. Nor did the Accords make any provision for it. Instead he focused on the immediate. “You’re in shock. You can’t decide anything right now.” He took his father by the arm and pulled him up. “Get some sleep – I’ll let mother know and we can deal with this in the morning.”

Ian nodded, still looking older than his sixty years. “How could he do this?” he asked almost plainitively.

“It doesn’t matter.” Nicholas drew on his his training. “What matters is that he has it. And tomorrow we’re going to figure out how to fix it.”

The show of confidence seemed to work, although Nicholas wasn’t sure how much of his words had sunk in. His father was only sixty-three, but he was already older than all but three of his predecessors as Director-General and next year would surpass James McKenna to become the third-oldest reigning Director-General.

I’m not ready to be Director-General, much less First Star Lord, Nicholas thought. God help us all if I have to be.

“Come on dad, I’ll tell mother you’re not going to make it to the reception.”