Triad, Tharkad
Lyran Commonwealth
20 June 3049
"Tsitsang!" Victor Steiner-Davion locked his face in a scowl that he hoped did not seem petulant. "I don't care if Kanrei Theodore Kurita stations his eldest son on Atreus to drool over Isis Marik. I don't see why his posting means I get posted to a backwater." The amusement in the eyes of his companions did nothing to relieve his anger. "I want to be on the Combine border, or if it has to be the Sarna March - and yes, I see the logic of stationing me there - then against the Capellan border. I want to be stationed where I can see some action!"
He received a raised eyebrow from his cousin Morgan: "You'll see plenty of action if Thomas Marik gets twitchy, Victor."
"Sure, and how likely is that. There hasn't been a hint of trouble along our whole border with him for more than a year. We've had more raids from Rasalhague than we have from the League." Victor pointed to a map of the Successor States tacked up on the wall of his room, stabbing his finger at the line seperating the Isle of Skye from the Combine's Dieron District. "This is where you need me. We all know that when - when, not if - trouble erupts between the Combine and our forces, it will be here. Gunter Hillam has his old Twentieth Arcturan Guards on Aubisson and I saw the reports that Kai is being assigned to the Third Royal Guards on Port Moseby. Why am I being left out?"
Hanse Davion shook his head, evidently amused. "Victor, if I could station you on Atreus to 'drool over Isis Marik', I'd do it and expect you to take notes from Kai on how to do so in the most charming manner possible."
Victor gave his father a withering stare and then turned towards Morgan. "I don't expect an old fossil to understand, Morgan," he pleaded. "But surely you can remember what it's like to be ready to take what you've learned and turn it into action. I trained to be a Mechwarrior, I want to go where that's what I can do."
The Prime Marshal nodded, hands clasped behind his back. "I do remember what it's like to be young and eager, Victor. I also remember being held back until the time was right."
That elicited a wince from Victor, who had forgotten how long Morgan had had to wait on the sidelines before being sent to Kathil to raise his famous regiment. "Why is it so important for me to be stationed on Tsitsang? And why the Fifth Fed-Com? No offense to their courage, but they've not made the best impression over the last few years. Don't tell me it's because Hohiro Kurita got sent off the Legion of Vega, that would be taking parity too far."
Hanse Davion's eyes narrowed. "I believe you are well aware, my son, that we haven't had a serious conflict with the Free Worlds League in your lifetime. It's a situation that I'd like to continue but there is an obvious problem: to Thomas Marik and everyone else on that side of the border it seems obvious that as soon as we've destroyed the Draconis Combine we will look to conquer them."
"I'm sure that most of our own citizens expect the same thing, but I doubt that most of them realise how uncertain the outcome of another war would be. Twenty years ago the Draconis Combine was a predictable opponent, but Theodore Kurita has succeeded in rebuilding them from the Fourth Succession War to a level of effectiveness that's far beyond our expectations. We could probably still win, but we'd pay an unconcionable price."
"When Theodore promoted his son Chu-sa and transferred him to the Fourteenth Legion of Vega on Turtle Bay, six months ago, I felt he was sending me a signal. At first, we feared that a build up in the area would oblige us to reinforce the Rasalhague border, and that would be politically bothersome."
Victor recognised the distaste on his father's face and understood immediately. His mother's second cousin Ryan Steiner was married to Morasha Kelswa, the heiress to the duchy of Tamar. The Kelswas seriously resented the worlds ceded to join the Free Rasalhague Republic a decade ago and with Ryan's prompting would no doubt respond to any reinforcement of the Tamar Pact's borders with pressure to reclaim those worlds by force. "I don't recall Justin's reports suggesting that there was any sort of build up there?"
"As nearly as we can determine, there hasn't been one," Morgan answered. "Shipments are sufficent that the garrison can replace losses, but no more than would be expected given occasional action against pirates and the like."
"Both you and Hohiro Kurita are very good at what you do. His scores from Sun Zhang were leaked to us as a courtesy and they were excellent. We have given Theodore a similar look at your results so no doubt he can see as plainly as we can that in any war you and Hohiro will be in the thick of the action. If he'd placed Hohiro on the border, we'd know that he was expecting a showdown with me. By placing him away from our borders..."
"He's not looking for trouble," Victor concluded. "And my being in the Isle of Skye - or any of our shared border - would be telling him that we are." His blue eyes narrowed, unconciously adopting Hanse's own expression when concentrating. "Are we?"
