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Celestial Palace
Forbidden City, Sian
Capellan Confederation
October 11, 3025

Maximillian Liao stroked his long mustache as he listened to the panicked voices of his advisors—of his younger daughter.  Even Pavel Ridzik, the Senior Colonel who commanded the Capellan Confederation Armed Forces in Maximillian’s name, even Pavel had succumbed to his fright.  The Chancellor frowned—perhaps I need to rethink certain assignments; perhaps it is time for dear Pavel to retire.  Permanently, he thought with a smile.

However, there was one present who was not chattering inanely; one who showed no signs of panic; one whose studied face was deeply in thought—and the Liao smiled.

“Silence,” he hissed.  And at his command, the chaos faded away, with all eyes upon the high Throne upon which the Liao sat.  Max stroked his mustache again and he frowned upon his court.  “So the Taurians have managed to locate and salvage a long-dead WarShip—and upon this news, my Court, my Advisors, my finest Military Professionals scamper like mice fraught with despair at the coming of a cat.”

No one spoke, but several looked down, ashamed.  That number did not include his daughter Romano, whose fear disappeared, replaced by anger.  Good.  “You should all be shamed by this—we are LIAO.  And if the Taurians now have a WarShip, it matters but little.  Candace, your thoughts?” he asked, and he smiled as Romano jerked in fury.

“Celestial Wisdom, the report from our merchant vessel indicates that this ship is at least partially active.  It jumped into the Taurus system and proceeded under its own power to orbit.  Now, whether the Taurians have the manpower to crew, and fight, such a leviathan—trained personnel who can learn to operate and maintain such ancient systems—that is another story.”

“Indeed.  And having consulted Our archives, this particular class of ship relies quite heavily upon munitions—munitions that are no longer produced anywhere in the Inner Sphere.  Or the Periphery States.  It is a threat, true, but not an existential threat to either the Confederation or the House of Liao.”

Max leaned back against his throne and he closed his eyes.  “The additional information from our agent, that this ship carried with it a complete Data Core,” and Maximillian smiled, “ah, but that is the more important of the two.”

“A Taurian Core,” muttered one of the Advisors.  “Periphery trash, nothing more.”

“So you believe, Colonel Sedgewick?” Max asked.  “Need I remind you that during the Age of War, the Taurians were a power with which to be reckoned—it required twenty years for the full might of the Star League to defeat.  They had, at that time, a Navy second only to that of the Terran Hegemony.  Consider what might be contained within that Core—and how the Confederation can make use of it.”

“Attack Taurus?” snapped Pavel.  “Celestial Wisdom, such an undertaking . . . ,”

“Where one can not attack directly and openly, Colonel Ridzik, it may indeed be possible to attack indirectly . . . and covertly,” interrupted the Chancellor.  “Major Riese?”

The commanding officer of the Death Commandoes smiled.  “At your command, Celestial Wisdom.”

“You will coordinate with Maskirovka assets—but you shall be in command.  You will infiltrate Taurus and you will secure for Us Our property which Thomas believes is his alone.  The resources of the Confederation are yours for this—use them wisely, Major Riese.”

“Understood, Celestial Wisdom,” the officer replied with a deep bow.  “If it proves impossible to recover Your Core, Sire?”

“If I cannot have that technology, then neither shall Thomas Calderon, Major Riese.  If you cannot obtain it for me, then destroy it.”

“And their vessel?”

Maximillian smiled.  “A secondary priority—concentrate on the Core, but if the opportunity presents itself, such a technological treasure trove would be more fitting in Sian orbit than cloistered within the distant Hyades.  Understand me, Major,” the Chancellor said firmly as he cast his gaze down on the officer, “the ship is nothing more than a toy—a sideshow.  Your first priority is the Data Core—that vessel is only a consolation prize in the grand scheme.”

“Understood.  If we have the opportunity to take or destroy it, however, . . .,” Riese began and the Liao smiled grimly once more.

“Yes.  If the opportunity arises and if you have acquired or destroyed the Core, then the WarShip itself you may retrieve—or render useless.  To that end, I shall grant you one of our special weapons.  Make certain it is put to good use, Major.”

Gasps arose from the Court—even Candace was shocked by the ease at which the Chancellor had just given permission to the Death Commando to utilize a nuclear weapon.  Maximillian Liao leaned back against his throne, and closing his eyes, he smiled as he slowly stroked his long and elegant mustache.

Good stuff Master Arminas! Anxiously awaiting more.

Blacknova, sleep is highly over rated... you gets lots of sleep when you are dead.

MA!... write like the wind man... like the wind...

everyone else, quick get some chains to chain him to his computer!

The Palace of the First Prince
Avalon City, New Avalon
Federated Suns
October 12, 3025

“Christ,” whispered Hanse Davion as he stared at the image, “that is a Taurian Concordat Navy Calderon-class Battleship.”  He looked up at the two men seated before his desk and he gave them a wry grin.  “Please, tell me that this is archival footage; that this is some sick joke.”

