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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #225 on: April 30, 2009, 02:38:36 PM »
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It is a decoy.  Grin
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #226 on: April 30, 2009, 03:59:25 PM »
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It sounds like that Essex will be destroyed. Curious master arminas have you developed all those designs (rim fighters and the dropship)?
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #227 on: April 30, 2009, 07:56:45 PM »
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Very David Weber-ish crossed with BSG- I like it!
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"It matters little how we die, so long as we die better men than we imagined we could be -- and no worse than we feared." Drago Museveni, CY 8451
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #228 on: May 01, 2009, 09:20:12 AM »
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Glad you all enjoyed it.  Should have the next chapter up this weekend, and maybe the one after that on Monday.

Takiro, I have designed the Sampson class DropShip.  Like the text says, 70,000 tons, a bulk cargo carrier that precedded the Behemoth.  1/2 thrust, minimal armor, minimal weapons, and a LOT of cargo tonnage.  Enough that I could refit the cargo bays to carry SIX Aero regiments (324 fighters!).

As for the fighters, no.  I picture the Mako as a fast (light or medium) interceptor, while the Maket is a (medium or heavy) strike bomber.  The Vulcan is described and detailed in TRO3075, and it seemed to fit, so I added it in.  The Nautilus I picture as an Electronic Warfare platform (similar in function to the old EA-6 Prowler that was used by the US Navy for many long years).  But I have not actually sat down and designed any of them.

And yes, the Bunker Hill is pretty much one dead ship.  While the Essex class are good vessels, 54 aerospace fighter SQUADRONS are a LITTLE bit too much for it to handle.  Surpises, surprises, and more surprises, Hessian await us in Northwind, Asta, Luthien, New Avalon, the Taurian Rim, and other locations.  Some have said that things are going TOO well for Stephen, Minoru, and company.  I doubt that any will say that for long, once these next four-five chapters are public knowledge.

Take care, guys, and have a good weekend.

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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #229 on: May 01, 2009, 11:23:02 AM »
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  Thanks for the pick-me up bro, my move is taking too long, just had another set back Angry.  So a new chapter from you was a welcome distraction.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #230 on: May 01, 2009, 12:03:11 PM »
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Well I can't wait to see what comes next master arminas. This is a fantastic read probably the best BattleTech novel I've ever invested time in.

Sorry to hear about the move news BTA but it is to be expected unfortunately. Moving is never easy. Unless you move in rapid succession, everything is ready to go and you know where everything is packed.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #231 on: May 01, 2009, 03:26:21 PM »
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Chapter Forty-One

February 30, 2768
7th Fleet
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

In the outer escort shell, forty Star League warships (eight cruisers, eight frigates, and twenty-four destroyers) maneuvered into formation interposing themselves between the rest of the Fleet and the 281 surviving Rim fighters.  Bunker Hill had fought valiantly against the swarming horde, but her defenses were sadly swamped by sheer numbers.  None of the tactical officers knew exactly how many hits she had taken before the end, but they could all see the results.  The shattered remains of her hull drifted inwards toward the star at the heart of the Northwind system, tumbling end over end amid the debris.

At the velocity the Rim fighters were travelling, they would pass through the weapons envelope of the SLDF vessels in a mere two minutes.  Tracking systems strained aboard the ships of the Fleet as tactical officers sought firing solutions and readied weapons.  At last the enemy entered range, and—for the first time in this war—the SLDF anti-fighter defensive doctrine was able to be used properly.  Capital missiles roared out from launch tubes, their onboard seeker heads locking on the nimble birds of prey streaking towards the Fleet.  Scores of missiles—each one the size of the fighters they were seeking to kill—began ripping holes in the tight formations of fighters and strike bombers.  Batteries of capital lasers and particle cannons spat beams of coherent energy at the oncoming strike.  Capable of only small adjustments in their bays, the energy guns were far less effective than the missile strike, but each beam that struck a target destroyed that same target.  Twelve seconds after the first missiles launched and the energy beams tore into the enemy, the capital autocannon of the warships opened up in rapid-fire mode.  Dozens—hundreds—of proximity fused shells began exploding in the depths of space, spewing fragments in all directions, tearing into the heart of the Rimmers.

It was another nineteen or so seconds before the Rim Worlders entered their own range, but the SLDF was not yet finished.  Thirty-two Pentagon class escort DropShips, carried aboard the cruisers and frigates, entered the fray with their own fighter-scale guns.  Each of the four thousand ton vessels carried as much firepower as four squadrons of strike fighters and assault bombers.  The leading edge of the strike force was a holocaust of fire and flame and debris as the concentrated firepower of the Star League ships was felt.  But the Rimmers did not die alone.  Even as they withered under the unrelenting hail of fire, they replied with their own weapons, and this time they launched the external ordance carried by the Makets beneath their wings.  Seventy-four Rim missiles streaked towards the cruisers and destroyers of the escort, each bearing a nuclear warhead.  Point-defense did all that it could, but the flight time was short—mere seconds to recognize the threat, allocate fire, and hope (pray) that you disabled the missile—and the range even shorter.

Seventeen missiles broke through the last-ditch fire from the escorting DropShips and the point-defense batteries.  Six lost their target in the confusion and self-destructed short of any foe.  Another five had been damaged by the point-defense fire and failed to detonate as they slammed into the armored flanks of their target.  Of the remaining six, two had selected the same ship—SLS Republic, one of the frigates.  When the twin nuclear explosions subsided, nothing remained of the ship—not debris, not life-pods, no survivors at all.  Four more ships each received a single missile, but only one, the cruiser Agamemnon, survived.  Survived, but broken and battered by the nuclear fire unleashed against her and her crew.

112 Rim fighters broke past the escort, but the Combat Air Patrol was there waiting.  Six hundred SLDF fighters swooped in and savaged the survivors in a swift exchange of fire.  Only three managed to escape, their velocity carrying them into range of the ships of the inner shell.  Those three became the targets of twenty-seven Barracuda missiles fired by the battleships and battlecruisers of the inner screen.  None of the three survived the salvo.


February 30, 2768
SLS Halsey
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

Jake Schaeffer arrived on the Flag bridge of SLS Halsey—a McKenna class battleship—just as the outer screen opened fire.  Ignoring the holo-tank display, he walked across to Commodore Brett Telinov, patting him on the shoulder.  “Brett, have the flankers launch recon sweeps with their onboard fighter contingents—all of them.  I want the entire perimeter swept, but especially this area HERE,” he said, passing his hand across the space on the opposite side of the Fleet from where the Rim fighters had ambushed Bunker Hill.

“You think they had time to set up something that elaborate, Admiral?” his Chief of Staff asked.

Jake shrugged.  “I don’t know, Brett, but it is what I would do if I was trying to hit the First Lord here.  Rule Number 23; never think you are smarter than your opponent.  He ALWAYS knows something that you don’t.  Get those recon flights moving, Commodore.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied, and then he moved off to begin issuing orders, leaving Jake staring at the holo-display.

“Where are you, you son-of-a-bitch?  Where?” he muttered.


February 30, 2768
SLS Wendigo
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

Ensign Monica ‘Showboat’ Potter grunted as the electro-magnetic catapult hurled her Swift recon fighter from the launch bay of SLS Wendigo.  The pressure suit she wore kept her conscious, but the massive acceleration—25-g’s worth—pressed her body back into the ejection seat, hard.  Clear of the ship, she engaged the fusion drive, and streaked away from the Naga class destroyer at a more leisurely 5.5-g’s.  Banking the fighter, she could see the rest of the squadron as it launched from the old ship.  Wendigo was the last Naga on active service, and if it had not been for the war, she would have already been sent to the boneyard.  A pity, she thought, for the little ship LOOKED more like a warship should than many of the ‘modern’ Fleet designs.  Sitting in dock, it seemed like she was moving at the speed of light, and the clean, sweeping lines of her design certainly had make the Nagas one of the sexiest ships in the Fleet.

A harsh, but somewhat amused voice crackled from the speaker inside her helmet.  “Showboat, quit day-dreaming and form up on my wing.”

She cracked a smile and with two barrel rolls slid her Swift into formation with her wingman.  “Reporting for duty, Reverend,” she quipped.

Lieutenant Dennis Sinclair snorted.  An actual ordained Methodist minister, he had turned down the opportunity for a commission in the Corps of Chaplains in order to fly—his largest passion outside of the Church.  Fighter Command tended to assign pilots call-signs with a reason, hence his own call-sign of ‘Reverend’.  Monica had broken every rule at Brisbane Flight School with her acrobatics in the cockpit—and had nearly been tossed out on her ear for buzzing the tower—which had quickly earned her the name of ‘Showboat’.  Of course, he—and every other pilot born—had the same want and need to push their craft to the very limits.  Only he had kept his temptations under control; Monica was far less restrained.

“Weapons check,” he said.

“Lasers are hotter than my ass, Reverend,” she said, and he smiled.  Less restrained—inhibited, rather—in more ways than one, and he shook his head.

“Showboat, one of these days, girl.  Recon pod?”

“Cameras are rolling, sensors are green, and—before you ask—the tank is topped off, Papa.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road; Wendigo Flight Control, Recon Flight 3 headed out on first leg.”

“Roger, Reverend.  Good hunting.  Wendigo Flight Control over and out.”

The two Swifts turned onto their proper course heading and streaked away at 6.5-g’s in the empty black of deep space.

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

“Reverend, I’m picking up something hinky over here,” Showboat transmitted three minutes later.  “Low-level EM emissions, and a possible radar return . . . HOLY SHIT!”

Reverend had just lowered his head to take a look at Showboats data-stream when every threat sensor aboard his Swift lit off.  Without even thinking, Dennis slammed the throttle into the firewall and broke—hard—up and away.  An eye-searing flash of light erupted across the empty vacuum where his fighter had been, but the capital laser missed.  Dozens of ships appeared on his radar display as each quit trying to be a hole in space, firing their drives towards the Fleet.

“Wendigo, Recon 3.  We have contact with enemy forces, range 15,000 kilometers out on 235 Mark 088.  Count thirty-six, repeat THREE-SIX, Reprisal class destroyers, and twenty-two, repeat TWO-TWO Pinto class corvettes.  We are buster for RTB.”  Dennis, looked down and blanched.  “Wendigo, confirm four Sampson class DS launching fighters.  BLACK WASP DRONES, I say again, BLACK WASP DRONES.”