"As I get older, I've been leaning more towards Katrina's way of thinking," his father answered. "There are causes I am willing to go to war with, but as things stand breaking the back of the Combine is not one of them. After I learned how far Theodore had taken the DCMS in so short a time, I knew I'd met my match. I decided to leave wars to you and Morgan from now on. When you take the throne Victor, you can decide when, where and even if to strike. I've no doubt I'll be proud of you whatever happens."
"In the meantime, posting you to Tsitsang does three things: it reassures Theodore that I'm not planning an attack on him and it gives Thomas Marik a chance to see you that having you on his border doesn't have to be threatening."
Victor straightened his epaulettes. "And the third thing?"
Hanse's eyes twinkled. "You said it yourself, Victor. The Fifth Federated Commonwealth is not our best Regimental Combat Team. Morgan and I know you won't settle for that, so we can trust you to whip them into shape."
Outreach, Sarna March
Lyran Commonwealth
18 November 3049
"It's them," Cranston Snord declared with quiet confidence.
Although Snord was well known to the men and women in the chamber, their eyes went to Pieter Shadd for confirmation. Snord might have been one of the founders but he hadn't been 'there'. Not on New Delos, not on Misery and not on Crossing. Even twenty years later, the leadership of the Wolf Dragoons was dominated by those who had experienced at least some of those, a select band even within the tight-knit ranks of the Dragoons.
Shadd nodded slowly. "I believe it," he agreed. "WolfNet's contacts in the region confirm that the Oberon Confederation and all the other bands of pirates around it are as quiet as the grave. Too quiet. But even with out that..." He turned to Snord. "Show them."
The older mercenary produced a data disc, handing it over without protest. "This is a reconstruction from the last signals received by the Kell Hounds jumpship Cucamulus from a company they'd despatched to The Rock, as a punitive action paid for by House Kelswa. According to Phelan Kell, who many of you have met, they were being over-run by this:"
Under Shadd's instruction, the holographic projector built into the floor of the room projected an image of a 'Mech that combined aspects of the well known Catapult and Marauder. Both 'Mechs had bird-like legs, but this one boasted both the boxy missile launchers at the shoulder of a Catapult and the Marauder's blocky weapon pods in place of hands.
"Timber Wolf," Natasha Kerensky confirmed. "There's no mistaking it." The leader of the Black Widow Battalion leant forwards. "Are those markings accurate?"
Snord nodded. "So far as I can tell, yes. The Red Keshik, which means that at the very least the rest of Delta Galaxy is somewhere in the region."
"It might not mean an invasion. From The Rock they could easily be hitting the Inner Sphere by now but word of that would have reached us," suggested J Elliott Jamison. "No doubt Kerlin Ward's compromise must have been overturned, but there are other possibilities."
"Of course there are." Natasha snorted disdainfully. "Maybe they're here to protect the Inner Sphere from an invasion of sentient birds from a thousand light years away. That's nonsense and we both know it, Elliott. The only reason that this would be the only report is that they're actually making a hamhanded attempt to conceal their presence, which has to mean that they're hostile."
"Even if they weren't, they'll be treated as hostile." Cranston Snord had taken out his old pipe, although in deference to his daughter's frequent reminders that his health wasn't what it had once been he didn't light it. "Morgan Kell's passing this around and offering a bounty on whoever finds them. Quite an impressive one, I gave serious thought to giving him directions but I guess I like him too much to send the Kell Hounds to their deaths like that."
Jaime Wolf nodded his head. "Good. At least hearing about that will get the attention of anyone along the rimwards periphery." He ran both hands through hair that had gone from grey-streaked black to black-streaked grey over the last two decades. "I was beginning to think they'd not come in my lifetime. Obviously I was too optimistic."
There was a long moment as the Colonel contemplated the coming storm. They weren't ready. Not the Dragoons and certainly not the Inner Sphere.
It was a damning admission to make, even to himself. It had taken more than ten years to rebuild from the devestating losses that the Wolf Dragoons had taken during the Fourth Succession War and even after that, they'd been more focused on revenge against the Dragon than in preparing the Inner Sphere to defend itself against the Crusaders. Certainly matters were better than they had been back then... but the gulf still yawned wide.
Twenty years preparing for a war that didn't happen, instead of the one that your mission was all about. Good job, Jaime. The voice in his mind sounded very much like his brother Joshua's. Maybe it's time to retire.
No. He rejected the idea automatically. It would be cowardice now. This was his mission, his responsibility.
"Recall all our regiments," he ordered. "Use whatever cancellation clause you need to. And get couriers read to take messages to the Elders on Northwind and to General Winston on Saiph. We're going to need all the support we can get."