“Unfortunately, Sire, it is neither.  A free trader who is rather . . . indebted to my agency,” Quintus Allard said with a grim chuckle, “managed to record that as he was leaving the Taurus system.  She’s real and she’s mobile—real-space, at least,” the Intelligence Minister cautioned, “but as she was on course from Gateway Point—the sole known jump-point into the interior of the Hyades, by the way—to Taurus orbit, it is a good bet she has a working K/F Core as well.”

“Never figured you for a historian, Hanse,” the third man said with a smile.  “But you recognized that ship quick enough—it took some digging before the two of us were able to identify it.”

“Ardan, that is because neither of you built the models of the Ships of the Reunification War that I did as a child.  I had them all, but I most especially loved the battleships—the Terran Hegemony Monsoon and Farragut, the Federated Suns Golden Lion, the Marik Atreus, the Kurita Mikasa, and the Taurian Concordat Samantha Calderon.  Truth be told, as much as my inner Davion denies it, the Taurians made a damn fine ship in those old battle-wagons—more aesthetically pleasing as well.”

The Prince’s Champion—Ardan Sortek—laughed, and even Quintus broached a smile, but then First Prince leaned back in his chair and he rocked as the smile on his face faded into a frown.

“First, that free trader is no longer indebted—his remaining sins are now forgiven, Quintus,” Hanse said bluntly, and Quintus nodded, making a note on his pad.  “Second, where the hell did they find that?  The histories that I read,” Hanse pointed out, “said that the Taurians scuttled every surviving Calderon at the end of the War—specifically to keep them out of the hands of my fore-fathers and the Star League.”

Quintus sighed.  “There have been rumors for four hundred years that the Taurians faked that scuttling, Sire.  An entire mythos has arisen about a hidden pirate point deep within the Nebula where the Last Taurian Fleet sleeps, waiting for a just ruler to find them.  No one has ever found anything, though, so pretty much we dismissed those rumors as wishful thinking.  Now?”  Quintus shrugged.  “The rumors may have been right—even if exaggerated.”

“I hope that they were exaggerated,” whispered Ardan.  “Because according to the story I read this morning, there are supposed to be four of those battleships in that cache, along with a baker's dozen of lighter vessels.”

Hanse held up one hand.  “We’ll panic if another ship suddenly arrives over Taurus—I presume that you have already arranged for near constant surveillance of Gateway?”

Quintus just smiled and Hanse nodded.  “If they salvaged her, that means they need a crew—trained JumpShip engineers and technicians, as well as specialists for weapons that no one has used in a century and a half.  She’s damaged,” Hanse pointed out as he replayed the tape again, “see those pockmarks on her port armor—that is the impact point of shells from a NAC-35,” and he smiled again, “if my memory serves me correct.  And she’s got hull burns from Naval Lasers and PPCs.  Odds are, she is going to take a lot of work to make serviceable—and I seem to recall that the Calderons are very dependent on munitions.  No one manufactures that type of munitions these days.”

“All true,” answered the Champion.  “But even so, this is a game-changer.”

“Is it?” asked Hanse.  “She is one ship, probably lacking ammo for her guns, that can be in one place at one time—and gentlemen, we all learned during the First Succession War that enough fighters armed with nuclear weapons can kill ANY unsupported WarShip.”

“She’s a morale boost, Hanse,” Ardan pressed on, shaking his head.  “With her in his possession, Thomas might just get more aggressive than he has any right to be.”

“Thomas Calderon is many things, Ardan,” answered Quintus, “but a fool is not one of them.  Hanse is right—the ship alone doesn’t change the balance of power on the Taurian Rim.  But this might.”  And with that the Intelligence Minister handed across a document folder stamped TOP SECRET—SPECIAL ACCESS.

Hanse took the folder and he began to read.  “My God,” he said a few moments later, and he looked up at Quintus.  “Is this confirmed?”

“Yes, Sire.  We have an agent on Taurus and he managed to get us this précis on what they are calling the Vickers Memory Core.”

“Who?”

Quintus winced.  “Sire, it endangers the life of these agents with every single person who is aware of their identity—even you.  One slip is all that it takes, and this man is dead.”

“Who, Quintus?”

“Three years ago, we were contacted by a middle-level TDF officer, Sire,” Quintus answered, shaking his head.  “Since then he has been a regular conduit for information on their government—not their military.  Information that has helped defuse tensions on a number of occasions.”

“Who, Quintus?” Hanse snapped.

“The personal bodyguard and military advisor to Edward Calderon—heir of Thomas Calderon.  Subaltern Jon Kincaide.”

“Bloody hell,” muttered Ardan, and Hanse slowly nodded.

“And you think that Kincaide is a middle-man for Edward—that Thomas’ heir is actively passing us information?”

“Edward Calderon is advocating—by all accounts—for a . . . normalization of relations between Taurus and New Avalon.  He has pushed for an end on the embargo against the sale of Taurian goods to our consumers—and for a free trade agreement between the Concordat and the Suns.  Sire, we do not know for certain if Edward Calderon is funneling us information—but if he is, then . . .,” and Hanse cut off Quintus.