Swarming like the angry insects their names suggested, the drone fighters—bigger and far harder hitting, but also slower than his own Swift—tore forward on full overthrust in pursuit.  Lacking the need for a living breathing pilot, those ships were not limited by the fragility of a human body, and could maintain high-g acceleration until their fuel ran out.  Lovely, he thought.  “Showboat, are you still with me?”

“Right on your wingtip, Reverend.  Can we get out of here?  I mean, I like partying and all that, but if we stick around, I think it will turn into rape really fracking quick.”

“Set your course back to the ship, Showboat, go buster until your drop-tanks are empty.”

The two recon fighters fled, as the drones and Rim WarShips followed in their wake.


February 30, 2768
SLS Halsey
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

“Around six hundred Black Wasp drones, with another six hundred plus manned fighters and strike bombers, Admiral, plus the fifty-eight WarShips and ninety assault DropShips.  What is their commander thinking; those Reprisals and Pintos are completely outclassed by our ships?”

Jake sighed.  “Brett, quit thinking like an officer of the invincible Star League Defense Force Navy.  I know they drill that crap into your head at War College, but we are far from invincible—the Periphery Uprising proved that clear enough.  Think like a pirate.  Sure, the Reprisal is small, undergunned, and has tissue paper for armor—and the Pinto is even worse—BUT, whoever is in command over there is very, very smart, and completely ruthless.”

The younger officer frowned.  “How so?”

“Our six McKennas could probably deal with those WarShips with no problems; oh, we would take pretty heavy damage, but it can be done.  And the escorts can take out the droppers without breaking a sweat, but it will take TIME, Brett.  With those Black Wasps flying escort on the strike planes, our fighter reserves will have one Hell of a time stopping them getting through.  And that means that this strike might well get in range of the Richelieu.  The fighter strike is loaded for bear—the recon data shows that.  But they could still out-thrust the WarShips, and the Black Wasps are even more capable of getting here first.  They are not doing that, though.  No, that commander is keeping everything together, in mutual support range.  He has already condemned every last man over there to death, himself included, just to get a shot at the First Lord.  And he might well get it this time.”

The chief of staff bit his lip.  “Ok, sir.  How do we deal with it?”

“That, my young apprentice, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”
« Last Edit: May 01, 2009, 04:36:28 PM by master arminas »    Report to moderator   131.95.113.77 (?)
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #232 on: May 01, 2009, 04:18:08 PM »
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Quote from: blacktigeractual on May 01, 2009, 11:23:02 AM
  Thanks for the pick-me up bro, my move is taking too long, just had another set back Angry.  So a new chapter from you was a welcome distraction.

Ooh...that really sucks. Sorry to hear that bta. Don't let it get you down. Hope it all works out in the end (now that's good song.  Grin)
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Dear Humanity,
We regret bein' alien bastards. We regret comin' to Earth. And we most definitely regret that the Corps just blew up our raggedy-ass fleet!   -Sgt. A.J. Johnson

They're farmers. You're elite troops. With the gloves off, this would have taken you no time at all.  -Jedi General Etain Tur-Mukan

Burnin' to burn 'em, ma'am! -Confederate Firebat PFC Fetu "Cutter" Koura-Abi

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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #233 on: May 01, 2009, 04:23:42 PM »
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Nice, another chapter! And more surprises!

Ciao
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #234 on: May 01, 2009, 04:36:12 PM »
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Surprises are always fun. As usual, good job. Grin
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Dear Humanity,
We regret bein' alien bastards. We regret comin' to Earth. And we most definitely regret that the Corps just blew up our raggedy-ass fleet!   -Sgt. A.J. Johnson

They're farmers. You're elite troops. With the gloves off, this would have taken you no time at all.  -Jedi General Etain Tur-Mukan

Burnin' to burn 'em, ma'am! -Confederate Firebat PFC Fetu "Cutter" Koura-Abi

Come to the dark side: we have cookies.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #235 on: May 01, 2009, 05:41:12 PM »
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Yikes, more bad guys!
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #236 on: May 03, 2009, 11:01:56 PM »
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Its a Bug-ball!
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"It matters little how we die, so long as we die better men than we imagined we could be -- and no worse than we feared." Drago Museveni, CY 8451
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #237 on: May 05, 2009, 09:18:04 AM »
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Chapter Forty-Two

February 30, 2768
SLS Halsey
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

“It is not the numbers, or the point-defense, Brett, that is the real threat here.  It is their ECM.  Bunched together like that, those warships are providing an ECM blanket so thick that we can’t SEE, let alone target, individual fighter squadrons,” Jake Schaeffer continued as he frowned.  “Contact Commodore Green aboard the Brazen, and order her to execute Horiatis.”

Brett blanched.  “Sir, you can’t send her out there alone—those ships will swamp her and . . . “

“Damn it, Brett, don’t you think I know what will happen?  Get it through your head, COMMODORE—we are all expendable.  Even this flagship and our own august persons, if that means we keep that man aboard the Richelieu alive.  Those ships will buy us two, maybe three, precious minutes to finish our own formation change.  Order Green to get her command moving, and then position the rest of the Fleet for Roadblock.  And Brett?” he said.

“Sir?”

“Comm Captain Collins.  She is authorized to execute Shell Game on her own initiative.  Inform all division and squadron commanders they are to comply if she does.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” his Chief of Staff whispered as he bent to his duty.


February 30, 2768
7th Fleet
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

As one, one hundred of the ships of 7th Fleet rolled 45 degrees away from the incoming strike and engaged their main drives at the highest level of power possible.  Richelieu—and the lighter, faster ships of the Fleet—began to slowly pull away from the battleships, battlecruisers, and the older, slower vessels.  From hundreds of launch bays, the reserve fighters began launching, using their high thrust to beat back towards the Rim ships and fighters.  Sixteen hundred fighters in all launched—leaving the survivors of the CAP and a reserve of a mere four hundred left to cluster around Richelieu in the center of the formation.

Sixteen ships, however, turned TOWARDS the enemy on the orders of Admiral Schaeffer.  Ten Brilliant class and six Crusader class destroyers, the newest and lightest escort ships of the Fleet, attached to his command for this specific purpose.  Prototypes of the next generation of escort ships, these destroyers were lighter than any constructed since the Naga, but possessed more advanced armor, more efficient engines, and a far more deadly complement of weapons.  Fewer than two score were in service, having been built for field trials before the uprising, but they had not yet been placed in general production.  The Coup had put an end to that.  But, as none had been captured in the shipyards, Amaris spacers should have little clue to what the diminutive ships were capable of.

As the range closed to 900 kilometers, the Brilliants began spitting capital missiles—sixteen Killer Whales each.  The new technological improvements in their design allowed the ships to spin along their axis, and fire both broadsides nearly simultaneously in two waves.  Although the SLDF was still very much limited in the numbers of nuclear warheads it possessed in its magazines, Jake had given every last one in 7th Fleet’s inventory to the ten Brilliant class ships.  One hundred and sixty nuclear explosions ripped through the heart of the enemy, consuming ships and fighters in balls of fire.  The heavy point defense of the old Reprisals and the assault droppers reduced their accuracy, however, and only one-quarter of the heavy missiles found targets—but for each one that did, that ship died.

The Rim ships returned fire with their own atomic weaponry, but this was a style of fighting the Brilliants had been built for.  The little vessels lacked any weapon capable of hurting the enemy except their missile launchers—and remaining weapons volume was crammed full of anti-missile systems and ammunition.  The volume of point-defense fire poured out by the ten vessels exceeded that of the remainder of all 7th Fleet’s ships combined, and only two Brilliants and one Crusader died.  While the Brilliants concentrated on the enemy capital ships and droppers, the six Crusaders opened up with their energy mounts.  Each broadside mounted twenty-four naval lasers, in banks of four, and these ships had a new trick up their sleeves for the enemy.  The tracking systems aboard the Crusaders included newly developed software that allowed the capital guns to track enemy fighters accurately—and each of the laser batteries had been mounted on gimbaled mounts, giving them far more ability to quickly bear on swift moving targets.  Ignoring the capital ships, the Crusaders toggled their guns to anti-fighter mode, and unleashed Hell on the enemy fighters—not the drones, but the manned fighters bearing the nuclear ordnance.  Each bank of lasers—six each per ship—targeted a single squadron of fighters as accurately as any conventional scale weapon, but with far, far more damage capability.  And unlike the conventional weapons normally used for anti-aerospace work, the capital lasers also reached out to a full 900 kilometers.

Strings of exploding fighters rippled like popcorn across the leading edge of the fighter strike, even as the Reprisals and Pintos reeled beneath the fires of nuclear fusion.  But there were too many targets, too much point-defense, and the surviving Rim ships reached their range.  Breaking off the missile attack, they poured naval autocannon, naval lasers, and naval PPCs into the forlorn hope of the escort destroyers, and then the fighters pounced.  Scores of Black Wasps slammed into the flanks of the ships at maximum over-thrust, pouring weapons fire into the hulls as they dove.  Each of these automated kamikazes impacted like a sledgehammer.  Ninety seconds after the first missile had roared away, none of the sixteen ships remained.

But the Rimmers suffered badly themselves, with half of the assault ships and warships dead or crippled.  Still, almost eight hundred fighters—half of them Black Wasps—remained operational.  And then they ran straight into the teeth of the 7th Fleet’s battle-line.  Six McKenna class Battleships, twelve Black Lion class and six Cameron class Battlecruisers, and three Aegis class, nine Avatar class, and six Luxor class Cruisers, along with the sixteen hundred SLDF aerospace fighters, and every surviving Pentagon class DropShip in the Fleet—116 in total.