"Natasha." Jaime turned to his oldest remaining friend. "Get your Black Widows together. I'm sending you out there."
She frowned. "Not that I'd object to kicking some ass, Jaime, but one Cluster probably won't be enough."
"I'm not sending you to fight, I'm sending you to talk to them."
"Whoa, you're sending me to talk sense into them? Have you lost your mind?" demanded Natasha. From the expressions on faces around the room, the same thought had crossed their minds.
"You're the only one of us left that has a Bloodname," Jaime pointed out. "That means that you're the only one who they have to at least pretend to listen to... and believe me I'm fully aware of just how desperate I have to be in order to rely on you for a diplomatic solution..."
Tsitsang, Sarna March
Lyran Commonwealth
21 November 3049
Hauptmann Harold Anderson was engaged in his guilty pleasure, Misha Auburn's biography of Katrina Steiner, taking advantage of the fact he was the only occupant of the apartment in the Fifth FedCom cantonment's visiting officer quarters. A ruptured hydrogen seal had left the Thirty-Sixth Lyran Guards marooned in the system for three weeks so rather than remain drifting at the jump point, they had burned in-system.
The Fifth FedCom had extended every hospitality, starting the weekend of leave granted to all the personnel with a reception for the visiting officers. The party hadn't only been a chance for the two units to get to know each other before engaging in a training exercise over the rest of the week, it was also an opportunity for the Lyran Guards to meet the future Archon. Victor Steiner-Davion had recently completed the mandatory six months as a Subaltern that qualified him for promotion to Leutenant and to take command of a lance in the Fifth Fed-Com.
He'd briefly been formed a third circle of attention, in addition to those around General White and Colonel Leyland (as commanders of the RCT and its 'Mech regiment) before being called away by the Officer of the Day. Anderson suspected that it had been a welcome escape from those among the 'Air Surfers' officers who were a little too close to the stereotype of the social general.
The door opened and Anderson quickly moved the book out of sight. In theory the other officers lodging here were supposed to be reporting in by now but knowing them as he did, he'd not have been surprised if they went straight from that to the on-base bar. Jared Grey, Helen Johannes and Milan Gverro were at least as interested in partying as they were in piloting their 'Mechs on the battlefield, which had made their absence for the reception provided by Fifth Federated Commonwealth RCT notable.
Anderson's eyebrows rose as he saw that all three of his peers were trying very hard to ignore the fact that the seats of their white uniform trousers were liberally stained yellow, as were the backs of their thighs. "What the devil happened to the three of you?"
His reply was three embarrassed looks. "I'd rather not talk about it," Grey said, making for the washroom. "In fact, I'd rather that this weekend didn't happen at all."
Yellow paint. Three of the 'Air Surfers' most diligent troublemakers. Proximity to the Fifth Fed-Com. Anderson groaned and slumped back into his chair. "The three of you wouldn't happen to be the reason that his highness was called out of the reception on Saturday?"
Gverro spread his hands helpless. "We didn't know it was his company!"
"...proving once again that military intelligence is an oxymoron."
The Fifth Federated Commonwealth RCT had not met the same level of excellence which had won their Corps respect as one of the cornerstones of the FCAF. Over their decade of existence, they'd instead amassed a history of accidents, mistakes and unsuccessful operations on and across the border with the Free Worlds League. While no one admitted to starting the tradition, the three Lyran Guards would not be the first to breach Fifth Fed-Com's cantonment to 'count coup' by painting a yellow streak upon the regiment's equipment, symbolic of the contempt in which they were held by their peers.
But they were the first to have been caught in the act.
"How bad was it?" he asked. "You're not in chains so I'm guessing there's no court martial pending?"
Gverro's reply was a shake of his head. "I suppose you'd call it administrative punishment. The Prince decided that we were 'volunteering' to repaint the various road markings around the cantonment." He was about to drop into one of the room's armchairs but Anderson glared at him. "Oh, the paint?"
"Let's not add to your problems by vandalising the room."
The Leutenant peeled off his pants and then sat down, wearing his uniform tunic and his undershorts. "We've been up for going on forty hours painting, with Fifth FedCom NCOs watching us the whole time. And then -"
"The little son of a bitch kept us at it until we could barely get back here before our leave was up," Johannes said bitterly.
"Careful, Helen, that's the Archon you're referrring to."
"Oh it gets worse," Gverro told him. "He then had us change into our uniforms since we wouldn't have time when we got back here, and while we were doing that he took what was left of our paint and spread it liberally on seats of the car."
Anderson tilted his head in thought. "Rental?"
"Uh huh. Some how I don't think I'm getting my deposit back."