Even though they lacked nuclear weapons for their missiles, the firepower that the core of 7th Fleet could generate was almost unimaginable.  With every salvo, Rim warships and DropShips died.  Lacking the flexible mounts and updated software of the Crusaders, the capital weapons could not target the enemy fighters so easily, but they had no need to.  Their own fighters were there, along with the Pentagons.  However, the Rimmers had not exhausted their own supply of warheads, and the battlewagons of the Fleet began to reel under the hammer-blows of nuclear fireballs.  Each of the Black Wasp drones proved as effective as any three manned fighters—since it could, and did, maintain maximum thrust at all times, without pilot fatigue.  Carrying just lasers and PPCs, the drones had no ammunition worries, and the double-sized fuel tanks meant they could outlast any other fighter craft in service.  The drones took a fearsome toll on the defending fighters, even as they died, sacrificing themselves to cut a path through the Star League ships.

Still, in the two minutes it took to cross the envelope of the battle-line, only two Reprisals—both broken and battered—a handful of droppers, and less than two hundred fighters—including just sixty of the Black Wasps—managed to stagger through.  Forty-one of the surviving fighters, however, were Makets; each of which still carried two nuclear-tipped missiles.


February 30, 2768
SLS Richelieu
Northwind Deep Space
Terran Hegemony

“Ma’am, Commodore Mountz acknowledges escorts will confirm to your movements,” Tom called out from his station.

“Very well, Tom, please inform the Commodore that I am tired of running.  Have the escorts roll to present broadsides to the enemy, and he may engage at his convenience,” Susan replied, as she turned her chair to face the tactical station.  “Miss Assante, keep your fire tight and on target—let’s have no blue-on-blue incidents, today, shall we?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the young lieutenant at the tac station replied without looking up.  Her fingers flew across the console as she allocated targets for the battlecruisers weapons.

Susan turned back towards the holo-tank and shook her head.  They did not send enough, she thought.  The surviving Rimmers would die like insects in a flame when they met the frigates, destroyers, and corvettes that still surrounded her ship—but all it would take was one.  One Maket class strike bomber to evade her defensive fire and get in range to torpedo her ship with a nuke.  The enemy strike was thirty seconds out, and closing fast—time to execute the distraction.

“Harry,” she said, depressing a switch on her command chair, “it was your idea, so give the order.”

The voice of her chief engineer came back over the headset.  “Aye, aye, ma’am.  Docking clamps, release Star League One.  Comm, prepare to transmit—IN THE CLEAR—the message.”

With a massive CLUNK, Richelieu shuddered as a 9,700 ton Overlord class DropShip disengaged from the side of the ship, rotated, and accelerated away from the protecting Fleet at 2.5-g’s.  At the comm station, Helen Zhu hit her transmission key and began playing her role.

“STAR LEAGUE ONE, STAR LEAGUE ONE.  Return to ship immediately.  Repeat, return to Richelieu immediately.”  The young officer put just the right amount of panic in her voice.

“Negative, Richelieu, Star League One is inbound for Northwind at this time.  Cover us.”

“Star League One, you are ORDERED to return at once!”

“Richelieu, I would love to comply, but you do not have the authority to issue that order.”

Susan smirked, and opened her own comm.  “Star League One, this is Richelieu actual.  Get your ass back here now!”

“Cannot comply, Richelieu.  Star League One out.”

The escorts, already informed of the deception, added in their own transmissions—some in the clear, some coded.  One of them broke across all of the others.  “Star League One, this Commodore Kathy Mountz—get back in formation, damn you.”

“Commodore,” an all-to-familiar voice sang out from the intercom, “do your job and stop those ships.  My family and I are going to Northwind.  Star League One over and out.”  And the transmission ceased.

Susan looked at the holo-tank and held her breath.  And then it happened.  Half of the incoming strike, veered away in pursuit of the lone Overlord, already out of point-defense range of the rest of the Fleet.  They had taken the bait.

She heard Commodore cursing over the intercom, and he ordered half of the reserve fighter contingent sent to intercept the enemy chasing the decoy.  An order the fighter reserve promptly ignored as it changed vector and tore into the Rim fighters still charging the Richelieu.  Arriving at the same moment as Barracudas, White Sharks, and Killer Whales launched by the escort ships, the strike ripped apart the surviving Makets well short of her battlecruiser.

Meanwhile, on the display in the tank, she could see the fighters sent against the unmanned and automated Overlord open fire.  The fake Star League One exploded under their hammering, and the fighters turned back towards the Fleet—and the real First Lord.

“My lord,” she said as she looked down at the image of Stephen Cameron on her display, “it would appear to have worked.  They took the bait—had no choice really—and divided their forces.  This should give us a good chance of defeating them in detail without taking any hits.”

“Excellent work, Susan.  My compliments to your crew, and I think I will leave you to fight your ship now.”

“Thank you, Sir.  That was a very convincing recording you made, by the way.  Do you treat all your senior officers in that manner?”

Stephen chuckled.  “Just the ones who annoy me, Captain Collins.  Cameron out.”

“Miss Assante, I do believe we still have some clean-up work to do here.  You may open fire on Strike Two at will.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am.”

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

The last Maket died three hundred kilometers short of launching on the Richelieu.  A mere handful of Black Wasps strafed the ship, but lacked the heavy weapons to penetrate her armor; two turned kamikaze and rammed, but the battlecruisers heavy plating held.  Twenty-seven Star League ships and over nine hundred fighters were lost, but the Rim World forces failed in their goal to kill Stephen Cameron and his family.  There were no survivors among the Rim vessels.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #238 on: May 05, 2009, 09:36:08 AM »
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Wow! Shocked That was intense!

The First Lord made it to Northwind, but look at what it cost... Hopefully the message got out to Amaris that "Star League One" and by extension, the First Lord was destroyed.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #239 on: May 05, 2009, 11:33:12 AM »
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Ouch!!!
The SLDF Navy certainly paid a high price for this victory, especially amongst its fighter pilots.
Hopefully this visit to Northwind will be worthwhile for the First Lord.

Ciao
Hessian

P.S.: As usual well written. And nice to see that the SLDF can surprise the Rim Worlders too... Wink

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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #255 on: May 07, 2009, 12:36:51 PM »
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Just wanted to know if you knew. Great stuff keep it coming!!
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #256 on: May 07, 2009, 12:40:49 PM »
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Quote from: master arminas on May 07, 2009, 12:20:54 PM
let's just say I do not think Minoru or John or Stephen or Aleksandyr will roll over and give up, regardless of the personal cost.

I agree. If anything, I think his plan has backfired to a certain degree and solidified the resolve of both Davion & Kurita (not to mention Stephen & Kerensky) to end this war as swiftly as possible.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #257 on: May 07, 2009, 01:34:41 PM »
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The nasty bit about these Amaris-reprisals is that when the inevitable shoe does fall, the Terran worlds standing between AFFS and DCMS forces are going to suffer even more then if liberated by the SLDF. These two nations have no other interest other than revenge, and it's the innocents caught in the middle of the steaming juggernaut that'll pay the price.

Great read.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #258 on: May 07, 2009, 02:42:45 PM »
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Yikes!
Amaris got himself another mortal enemy! And in amost devious way too...

Ciao
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #259 on: May 07, 2009, 03:43:11 PM »
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Chapter Forty-Five

March 23, 2768
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

“For the love of God, Marianne . . .”

“DON’T START!  He used US; he used CASSIE, as nothing more than BAIT!” she snapped, her emotions starting to get out of hand, yet again.

Stephen Cameron lowered his head and shook it as he tried hard to keep his own anger bottled up.  Marianne was still furious over the Rim attack on Richelieu three weeks before.  Oh, she had held it all in until the formalities on Northwind were done; had even stayed courteous to Susan Collins and her officers, but after getting home; that was a different story.

Arriving home late last night, Marianne had blasted General DeChevilier on the tarmac at the space-port, calling him a myrmidon pimp, among other things.  Aleksandyr had also suffered from her wrath, and the other officers she had just ignored, hurrying to the waiting air-car with Cassie to head home.  And today she had not cooled off any.

Suddenly, his wife began to twitch over by the window.  “Marianne?” he asked as he stood.

She collapsed into the chair, and Stephen was there, kneeling next to her on the floor.  She was crying and sobbing, and he grabbed her and pulled her close against him. “Shhhh…  It’ll be all right, love.  It’ll be all right.”

“I can’t do this, Stephen,” she wailed.  “I can not take this waiting and having people WE HAVE NEVER EVEN MET want us dead.”  She stopped and Stephen wiped her face.

“Ok, Northwind was a bust.  So how about we go up to the Harrison lodge. Today, Marianne.  Let’s just drop everything and go up north and you and Helen and Molly and all the other female members of that clan drink some hot chocolate and talk about the baby.  Cassie will love it, dear, and so will I.”

Marianne looked up at him, tears still welling up in the corners of her eyes.  “But we just got back; I know they have piles of work for you . . .”

“GERALD!” Stephen yelled.

The door to the bedroom opened, and Sergeant Major Gerald Howe stepped into the room.  “You bellowed, My Lord?”

“Gerald, ready the air-car.  We are going up to the Harrison Lodge—comm Emil and make sure it is all right with him first, please.  If he says yes, we are going up there and will damned well stay as long as my wife wants us to.  If the bureaucrats don’t like it—then shoot ‘em.”

He looked back his shoulder and grinned at Gerald, who nodded and shook his head.  “I’ll take care of everything, L.T.”  Still shaking his head, the old non-com walked out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

Stephen turned back to Marianne and cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her head.  “I am still Stephen Cameron, love, still the man you married.  And I will be—for you, and for Cassie, and for the munchkin we are waiting to arrive—until the day I die.  I WILL NOT let this duty change me—or us—into someone or something else.”

She hugged him hard, and kept crying on his shoulder.  “I love you, Stephen; I do, I do, I do.”

That is the dirty little secret of this job, he thought.  So many people wanted it, desired it, for the power and the authority that went with it.  But it has never been a ‘safe’ job.  Most especially for those you love.  A man would have to be insane to want this kind of life—but it was his duty.  And, God help her, one day it would become Cassie’s.

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

Hiroyoshi finished triple-checking the detail that would accompany him and the family up north to the Harrison Lodge.  Lt. Colonel Moreau had left him as the officer in charge of the close protective detail, while Moreau ran the Regiment itself.  Gerald—as the RSM—was technically not a part of the detail, but in practice ramroded the whole operation.  If the Regiment needed him, he had told Moreau, well he wore a comm-unit.  Until then, Irene McCormick could handle the paperwork.  The corners of his mouth twitched—paperwork was the one thing the SLDF seemed to believe in more than firepower.  In the past month, he had filled out more forms than in his previous decade and a half in the DCMS.  Perhaps he should have a chat with the First Lord about changing that aspect of the Defense Force.

As he finished the troop inspection, he took particular note of the last officer in line—Lieutenant Absalom Truscott.  “Lieutenant, I thought that you were a MechWarrior.  Why are you here and why are you wearing that Nighthawk suit?”

“Sir,” the young man replied with a salute, “Maj—Lt. Colonel Moreau instructed me to cross-train with the infantry; in order to get an appreciation of what they have to deal with.  Since my last billet was in the divisional MP pool, he thought I should have a more well-rounded profile.”

“I see, Lieutenant.  And are you in command of this platoon—the heavy weapons platoon that is providing back-up for the close-in detail?”

“No, sir.  I am here as an observer.”

“Who is in command, then, Lieutenant?”

“Sergeant McCrimmon, Sir.  Lt. Colonel Moreau instructed me to listen to the Sergeant and follow his direction.”

Hiroyoshi turned his head to look at the slight figure of Wilbur McCrimmon, and then closed his eyes, picturing the files he had poured over again and again.  Force Recon with a Marine CAAN unit, then selected for training with the Hegemony SAS.  Finally transferred to Special Operations Command—the Blackhearts—two years ago.  He opened his eyes and nodded.

“Lieutenant, you are an officer in the Defense Forces.  You are in command; correct, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“HOWEVER, I want you to consider what Lt. Colonel Moreau said, and what I am saying.  Listen to him, and think hard about what he tells you—McCrimmon has served for almost fifteen years, Lieutenant, and he has probably forgotten more about infantry warfare than you have ever learned.  Trust him, but trust yourself as well.  Listen to him, but listen also to your instincts, your guts.  Your platoon looks good, Lieutenant—board the carriers.”

“Yes, sir,” Truscott said, as he began to salute again, but Hiroyoshi caught his arm.  Under full power, the Nighthawk would have not even been slowed, but at the moment, the suits were dialed down to little more than the users natural strength.  “One last thing, Lieutenant—in the field, we DO NOT salute.”

“Yes, sir,” the young officer replied.  “Third Platoon, load up!”

 As the heavy suits of powered armor boarded their four personnel carriers, Hiroyoshi turned to walk back towards the air-cars taking the family and the close-in detail, and their staff.

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

Cassie skipped down the steps towards the vehicles, Heather in her wake as always.  Behind them, Stephen helped Marianne waddle down the same stone steps, while Hiroyoshi held the air-car door open at the base.  He bent down and picked up Cassie and set her inside the vehicle, where her second guard—Patrice—buckled the little girl in.  Heather climbed in across from her.

Just as Stephen and Marianne reached the car, one of the household staff came tearing down the steps, carrying a phone.  Thom reached him before he reached the First Lord, however.  The man whispered to Thom, who went white, his eyes flickering at Hiroyoshi and Jarl.  His mouth slightly agape, he lowered his head, nodded, and took the phone.

“My Lord,” he whispered, “Lord Kerensky for you—it is quite urgent, My Lord.”

Stephen frowned and took the phone.  “Yes, Aleksandr?”

As Stephen listened, he too grew white and pale, and his eyes widened.  “I . . . I understand.  I will be there within the hour.”

He shut down the phone and handed it back to Thom.

“Marianne, Hiroyoshi, . . . oh Hell.”  He braced one hand on Hiroyoshi’s shoulder and climbed up on the hood of the vehicle.  “EVERYONE.  I want you to take my wife and daughter up to Harrison Lodge.  We have just received word from Luthien that a civilian cargo vessel was used to commit an attack on the capital of the Draconis Combine.  Imperial City has been devastated.  At this time, that is all I know.  Pray for the people of Imperial City, and pray for Lord Minoru, since his son Zabu is currently missing.”

Gerald helped Stephen climb down, and he turned back to Marianne.  She shook her head.  “Go, Stephen.  He needs you there; I know that.  I also know you don’t want to go, but we will be ok, right Cassie?”

“Right, Mother.  Besides, that is more hot cocoa for us, right?”  The little girl said, with a sad smile on her face.  She might not like it, but she had grown-up enough to accept it over the past few months.

“Right, Cassie,” her mother said.  “Well, Heather; it is just us girls today.  Shall we?” she asked as she climbed into the rear seat next to Cassie.  Stephen closed the door, and stood back with Gerald and Hiroyoshi, Thom and Jarl as the vehicle carrying his wife and daughter, the three more with their close-in detail and staff, and the four armor personnel carriers lifted into the air and flew away.

“Gerald, get me a car,” Stephen whispered as he watched them fly off.

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

Aleksandr and Minoru sat in the conference room as Stephen walked briskly in, trailed by Gerald and Hiroyoshi.  “What do we know?” he asked.

“It was a complete surprise—they smuggled in a high-megaton range weapon aboard a civilian ship that people loyal to Amaris must have taken over.  It went in at Mach 4, and detonated 1,500 meters above Togo Square.  Eighty percent of the city is gone, along with Luthien Armor Works.  The Imperial Palace was heavily damaged.  We think—THINK—Zabu made it to the shelter beneath the palace, but if so he is trapped at the moment,” Aleksandr said.

“It was only the first strike, Lord Stephen,” Minoru whispered.  “We have received word of similar attacks—ATROCITIES—on Benjamin and Galedon.  The ones who did this warned of more yet to come—as a penalty for waging war against Amaris.”

Stephen goggled at the two men as his mind raced.  Was the man utterly MAD?  Thank God, Minoru had released Hiroyoshi from service last month.  His family was en route to Asta—they had lived less than two kilometers from ground zero.  “What—if anything—can we do to help you, Lord Minoru?”

“Get me a clear shot at Stefan Amaris,” the Coordinator replied coldly.  “Otherwise, there is little enough for you to do.  We will rebuild—that is what we must do.”

Stephen thought for a moment.  “Aleksandr, does the SLDF still carry those disaster pods aboard our capital ships?”

“Yes, First Lord, we do.”

“Good.  Have every pod in the system collected and loaded aboard cargo transports bound for Luthien, Benjamin, and Galedon.  And—if the Coordinator will accept the assistance—send some of our NBC decontamination teams and engineers trained in search and rescue in urban environments.”

“Thank you, First Lord.  I could not ask, you understand.”

“Lord Minoru, we are brothers now, you and I.  You did not ask, I offered freely—one brother to another.”

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

Cassie loved flying.  She like seeing the trees pass beneath as they soared above the rocky pass beneath the level of the overhanging clouds.  All that, she thought, I walked across all of that; and she smiled.  Her smile went away, as she remembered the other things that had happened, but she nodded to herself.  I am a big girl, now, she thought.  Seven, and next year eight.  Bet no other kid has walked as far as I have.  A flash of light and puff of smoke—several puffs—down below caught her eye.

“SAMS!” the driver yelled, as he banked the air-card—HARD—and pressed the button that began ejecting flares from beneath the armored vehicle.  Cassie cried out as she slid from her seat across the vehicle—she had loosened her seat belt to watch the trees go by.  Just before she hit the armor-glass window, she felt Heather slide beneath her, and slammed into her own guard’s chest.  And then a deafening BOOM erupted underneath the car.

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

Eight targets for twelve missiles, Hans thought, as the weapons streaked away.  Two cars avoided any missiles, but the other two—including the one the First Lord routinely used—were hit and went down.  All four of the APCs crashed into the forest as well.  Setting down the hand-held remote, he drew his SMG and cocked back the bolt, chambering a round.  “I believe we have a job to finish, my friends.”
« Last Edit: May 08, 2009, 04:07:19 PM by Knightmare »    Report to moderator   131.95.113.77 (?)
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #260 on: May 07, 2009, 03:54:10 PM »
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 Shocked


Amaris is really asking for a nice painful torture followed by a slow, even more painful death, isn't he?
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We regret bein' alien bastards. We regret comin' to Earth. And we most definitely regret that the Corps just blew up our raggedy-ass fleet!   -Sgt. A.J. Johnson

They're farmers. You're elite troops. With the gloves off, this would have taken you no time at all.  -Jedi General Etain Tur-Mukan

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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #261 on: May 07, 2009, 04:29:28 PM »
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Man, I would be soooooooooooooooooooooooooo pissed!!!!!! Angry

This one is actually on Loki, scourge not Amaris.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #262 on: May 07, 2009, 04:39:12 PM »
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Whoops. Embarrassed      Must've missed something. Well, he should still get painfully tortured before a nice, slow and a helluva lot more painful death takes him.

And who wouldn't be pissed?
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Dear Humanity,
We regret bein' alien bastards. We regret comin' to Earth. And we most definitely regret that the Corps just blew up our raggedy-ass fleet!   -Sgt. A.J. Johnson

They're farmers. You're elite troops. With the gloves off, this would have taken you no time at all.  -Jedi General Etain Tur-Mukan

Burnin' to burn 'em, ma'am! -Confederate Firebat PFC Fetu "Cutter" Koura-Abi

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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #263 on: May 07, 2009, 10:04:11 PM »
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You're spoiling us master arminas! Three chapters in two days... Gotta love it! Grin
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All I want is just a nibble of 'Mech armor & myomer... is that so wrong? Wink
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #264 on: May 07, 2009, 10:15:29 PM »
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Quiet down MechRat, he might not notice the run he is on. God help us if he starts spacing these out now. I'd start to go into withdraw. Grin

Just a thought on the effects of these most recent chapters. Amaris may have just cemented the Star League for many years to come as his attacks have likely galvanized the resolve of the three most powerful Houses. The Cameron-Kurita-Davion axis could be difficult for anyone to overcome.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #265 on: May 08, 2009, 07:14:47 AM »
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  An interesting note my friends is that our friend Master Arminas is giving the Rim Worlds forces far more intellegent direction than TPTB ever did.  A facinating bunch of developments MA, thanks for sharing.
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« Reply #266 on: May 08, 2009, 09:23:38 AM »
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Chapter Forty-Six

March 23, 2768
Black Pine Forest Preserve
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony

The little girl shook her head as her eyes fluttered open.  The damaged air-car—armored though it may have been—had gone down hard, ripping through the old growth forest, shattering tree limbs and branches, and half burying itself into the deep rich soil beneath the snow.  She hurt, the little girl did, all over, but the side of her head throbbed the worst, and tears leaked from her eyes as she sat up.  Her hand slid across a slick and wet surface, and she opened her eyes wide to look.