The older officer rose from his chair. "Well, I think the message had been received."
"Message?"
"That people who..." Anderson considered how to phrase it. "Who try to piss all over Little Victor's troops will be shat upon. I really, really don't think plotting revenge on him for this would be advisable, kids. Remember, he's going to be signing your paychecks in a few years."
Clan Wolf Warship Dire Wolf
Near Periphery
30 December 3049
Ulric Kerensky, senior Khan of Clan Wolf, watched quietly as two young warriors took it in turns to put questions to the captive strapped to a medical table. It wasn't intentional, he was sure, but Carey and Vlad made a fairly effective team: the first providing a more sympathetic note than Vlad's savage demands. Intent on their mission - extracting data on the state of the Successor State armies - neither appeared to have noticed the ghost-quiet presence of their leader at the back of the chamber.
"I don't know," the mercenary admitted in answer to Carey's latest question, raw emotion - manufactured by the chemicals being pumped into his bloodstream - breaking through his reserve. Sorrow at not being able to answer... but mixed with shame at answering at all. The youngster, too young by Clan standards to have left his sibko, was a fighter. A warrior. Ulric had to admit that he liked the boy. He reminded him of sibkin from his youth, most of whom were dead now.
Carey leant forwards, voice soothing. "But you must have an estimate. It must have been discussed during your schooling."
That schooling made this Phelan 'Kell' valuable. Unlike the bandits captured in the swathe of worlds that Clan Wolf's advance forces had swept through, he was from deep in the Inner Sphere and had been educated at one of their premier training facilities, groomed for a future command role. Like no one else that they had, he was a window into what the Clans were on a collision course with.
Phelan's response to the question was a spasm that spoke eloquently how far his self-discipline had been broken down. It was almost animalistic. "No, no schooling," he whined, before barely bringing his voice back under control. "I don't like the Academy."
If the Wolves were to survive, to prosper, then every iota of intelligence must be obtained. If that meant breaking one spheroid captive... well, Ulric was aware that many would not even consider that to be a price much less be concerned whether it was worth paying.
"Never mind the Academy. You do have an idea of the Combine's strength?" Carey moved closer as he saw Phelan nod. "Yes, I thought you would. Just between the two of us, what do you think it is?"
A shrewd move, Ulric judged. Carey was making Phelan's mischeivous streak, which drove Vlad to distraction, work for them.
Phelan's voice was a whisper, perhaps in response to the suggestion that his answer would be confidential. "Officially they have more than ninety 'Mech regiments but when Teddy Kurita rebuilt the DCMS after the Fourth Succession War he formed several secret regiments. The smart money is that it's more than a hundred now. My father said that with the Genyosha and Ryuken training programs, the Combine's troops have become better."
Carey nodded his understanding, although he was out of the captive's line of sight. "If the Combine's troops are so good, why have they not retaken Rasalhague?"
"When they went independent, Theodore Kurita fought for the Republic against his own renegade troops. Don't know why. Now he daren't move regiments off his border with us."
"By us you mean the Lyran Commonwealth? What have they under arms?"
The younger man squirmed. "I don't know." The lie was transparent.
One of the technicans monitoring Phelan's lifesigns looked up. "Spikes right to the top of the scale, sir. He is blocking."
"What does his SPL blood level look like?" asked Carey.
"In the seventy-fifth percentile."
The young aerowarrior nodded his head in decision. "Go to the eightieth but give me a clock so I only keep him there for fifteen minutes." Then his voice softened again, artfully losing the tones of command. "Phelan, we are all friends here. You can trust me. How many BattleMech regiments does the Lyran Commonwealth maintain?"
There was no reply. Phelan jerked and spasmed on the table, eyes blank and focused on something far beyond the lights in the ceiling.
"Back SPL off," Carey ordered urgently, realising his mistake. "Seventh-seventh percentile. He has no resistance, no chemoimmunity. He has a strong will, nothing more."
An impressively strong one, at that. The Khan had to admit it would be interesting if something could be made of that. There were many wilful warriors on the Clan Council, but this degree of stubbornness could be very useful.
Vlad snapped his fingers, drawing Phelan's rebuilding concentration upon him. "Tell me, Phelan, what happened to you at the Nagelring."
"No!"
"Freebirth!" There were clicks from the equipment. "I am getting full cycles off the scale, not just spikes. He reacts as strongly to that question as someone does when forced out of their sibko."
"The Federated Suns has troops," Carey probed, shifting his angle of attack. "How many regiments of BattleMechs do they have?"
Phelan's lips remained defiantly closed.