It was red, her hand; red with slowly cooling human blood.  And Cassandra Sarah Cameron screamed as she saw the reason blood was pooling in the bottom of the air-car.

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

Making their way down the slope of the ridge, Hans Trevane clearly heard the wail of a child.  Someone survived, he thought.  And there could only be one child along on this trip.  Nodded at Hollis, his team continued moving towards the source of the sounds, weapons at the ready.

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

The crash had been brutal, Absalom Truscott thought as he shook his head.  The ringing in his ears would not stop, and his right side felt as though it was on fire, along with his left arm.   Reaching out with his right arm, he grabbed a support strut, and hauled himself up and onto his feet.  The missile that had struck the APC had impacted just beneath the infantry bay, and it turned the armored hull into deadly shrapnel.  Of the seven troopers that shared the bay with him, he was the only survivor.  He grimaced with pain as he lifted his left arm and winced as he saw the wound—from the elbow to about half-way down the forearm, everything was fine.  But then, the forearm bent 30-degrees.  The armor composite had remained intact, but it was warped, and he could feel the rough edges of the broken bones sliding around inside.  He could not move his left hand at all.  Reaching down with his right hand, he felt his side, and found the jagged shard that had penetrated the armor and lay lodged inside the muscle and skin.

Half of his armor systems were dead, but the fuel cells were live, and the exoskeletal muscles still functioned.  Jump jets dead, sensors dead, radio dead; but the pharmacopia was intact.  Entering a command code into the shielded keypad on his left forearm—which, by a miracle still worked—he breathed a sigh of relief as pain-killers and coagulants and stimulants flooded into his blood stream.  The oxygen feed system was damaged as well, he noted, as the pain receded, so he reached up and unsealed the near useless helmet, tearing it from his head.

And then he heard the scream of a little girl.  Absalom Truscott forgot the pain, forgot his wounds.  Magnetically locking his left arm to his chest, he pulled an intact rifle from the small arms rack with his right, and staggered out into the forest, following the distant cries.

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

“Cassie?’ a weak voice mumbled from behind her; her mother’s voice.

“Momma?” she cried as she turned around and half-ran, half-crawled across the body of her very own bodyguard—the body that had absorbed the shrapnel that would have killed her if it had not been in the way.

Her momma looked bad—cut and bruised and battered, in the dim light that leaked past the tall trees.  A twisted piece of armor pressed hard against her swollen stomach, and Cassie could see more red, more blood, leaking out onto the seat behind her.  “Momma, I’m scared,” she gasped as she began to hyper-ventilate, “I want to go home, momma, please take me home.” she finished as still more tears came down her cheeks.

“Baby,” her momma gasped as she reached out with one hand and stroked her daughter’s hair, her other hand pinned to her side by the debris.  “Cassie, listen to me.  Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so, momma, but Heather is . . . ,” her voice trailed off as she closed her eyes and lifted her hands to her face, “Heather is hurt pretty bad, Momma.”

“Oh, baby, I know she is, and Patrice is too,” Marianne whispered as tears washed blood away from her own cheeks  She could see Heather’s headless body lying on the floor—and Patrice, speared through the heart by another long shard.  “Cassie, I know it is hard, but you have to do something for me.”

Cassie nodded, and Marianne smiled.  “Go over to Heather, and get her gun, Cassie.  And bring it here to me.”

Cassie looked at the ruined, broken body of her guard, her friend lying on the floor of the car, snow already beginning to settle on blood turning to ice.  And Cassie shook her head as she whimpered.

“Baby, you have to, baby,” Marianne pleaded.

“Momma, can’t you?”

“I can’t move my legs, Cassie,” she said in a very calm voice, “I can’t feel my legs.  Bring me her gun, baby.  Bring it to momma.”

Cassie slowly moved across the car, and closing her eyes, she reached beneath Heather’s jacket until she felt the thick, cold grip of the heavy pistol.  She pulled it loose and ran back to Marianne, not wanting to look at the red stain that now covered her arm to her elbow, and she placed the pistol on the seat beside Marianne.

“That’s good, baby girl,” Marianne whispered as she stroked her daughter’s hair.  “You did very well, Cassie.  Now, you are going to have to be a brave girl,” she stopped and swallowed back some bile that threatened to force its way up her throat.  “Be a brave girl, and go into the woods.  Go into the woods and hide, Cassie, just like Daddy and Heather and Gerald showed you to.”

“Momma,” Cassie cried, more tears coming down.  “Don’t make me go away, momma.  I want to stay with you.”

“Baby, you can’t.  You can’t.  Go, go now, before they come,” her mother said, the tears pouring from her eyes.  “Go, Cassie, and promise me you won’t look back.  Promise me.”

“MOMMA,” Cassie cried.

“Cassandra Sarah Cameron, listen to me.  You have to go hide, baby.  Take Patrice’s gun with you—Daddy showed you how to shoot.  If you see anyone you don’t know, baby girl, shoot them.  Now GO CASSIE,” Marianne said as she winced with the pain coming from deep inside her, from the baby that was dying inside her belly.  “Go, and don’t you look back.  I love you baby, I will always love you, my little girl.”

Cassie shook her head, but stood, and pulled out Patrice’s pistol; it was so big in her hands.  And Marianne nodded.  “Now go, go and hide, Daddy’s people will come and find you, baby.  Quickly now, go.”

From close by, they both heard a branch break.  Marianne reached down, and lifted the pistol—the hated pistol her husband had once taught her to shoot.  “Go,” she hissed, “and don’t you look back, baby, don’t you ever look back.”

Cassie ran from the wreck into the thick, snowy undergrowth, barely able to see through the curtain of water covering her eyes.

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

Hans could see the wreck as he pushed aside the last of the undergrowth.  The car had torn its way through the branches and limbs above, but lost most of its roof in the process.  The pilot compartment was crushed, and ragged holes were ripped across the sides and bottom.  One of the doors was open, hanging crookedly and swaying slightly in the lightly falling snow—and footprints, small footprints, led into the woods.  He smiled again as he spotted a smear of blood on some of the underbrush, just about the right height for a girl of seven or eight.

Keeping his feet planted, he half-turned to Liam and Nelson, and pointed down at the single set of tracks leading away from the crash.  Both men nodded and began following them into the dark woods.  Turning back to the air-car, he nodded to Hollis and the two men slowly made their way down to where they could look within.

The smell of death was strong in the air; bright coppery smells from the blood, the stench of bowels and bladders that had released their contents; the sharp tang of scorched and burnt metal and sparking electronics, the stink of melted plastics.  They were all smells he had tasted before, and he smiled as he looked down into the interior of the vehicle.

Two women he did not know, probably guards, or maybe staff, were both dead.  Losing ones head tended to insure that, and with the size of the splinter protruding from the others chest, it was almost a sure bet as well.  The third woman, however, he recognized.  Pinned in place by metal and armor and plastics, she did not look too good, but her cheeks shivered, and her eyes burned red with tears—and hate.

“Lady Cameron, I would say it is a pleasure, but I doubt that you would believe me,” he said to her.

The badly wounded woman coughed, and blood erupted onto her chin.  Hans smiled and shook his head; she didn’t have long, even if they left her alone.

“I take it your husband was in another car?” he asked as he realized just who was missing from the scene, his smile fading.

“My husband, you jackass?  You did this to get a shot at my husband?”  She began laughing, which turned into a coughing spasm that produced more blood.

“Where is he?”

“Back in Hawkins, you ass.  He got called away because of what you bastards did to Luthien and those other worlds in the Combine.  YOU.  MISSED.  HIM.  Jackass.”

Hans Trevane forced himself to laugh, though his belly went cold.  “Well, then, I guess we should tell ole Stefan that at least we got the bitch wife and his unborn kid.  And I have men following your daughter’s tracks right now, Lady Cameron.  I might even let them break her in before we finish the job.  It’s not often men in our line of work get a chance at royalty.”

Anger flashed across Marianne’s face as she lifted her good arm, the heavy coat falling back to reveal the pistol, Heather’s pistol.  She fired; once, twice, and then the weapon—battered by the crash and covered with ice formed from the blood of her daughters very own bodyguard jammed.

Two shots tore past Hans into the woods, but he remained still.  The woman—the wife of the man he had been sent to kill—was still pulling the trigger, but the slide was jammed opened.  Her hand shook, due to the cold, her shock and blood loss, and the lack of practice.  Finally she quit trying and dropped the useless weapon, a look of utter despair on her face.

“Goodbye, Lady Cameron,” Hans Trevane said as he raised the SMG and fired a precise three-round burst into her chest, and then a second one into her head.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #267 on: May 08, 2009, 11:08:15 AM »
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 Shocked

This is a first for me. This chapter actually made my stomach turn.

All I hope is that the little girl absolutely pwns these guys. That would be frickin' AWESOME! Grin
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« Reply #268 on: May 08, 2009, 11:35:01 AM »
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wipe them out.  all of them.
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"It matters little how we die, so long as we die better men than we imagined we could be -- and no worse than we feared." Drago Museveni, CY 8451
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #269 on: May 08, 2009, 12:15:24 PM »
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Well done but truly sad.

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« Reply #285 on: May 14, 2009, 01:15:03 PM »
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Chapter Forty-Eight

April 10, 2768
SS McQuiston’s Prize (DCS Black Rose)
Oriente Local Space
Free Worlds League

Takiro Sogabe watched as the main yards of the Oriente system slid into view across the limb of the planet in his holographic projector.   His vessel—disguised as a Lyran freighter, waiting for a delegation of industrialists to arrive from Shiro III—had entered the system four days ago, and was just now settling into orbit around the planet.

The news media had been all abuzz with the events taking place back home, and Takiro’s crew grieved for the death of young Zabu.  But the carnage upon their worlds did not take away from their mission.  If anything, it gave them an opportunity to carry it out.  Even now, the shuttle bearing the Free World League customs inspectors was on its way towards the main docking bay—every ship entering the system was to be searched.

He leaned back in his command chair, and his right hand stroked the keypad that would order the scuttling charges to detonate.  It was not exactly what his Lord had intended, but with the sneak attacks upon Kurita and Davion space, it would be enough.

“Is everything prepared, Mister Aso?”

“Hai, Captain—all stations are manned and we are ready to execute the Will of the Dragon.”

Takiro took a deep breath, and then crisply nodded.  “Gunnery Officer, load all launch tubes with nuclear ordnance.  Attack pattern Zeta-Two.  Prepare to jettison the outer panels on my mark.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.  All tubes are hot, and Zeta-Two is loaded into the master fire control system.”

“Jettison panels.”

Black Rose bucked as two dozen hull plates, each almost ten meters square, were separated from the ship by explosive charges.  The radio began to squawk as the inspection team detected the debris floating away.  Takiro waited until his Gunnery Officer spoke again.

“Flight path clear, Captain.”

“Rapid-fire on all tubes, EXECUTE!” he barked.

Twenty-four Killer Whale missile launchers flung their thirty-ton projectiles into space.  Once free of the ship, each fired their own thrusters and began accelerating—half towards the Naval Yards, the others towards the surface of the planet below.  Thirty seconds after the first launch came a second, and thirty seconds after that a third.

“We are being ranged upon by the FWLN vessels in orbit—multiple LIDAR hits!” the sensor officer called out from his post.

“Continue engagement of the yards and the planet—ignore the enemy vessels,” Takiro responded.

His first wave of missiles arrived at the massive orbiting yards—scores of free-floating structures that included repair slips, building docks, and massive foundries.  Of the first twelve, ten broke through the point-defense fire and impacted amongst them.  Each erupted in a nuclear detonation, tearing the structures apart.  Just seven of the second wave remained, as the defensive fire intensified, but those seven destroyed the dry-docks—currently housing three Atreus class battleships and a half-dozen cruisers and less vessels.  Before the third wave could hit, Black Rose shuddered, as a dozens of ships poured fire into her flanks.

Alarms began to ring across the bridge, and the lights flickered—but the holotank stayed operational.  “We’ve lost the starboard battery!” the Gunnery Officer yelled.

“Roll ship on her axis, and continue to engage the yards with the port battery,” Takiro coldly responded.

“Massive damage to engineering, KF Drive Core off-line,” the executive officer called out from his station.  “All power conduits to the starboard battery are inoperative.”

Takiro did not respond as another salvo slammed into his ship.  He watched as the thirty-six missiles from the port battery began to enter attack range of the surface.  One by one, mushroom clouds expanded in the planets atmosphere as weapons factories, armor foundries, electronics manufacturers, and other vital plants for building naval vessels burned.

He nodded to himself.  It is done, he thought.  Even as his crew scrambled, launching yet more missiles at the burning yards orbiting the savaged planet, he reached out with his right hand and punched a four-digit code into the keypad.  The screen flashed twice, and the four 1-megaton nuclear demolition charges detonated.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #286 on: May 14, 2009, 01:59:17 PM »
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Two more(very intense!) chapters. Nice! Smiley
As usual well done master arminas.

Ciao
Hessian

P.S: sad to see Zabu Kurita didn't make it. But I guess this gives you more opportunities in developing this story...
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #287 on: May 14, 2009, 02:28:17 PM »
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Yeah sucks about Zabu. Great stuff yet again. As we head to the final installments of this book I'd just like to say again what a great read this has been. Wink
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« Reply #288 on: May 14, 2009, 03:38:07 PM »
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Everything and everyone is just going crazy.  Grin
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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« Reply #289 on: May 14, 2009, 04:04:44 PM »
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Chapter Forty-Nine

April 12, 2768
SLDF 10th Army Headquarters
Nuevo Calais, Electra
Federated Suns (Taurian Rim)

“And I don’t give a flying frak what John Davion agreed to, mister!  This is MY world,” screamed Timothy Breton, Duke of Electra.  “If you think you are going to come here and give those rabble-rousers a chance to have a say in what happens to ME and MY FAMILY—MY PROPERTY—then you have another thing coming!”

General Sam Anders frowned at the flustered man from where he sat behind his simple wooden desk.  Three of his aides sat in chairs along one of the walls, and two civilians—other civilians—were also present in the room, along with the Duke and his so-called Chief of Security; a thug, in actuality.

“Your Grace, you seem to be laboring under a misconception—that any protest you make will stop these events from occurring.  You are wrong.  The First Prince of the Federated Suns, along with the First Lord of the Star League, have ensured the inhabitants of this world—along with all of the other occupied Taurian worlds along the edge of Davion space—that they WILL get a say in their future.  Rabble-rousers?  Your Grace, these people, what are supposed to be YOUR people, have been abused and misused by yourself and your predecessors for nigh upon two centuries.  They have legitimate grievances against you—and they will be heard.”

“GRIEVANCES?  They want everything handed to them on a silver platter, that’s what THEY want!  I won’t stand for it, and I sure as Hell will not coddle them because they say they are poor and unskilled!  Besides, we have our own local laws here, and it is YOUR job, General Anders, to enforce them—not to overthrow them!”

“You are entirely correct, Sir.  It is my job to do just that.  Or at least it has been, until I received my orders directly from the mouth of the First Lord himself—my brother-in-law, as I will remind Your Grace.  And I feel that he would rather approve of me taking the side of these people you are working and taxing to death instead of a fat, bigoted, piece of shit like yourself.”

The Davion noble’s eyes bulged out and he began drawing in air to bellow once more.

“YOU WILL BE SILENT!” Anders yelled as he suddenly stood from behind the desk.  “I have been patient enough with you, Sir.  For the past three months, I have told you to get your bully-boys under control—and you have done nothing.  For ninety days, I have asked you to assist me in allowing these representatives of the Concordat to speak with your people, and you have interfered.  I am done with being polite, Sir.  As you yourself have said, I am a General of the Star League Defense Forces—and I am declaring martial law upon this world.  You, Sir, are relieved of all duties and responsibilities herewith.  Return to your home and do not leave it on pain of arrest, Your Grace.  And as for you,” he said, glaring at the Chief of Security, “I would sincerely hope that you understand the difference between bullying unarmed, underfed civilians and trying to do the same with my boys and girls.  Push me ONCE and I will mount your head on a pike outside this building.  Do you understand me?”

The security man quickly nodded, even as Duke Breton snarled.  “This is not the end of this—GENERAL!  I have friends in high places.”

“So be it, Your Grace.  I would remind you that it is your own grave you are digging, but if that does not concern you, so be it.  Major Geithner will show you out, gentlemen.”

As one of his aides stood and ushered the two from his office, Sam turned towards the other two civilians remaining.  “I am sorry that you had to see that, Lady Calderon, Mister Oshner.”

The young lady beamed a smile at him, as she leaned forward, flicking her long black hair out of the way of the green eyes dancing in her face.  “Merci, mon General,” she said, “no apologies are needed.  That man is an ass, and a stupid one at that.  The way he treats the people of his world—as if they are serfs or slaves—it is unconscionable.  On behalf of Grand-mama’s government, I thank you.”

Lucien Oshner merely nodded his head in agreement.  Older, and more experienced with the twists and turns of Concordat politics—and those of the Star League—he shrugged, but did at least acknowledge Sam’s part.  Like most Taurians, Oshner HATED the Star League for what it had done—but he was one of the few that could look past that hate, and approve of what Nicoletta was trying to accomplish.  He did not LIKE Sam, but he did not have to; he approved of his blunt, no-nonsense style, and the even-handed way he had conducted himself here on Electra.

Sam leaned back in his chair and considered the two, hand-picked by Nicoletta to serve as her eyes and ears here on one of the most important of the Old Taurian worlds of the Rim.  Sandra Calderon was young—very young, at just seventeen—bold and impetuous, lovely and bright, warm and likable.  When she spoke at meetings urging the people of Electra to vote to join the Concordat, she might attract listeners because of her beauty, but they paid attention because of her words.  Her ideals, her passion about the future that could be made.  She believed in the vote that would be held in a few short years, and she believed—deeply and completely—that the Concordat would provide the best for the people here.  And when they listened to her, the people began to believe in the possibility that life COULD change for the better.

Lucien Oshner, on the other hand, was well into his sixth decade, and an accomplished machine politician from the highly populated metropolises on Taurus.  He understood politicking in a way that few others did, and even if he could not convey the messages that Nicoletta wanted, he could—and did—advise her grand-daughter how SHE best could.  And added to that, he knew how other politicians thought, and could make pretty accurate guesses at how many bodies were buried—and where.  Between the two of them, they had made a pretty significant inroad into the hearts and minds of the people of Electra, especially since John Davion had not sent out his own team of spokesmen.

But that had well and truly infuriated Tim Breton.  As Duke of Electra, Breton controlled the planet, and—like his predecessors—he had taken steps to ensure that it would remain his personal fief for a long, long time to come.  The people were uneducated—because the Duke had outlawed any education past the sixth grade for the people native to this world.  They were unskilled—because the Duke had exported all their industries to other worlds controlled by members of his family.  The long abandoned factories and industries of what had once been a jewel of the Concordat were rusting to dust, while the people worked in back-breaking conditions extracting ores from deep mines, or harvesting crops by hand.

And since the Federated Suns only taxed the RULERS of its worlds, the Duke had instituted crippling taxes—enough to pay his annual tithe four times over.  The remainder he kept in banks far, far away.  There was no public health services, no assistance for the poor.  The entire planet was in debt to him for every service they did receive, with no way to ever recover or dig itself out.  Breton had passed new laws, making it illegal for any gathering of more than twenty people—and curtailing the few rights they people of Electra had for speaking out.  His security troops had detained hundreds, and put several dozen in the hospital when they resisted.  Again and again they had stormed into meeting halls and broken up the public debates Prince John had promised.