"If you cannot tell me about the Federated Suns, then we will have to know Nagelring."
Carey's words hit home and Ulric saw something break in the prisoner, who subconciously tried to move his face away from Vlad but could not due to the bindings. "The AFFS has sixty-one regiments."
"He is still resisting," warned the technican.
"Sixty-one regiments and...?" Carey asked, voice heavy with false sympathy.
Tears sprang into being in the corners' of Phelan's eyes. "The Davions and the Steiners have built up a shared military of seventy-nine regiments and RCTs, the Federated Commonwealth Armed Forces, that either can call on for reinforcements."
Vlad chuckled triumphantly. "Very good Phelan. Now we shall start again, from the beginning, and make sure everything tallies. How many regiments does the Lyran Commonwealth have?"
Still unobserved, Ulric felt unclean at the despair of Phelan's face. However the boy found enough reason to identify the trap. "I didn't tell you that!"
"Take him up to eighty and back down again immediately."
Phelan's scream was ugly and ended in torn sobs. "Seventy... seventy-seven. Forty of them are March Militias, they can't be relied on outside their home regions..."
Zenith Jump Point, Styk
Sarna March, Lyran Commonwealth
2 January 3050
Donna Jean Connor's first impression of Joshua Siomon Marik was that he seemed too small to be four years old. The little boy was clinging to his mother's hand as Lady Sophina Desiree Marik walked from the Marik shuttle to that bearing the seal of the Federated Commonwealth.
Soldiers of the First Free Worlds Legion came to attention as the Captain-General's wife and son walked past them on the crimson carpet laid out by the crew of the ComStar dropship that was acting as an intermediary for this transfer. Outside the little world confined by the two ranks of soldiers, cargo handlers were pulling crates from the cargo bay of the shuttle so that the personal effects of the two Mariks could join them on the other shuttle.
As the pair reached the end of the line of FWLM soldiers they were only halfway between the two shuttles. Victor Steiner-Davion was there, wearing the dark green and blue uniform of the FCAF. Before the fractional hesitation of Sophina at this step could ruin the moment (being immortalised on camera), the prince bowed and kissed the back of her hand before solemnly offering his hand to Joshua. The little boy, clearly more wearied than he should have been by the journey, accepted the hand - not to shake but instead holding onto it just as he was his mother.
DJ could easily imagine the perplexity on Victor's face for the moment before he decided to alter slightly the carefully planned choreography of the arrival. And so, the heir to the Free Worlds League walked into the Federated Commonwealth with one hand gripping that of the heir for the Federated Commonwealth, soldiers drawn from all of the Fifth Federated Commonwealth RCT's infantry regiments saluting as the trio walked past them.
The Leutenant - she had been a year ahead of Victor at the Nagelring and held corresponding military seniority over the Prince, thus making her nominal head of the honour guard - drew herself up as they arrived. "Lady Marik, Lord Marik, I am Leutenant Connor. On behalf of my Archon and my Prince, welcome to the Federated Commonwealth."
Sophina looked wan and tired. "Thank you Leutenant."
"Leutenant Steiner-Davion will be your escort until we reach the liner, if that is acceptable." The liner, an elderly Monarch-class ship that usually carried courtiers along the command circuit between New Avalon and Tharkad, was waiting only a few hundred kilometers away from the ComStar ship, discreetly out of weapons range of the similar Free Worlds dropship that had brought the two Mariks here.
"Thank you, leutenant," repeated Sophina, before unbending enough to add half-apologetically to Victor. "I'm afraid that Joshua and I may be very boring company for you, your highness. It's almost time for his afternoon nap and I may rest my eyes as well."
"Whatever your pleasure," Victor assured her. "Mother is looking forward to seeing you both, although I imagine you'll be spending most of your time at NAIS rather than the capital."
She nodded silently. Their trip to New Avalon wasn't a matter of state, in theory. Hanse Davion had extended the offer of NAIS' medical expertise in treatment of Joshua's leukaemia and while politics would no doubt intrude at some later date, right now Sophina was far more the worried mother than she was the serene consort of the Captain-General.
Victor glanced at the steps up to the shuttle and then down at Joshua. "Would you like a piggyback up the stairs?" he asked the boy, who glanced up at him cautiously and then to his mother who nodded.
DJ couldn't help but smile and stepped forward to help as Victor crouched for Joshua to climb up. The frail boy stared curiously over Victor's shoulder as they entered the shuttle; Sophina close behind them eyes fixed upon her son. It was a breach of protocol of course, but if it was an omen of future relations between House Marik and House Steiner-Davion, then perhaps it was a good one.