Of course, they were not stupid.  Not one of them had laid a hand upon either of the two representative from the Concordat, nor had any of them accosted his own troops.  But any meeting that began to discuss politics where these two—and his troops—were not present, shortly afterwards, the thugs descended.  Things were turning ugly, and Sam’s patience had just about run out.

“I only wish there was more I could have done, sooner, Lady Calderon,” he said.

“Please, mon General, I believe I have asked you to call me Sandra.”

“Of course, Sandra,” Sam said with a genuine smile of affection.  The girl was quite the thing, he reflected, thinking back over the past three months here.  And she had made some of the darkness recede.  Then he turned back to the business at hand.  “Lucien, are you still planning that rally over on Cumberland for tonight?”

“Yes, General Anders.  Twenty thousand will be in attendance—we cannot cancel.  If we did, the people here would begin to believe that Breton—not you—controls the situation.  If that happen, it would be a disaster for this world in the referendum.”

Sam nodded, agreeing with the reasoning.  “All right, then.  But I to post troops outside, just to make certain that those thugs stay away.”

The young woman shook her head.  “No, Sam.  The people here must see that neither Lucien nor myself fear this man; they must believe that they have the power to defy him.  Your troops—as grateful as I am to their presence—will keep them from feeling that power, that freedom that he has denied them.”

His stomach knotted as the considered the young woman—did she really know the fire she was playing with here?  It shook him, the realization that he was honestly—and personally—concerned for her; about her.  “I would rather be safe than sorry, Sandra,” he said quietly.

“I must agree with the young lady, General Anders,” Lucien said dourly.  Then the corner of his mouth lifted.  “Of course, I do not WANT to be clubbed to the ground at my age, but we must take the Bull by its horns.”

“Very well, then, Mister Oshner.  If the two representatives of the Concordat are in agreement, than I will not station troops outside.  However,” he said, with a stern glare at them both, “I WILL be on that stage with you.”

Lucien Oshner smiled, and nodded in agreement.  From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Sandra blush slightly, and her eyes—those green eyes!—twinkled once more.

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

The rally was packed by people.  One of the few pleasures Breton had allowed was sports, although like most else, it was heavily taxed.  Cumberland Stadium could hold more than 20,000 fans above a field that hosted baseball, football, and soccer, depending upon the time of the year.  Sam stood on the podium besides Lucien as Sandra spoke to the crowds, pleaded with them.  Someone, somewhere in the stadium began singing a long forbidden song, and Sandra’s eyes danced in the light as she too began to sing the anthem of Taurus.  Soon the entire stadium was throbbing with voices raised in song.

And then he saw it.  You damned fool, he thought.  Why are you challenging me?  Tim Breton, Duke of Electra was riding out onto the field—on horseback, no less!—, surrounded by his security troops on foot.  The crowd parted out of the way as the Duke swung his riding crop, and one of the thugs hurried forward, carrying an amp and microphone.  Breton took the mike in his hand.

“People of Electra!  I am your legal governor—I am YOUR DUKE!  This gathering is illegal!  Return to your homes at ONCE!”

Sandra stood at the front the stage, and her voice carried across the stadium.  “NO.  This is the face of your tyranny, People of Pleiades, this is the face of your Oppression!  Stand here TODAY, stand in the face of this TYRANT, and DO NOT BE MOVED!  HE HAS NO POWER THAT YOU DO NOT ALLOW!”

“Enough of this,” Breton bellowed.  “Arrest that harlot!”

A dozen of his men started forward, but Sam was there, and pulled Sandra back from the edge, placing his own body between her and the hired muscle.  “Not today, Your Grace, not ever.  You will have to go through me, first.”

The Duke laughed.  “It is your grave, General.  Take him.”

Sam looked out across the crowd.  “People of Electra, in the name of the Star League, and the Houses of Davion and Calderon—ARREST THAT MAN FOR THE CRIME OF TREASON!”

Duke Breton laughed again, but then his laughter died away as scores of people came forward from the crowd, all holding bats at the ready.  He smiling face contorted, and he made an inarticulate cry, and waved his arm towards the men, and the bully-boys charged.  The men and women on the ground—strangely better fed and fit than most of the citizens of Electra—charged back in return, and within minutes, the security troops were running for the exits.  Duke Timothy Breton was thrown by his horse, which also fled.

A wild shout went up throughout the stadium, even as helicopters appeared overhead and voices called out over loudspeakers to remain calm.  An SLDF chopper landed in the midst of the field, and loaded the Duke onboard, fastening his arms with manacles before placing him inside.  A low growl came from the crowd, as Sam grabbed the microphone once again.

“PEOPLE OF ELECTRA!  THE DEFENSE FORCES OF THE STAR LEAGUE THANK YOU FOR ASSISTING US!  WE THANK YOU FOR SEIZING THE TYRANT BRETON!”  He stepped back and looked down at Sandra.

“Are you ok, my Lady?” he whispered, as she fell into his arms.

“My, what surprises you have, mon General,” she said as she hugged him tight and the crowd went wild.  Stepping back, she looked him in the eye, and then lifted her head, and kissed him upon the cheek.  “I thought we said no SLDF troops on the ground.”

“Lucien,” Sam said, his face beet red, “did you see any SLDF uniforms out there?  I know I didn’t.”

“Not a one, General Anders,” Lucien said, smiling broadly.

“And no one ever will—the people of Electra took matters into their own hands tonight, right, Sandra?”

She smiled, and her eyes—those green, green eyes—twinkled at him in the powerful lights.

Lucien Oshner sighed.  I really hope she doesn’t expect ME to tell Nicoletta to expect an SLDF General as her grandson-in-law, he thought.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #290 on: May 14, 2009, 04:14:40 PM »
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It looks like the Davies are headed for a Second Civil War.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #291 on: May 14, 2009, 04:24:35 PM »
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Just a little thing, if you are saying mon General, you should write mon Général (after all it is French  Tongue).
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In Turn they tested each Clan namesake in trial against the Ice Hellion's mettle. Each chased the Ice Hellion, hunting it down. All failed to match the predator's speed and grace. Khan Cage smiled and said, "And that is how we shall be."

The Remembrance (Clan Ice Hellion) Passage 5, Verse 3, Lines 1 - 5
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #292 on: May 14, 2009, 05:20:06 PM »
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I can't ever seem to get the accents to work.  LOL

AtV, GMotER
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #293 on: May 15, 2009, 06:55:52 AM »
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Good chapter, and Sam; you go boy!
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #294 on: May 15, 2009, 09:40:29 AM »
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Yay! Good chapters, as usual. Keep it up!
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Dear Humanity,
We regret bein' alien bastards. We regret comin' to Earth. And we most definitely regret that the Corps just blew up our raggedy-ass fleet!   -Sgt. A.J. Johnson

They're farmers. You're elite troops. With the gloves off, this would have taken you no time at all.  -Jedi General Etain Tur-Mukan

Burnin' to burn 'em, ma'am! -Confederate Firebat PFC Fetu "Cutter" Koura-Abi

Come to the dark side: we have cookies.
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #295 on: May 15, 2009, 11:16:19 AM »
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April 16, 2768
Branson House
Hawkins, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Captain Susan Collins paced outside the First Lord’s office suite even as four pairs of eyes kept watch on her.  One of the Black Watch was frowning, and kept deliberately turning his gaze at the chairs lined against the wall, but she did not sit.  She kept walking up and down the hall—ten steps forward, turn, and ten steps back.  Again and again and again.  She was not doing it to annoy the guards—though that was a bonus—she did it to relieve her own tension.

Finally, the doors opened, and Gerald Howe appeared.  She stopped and turned to face the Sergeant Major.  “How is he, Ger?”

“Not good, Captain Collins.  Please, come in,” he said as he held the door wide.  Gerald ushered her in, and she looked over the suite—all was immaculate, the staff kept it that way.  The old non-com pointed at a chair.  “He will be right out, Ma’am.”

The naval officer nodded her thanks as she sank down into one of the comfortable seats.  And then she waited.

A few moments later, Stephen Cameron stepped into the room.  “Morning, Susie,” he said as he crossed over to the sidebar and poured a glass of whiskey.  “Care for one?”

“No thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, as he topped off the tumbler and sat down across from her, taking a long pull from the dark amber liquid.

Susan stared at him—pallid and disheveled, one nerve in his cheek twitched, and his hands shook; she could smell the alcohol oozing from his pores.

“What brings you to the Sanctum Sanctorium today, Susie?”

“Actually, Stephen, you do.”

“Me?”

“Yes.  You.”

“And why would that be?” he asked crossly.

“Because you are being an ass.”

Stephen’s head jerked up, and his eyes were shot with red—from drink and from grief.  “I beg your pardon, Captain?”

“Look at yourself, Stephen; is this what you want to become, is this what Marianne would have LET you become?”

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“Why?  Because she is dead?” Susan said, a tear dropping down her cheek.  “She would not let you wallow in this self-pity—and she would slap your ass silly for that atrocity in the Rim Worlds, and you know that.”

Stephen stood, one fist clenching and unclenching as he struggled with himself.  “How dare you!  She was MY wife, she was . . .”

“She was my friend, Stephen.  And right now you are not the man she married.  You ordered the death of men, women, and children—husbands and wives and sons and daughters—just like Amaris did with your own family.  You want Cassie learning that lesson from you?”

Stephen sat down in the chair, and cupped his face in his hands.  “I hated them, Susie.  I wanted them all to suffer and die just like she did.  But I can’t sleep; I can’t feel anymore.  There should have been something—I should have felt something.  I can’t.  I don’t.  Why can’t I feel anything but the pain?”

“I don’t know,” she said.  “But you need to quit shutting us all out.  And you need to try—for Cassie if for nothing else.  She’s lost her mother; she doesn’t need to lose her father as well.”

“What do I do, Susie?  How do I go on?” he whispered.

“You just do, it is that simple.  You pick up and you go on with your life.  And you live that life remembering Marianne; you live it to give Cassie something she can respect and be proud of as she grows.”

Susan shook her head and stood up.  “And if you can’t do that, and maintain your principles and ideals, Stephen, then you are no better than Stefan Amaris—except that he enjoys it and you don’t.  But if you keep down this path, you will begin to feel again; the same things he feels.”

She walked across the room to the door and opened it, then turned back to Stephen who was still staring into the fireplace.  “Where does your duty lie, First Lord of the Star League?  To whom does your duty lie?”


April 19, 2768
Branson House
Hawkins, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Aleksandyr Kerensky rolled his wheelchair into Stephen’s office, expecting to meet with him privately for the first time since Marianne’s funeral.  But the private meeting was not so private after all.  Minoru Kurita was already sitting, sipping upon a cup of tea, and Aaron DeChevilier beside him.  John Davion was here as well, and Philip Marik—just arrived from Atreus at the head of a Fleet of Marik WarShips.  The Amaris strike against Oriente had infuriated the old man, and he had led sixty regiments and three hundred ships of war here to Asta to join the coalition.

Stephen Cameron was here as well, and he stood as Kerensky entered the room.  “Lord Aleksandyr,” he said softly, gesturing to a place left open around the fireplace for his chair.  Aleksandyr wheeled himself across the room and locked the chair in place.  Hiroyoshi Tanaka entered the room with a cup full of steaming Astan tea, which he gave to the crippled man, and then withdrew.  And Stephen sat back down.

The six men sat silently for a moment, and then Stephen whispered.  “I have not been myself these past weeks.  For that I am truly regretful; I have ignored my duties—to my people and to you—to indulge myself in self-pity and retribution against those who had done nothing to earn my wrath.”

“Minoru and John know my grief—and anger—well.  They feel it too, deep down inside.  As you do Aleksandyr.  And yet, what I did, what I had our troops do in MY name, that was not JUSTICE, gentlemen, that was VENGEANCE, and it was wrong.  I failed, I was weak and I struck out in hate to punish anyone that was even connected to the Usurper, and it was wrong.  It was EVIL, and if Marianne had been here, she would never have let me do it.”

He choked back some deep-welling emotion, and lowered his head as Aleksandyr closed his eyes.  Stephen had given him the order, and he should have objected—but he was right.  He had wanted to punish them as well—he had hated them enough to allow it happen.

“By doing this, I have become what Amaris is—a murderer and a criminal.  But NEVER AGAIN, gentlemen,” and Stephen lifted his head high, tears shining unshed in his eyes.  “Never again will we sink to his level.  We are better than that.  We WILL have JUSTICE for our sacred dead, for those who have given the last full measure of devotion, but we will do so in a way we can be proud of.  There will be no more reprisals.  NONE.  If the enemy asks for quarter, we will grant it.  We will treat our prisioners with respect—if they have committed crimes, they will be punished for it; but if they were simple soldiers and spacers doing their jobs, we will release them after this war is ended.  It is the only way for us to keep what little of our souls we have left.”

For a long moment, there was only silence, and then Philip Marik whispered in the hushed room.  “So say we all.”

One by one each of the men nodded their own agreement.


April 22, 2768
Asta Defense Headquarters
Hawkins, Asta
Terran Hegemony

Nine hundred officers—from six separate nations and a dozen different services—filled the auditorium to overflow.  Army commanders, Corps commanders, Division commanders; Fleet and Task Force commanders, Squadron commanders; five heads of state; scores of staffers and aides.  The highest ranking officers of the military forces assembled at Asta sat in the room, summoned by their Supreme Commander.

The lights dimmed as Aaron DeChevilier walked out onto the stage, and a massive holo-graphic projection flickered on behind him, showing a ‘TOP SECRET’ cover sheet.  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.  Assembled her on Asta is the largest military expedition in the history of the Human Race—the most powerful, at least.  Star League Defense Forces and Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery, volunteers from the Capellan Confederation and the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns, the Free Worlds League Military and volunteers from the Lyran Confederation.  Today, we no longer recognize those differences.  Today we all are brothers in arms.”

“Beside you are MechWarriors, armored crewmen, infantry, pilots, spacers, and support staff.  Your lives depend upon them—as theirs will depend upon you.  Today we will begin a series of briefings on where we go from here in this War against the Usurper.  Today, you officers will learn of our next Operation—and of the role each of you will play.”

Turning to the holo-projector, Aaron clicked a controller, and the holo-gram blanked and brought up a system schematic of the Terran solar system.  “Terra.  Old Earth.  Ladies and gentlemen, this is your target for Operation Ragnarok.  On November 6th, 2768, the first waves will combat jump into the Terran System to liberate this world from the forces of Stefan Amaris.  Today’s briefing will contain a basic overview of the operation plan, after which we will break into smaller discussion groups and go over your specific roles.  Beginning tomorrow, we will train your troops to accomplish their goals according to the plan.  Ladies and gentlemen, in seven months, we will begin the Liberation of the Homeworld—and Amaris will run out of time.”

“The first phase of the operation . . .”


April 24, 2768
Archon’s Palace, Tharkad City
Boreal Continent, Tharkad
Lyran Commonwealth

Robert Steiner sipped upon his hot drink as he watched the fires leap and dance in the fireplace.  It was late, and why Erik could not wait until tomorrow, Robert did not know.  But he pulled the thick furs closer about his body, and drank deeply again—the thick, rich liquor within the cocoa relaxing his body.

The door to his private study opened, and Erik smartly entered the room, tossing off a sardonic salute.  “Hail, my Archon,” he smirked, “I come bearing tidings.”

“Tidings so important it could not have waited until tomorrow morning—at a decent hour?”

“I do believe, my Archon that you will want to see this message.  Shall I?” he asked as he proffered the comm-disk to his liege.

Robert waved his hand and took another deep sip, letting the steam work its way into his sinuses, which had troubling him of late.

Erik smiled, and loaded the disk into a small projector, and thumbed the play button to ON.

Light flicker about the projector, and then an image of Stefan Amaris appeared, twirling his long mustache with one hand.

“Greetings, Robert.  We have not spoken in forever it would seem.  Others have said that you are deliberately ignoring me, your rightful First Lord and Emperor, but I know that is not true.  Of all of the Lords of the Council, you, Archon Steiner have ALWAYS been my favorite.  Kenyon might have shared my righteous rage with General Kerensky, but he was a fool, whereas you, Bobby, burn as cold as the Tharkad night in the depth of winter.”

“What is this,” snarled Robert.

“I have faith that you have neglected showing your support for me out of deference towards your citizens—and that I cannot fault.  The first duty of a ruler must be to preserve his power, after all.  Still, I owe you my thanks, Bobby, for your dedication in my service.  A masterful stroke you conducted, ordering the murder of the First Lord and his family.  Masterful, even if it did not completely succeed.”

Robert spat the hot liquid out through his nose and began coughing intensely.  Erik paused the recording until he had recovered, and then it resumed.

“Don’t be so surprised, Bobby.  My agents are everywhere—one even sits with you now.  Yes,” the recording said, as Roberts eyes bulged and his face grew red, “Erik Kiplinger—your intelligence chief—is mine, and has been for many, many years.  He has given me the evidence of your actions against Cameron, and so I am pleased with you, Bobby.  And I must thank you and Gloria both for the supplies and weapons the Commonwealth has been funneling to my troops in the Hegemony.  That is documented as well.”

“Still, I feel something is missing from our relationship, Archon Steiner.  I feel that you are not fully committed to my cause.  Of course I could be mistaken—and believe me, Bobby, as a just and loving Emperor I so want to be mistaken in this instance.  I would hate to deliver the evidence of your crimes to Kerensky—or to Stephen Cameron, since it was his wife that you murdered.  Yes, the tapes are quite clear in your instructions to the Loki team that NONE must survive.”

The image of Stefan Amaris grinned, and his eyes appeared to twinkle.  “Erik will have further instructions for you in my service.  If he disappears—or worse—as I am certain you are NOT considering have happen, then I will be most disappointed.  Chancellor Liao may not care for me, but she will not hesitate to convoy such—incriminating—evidence to the Traitor Cameron.  I look forward, Bobby, to a long and profitable relationship.”

The image flickered off, and Erik Kiplinger stood, extracting the disk.  He stood over Robert and smiled upon him.  Robert Steiner looked up, and gasped out a single question.  “Why?”

“Because it amuses me, my Archon, to have you dance while I pull the strings.”



To Be Continued in Book III—The Long Road Home


This concludes Book II, ladies and gentlemen.  I will post the PDF on Solaris 7 next week, and give you a link.  Thank you once again for your support and assistance.

Arminas tar Valantil
Grand Master of the Ebon Rose
(a.k.a. Stephen T Bynum)
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #296 on: May 15, 2009, 12:14:09 PM »
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Simply incredible, master arminas! Shocked Thank you so very much for sharing these two books with us and I eagerly look forward to the first chapter in Book III. Please don't keep up waiting too long... Wink

I must say that I strongly believe the quality and style of your writing is exquisite and worthy of publication. Grin
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All I want is just a nibble of 'Mech armor & myomer... is that so wrong? Wink
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"Beware the quiet ones, for you know not what they think." - me
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #297 on: May 15, 2009, 12:35:02 PM »
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Another interesting twist to this fantastic story.

Ciao
Hessian


Quote from: master arminas on May 15, 2009, 11:16:19 AM
The lights dimmed as Aaron DeChevilier walked out onto the stage, and a massive holo-graphic projection flickered on behind him, showing a ‘TOP SECRET’ cover sheet.  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.  Assembled her on Asta is the largest military expedition in the history of the Human Race—the most powerful, at least.  Star League Defense Forces and Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery, volunteers from the Capellan Confederation and the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns, the Free Worlds League Military and volunteers from the Lyran Confederation.  Today, we no longer recognize those differences.  Today we all are brothers in arms.”

P.S:
Small nitpick: I take it you meant the Lyran Commonwealth in the above excerpt of your post...

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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #298 on: May 15, 2009, 01:28:12 PM »
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Poor, poor, stupid Robert. Always thinking that he's the cleverest one around, and always making a fool out of himself in the end.  Tongue
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Re: Blood and Steel
« Reply #299 on: May 15, 2009, 01:30:00 PM »
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Quote from: master arminas on May 14, 2009, 05:20:06 PM
I can't ever seem to get the accents to work.  LOL

You are not the only one.

And impressive ending.
You leave us willing to know more.