“Yes.  And now I see exactly how sensitive this is.  If Thomas finds out, he will disown Edward; his paranoia will amplify if such a betrayal—and that is exactly how he will see it, gentlemen, a personal betrayal—comes to light.  Damn,” Hanse whispered as he shook his head.

The antique clock on the mantle slowly ticked and tocked as the two men waited on their Prince.  Hanse stood up and he nodded.  “We need to try and get a look at that Core, gentlemen—but I am not authorizing the invasion of Taurus to do so.”

“Thank God,” whispered Ardan.

Hanse glared at his Champion for a moment and then he chuckled.  “Don’t worry—I’m not going to feed the Heavy Guards into the nuclear maw of the Taurians at Gateway.  Quintus, can you and DMI get an MI4 team on the ground?”

“Already done,” Quintus said as he laughed.  “I’ve got MI4 teams on most capital worlds, Sire.”  MI4, the Covert Operations Division of the Department of Military Intelligence, was tasked with gathering what was once called ‘hum-int’; intelligence garnered from the real live traitors that every state had waiting in the wings, Quintus thought with a smile.  You just had to find them first.

“Good.  They may need some backup though—can you sneak in a team of the Rabid Foxes?”

Quintus winced.  MI6—Special Intelligence Operations—was known as the Rabid Foxes for a reason.  An elite commando force—one on par with Kurita’s DEST or Liao’s Death Commandos—the troopers of MI6 were renowned for accomplishing their mission . . . but the body counts they often left behind were considerable.  And Quintus much preferred . . . quieter means of gathering information.

“I do not advise that, Sire,” he answered quietly.

“MI4 will need backup on this, Quintus.  This is like . . . Takashi trying to sneak someone into the NAIS and make off with our data.  The Stealthy Foxes aren’t going to be able to do it alone.”

The Intelligence Minister sighed and then he nodded.  “I can get them in—getting them out might be a problem.”

“Volunteers only, Quintus,” Hanse ordered in a very somber voice.  “And make it clear to them, they cannot be taken alive.”

Ardan winced, but he nodded, and Quintus said, very quietly, “Yes, Sire.  They will understand.”

Poor SAFE.

Cause she is a nut bag

General Headquarters, Taurus Defense Force
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 15, 3025

“What the HELL happened with our security!” Thomas bellowed at the table of high-ranking military officers and civilian members of government that he stood before.  He slammed his fist down on the polished surface.  “I was asked—ASKED—by journalists this morning about rumors floating around not only concerning the WarShip docked in orbit, but the Memory Core as well!  If our journalists know about it, you can fucking well bet your collective asses that the Inner Sphere spies know it—and their leaders will know in short order!”

Thomas’ cybernetic eye whirred and clicked as he glared at the men and women before him, but then his head jerked up as one man began to laugh.

“They know because I deliberated leaked that information, Protector Calderon,” said Henri Jouett.

The Protector’s jaw dropped, he made an inarticulate growl, and his remaining natural eye bulged outwards—and the shocked expressions on the faces of everyone—except Edward—at the table mirrored his own.

“TREASON!” shouted Grover Shraplen after he regained his tongue. 

“Hardly treason, Governor,” answered Henri as Thomas still struggled to find his composure.  “It was necessary—and as the ancient saw says, it is easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.”

Thomas sat, and he shook his head, looking down at his shaking hands—shaking with rage and fury—and then he glared at his Intelligence Minister.  “I should have you shot, Henri.”

“My Lord, the information would have eventually leaked—it was inevitable.  The discovery is far too vital to the future of the Concordat for it not to have leaked.  Not to mention that every civilian ship within a million kilometers of Taurus has now seen the Saucy Sam for themselves—and some of them have spies for other powers onboard.  Denying this information in the light of what their own eyes and sensors see gains us nothing.”

“That might explain the ship—but not the FUCKING MEMORY CORE!” Thomas bellowed.

“Pop,” Edward whispered, and Thomas turned his attention to his son.  “Listen to Henri—I knew about this.  And I knew that you would never have allowed his plan . . . which is why I told him to go ahead without your okay.”

“Y-you told h-him,” Thomas stuttered and spat, and then he forced himself to relax.  He took a deep breath.  “This had better be good.”

“Thomas,” Henri said softly, “if you really think Edward and I are traitors to the Concordat, take us outside and have us shot.  Yes, I had the information leaked and it is probably in the hands of every leader of the Inner Sphere at this moment—well, SAFE might still be arguing about whether or not Janos Marik needs to see this, but every other leader in the Inner Sphere.”

Despite themselves, several of the men and women at the table chuckled at that.  The ineptitude of the Marik intelligence organizations had become the punch-line of jokes across the Inner Sphere—although, by and large, the agency as a whole was far better than most presumed.

“I leaked the information on the Vickers Core because it distracts them from the Saucy Sam, Thomas.  And it dilutes their efforts.  Make no mistake, they all want the ship and the core—well, that or to see them destroyed so that we don’t have them.  But now, they have two targets instead of one, and whereas smuggling in one team might possibly get past our security, multiple teams?  From multiple powers?  In a set time frame?  When we are expecting them to make a play?”

Henri snorted as Thomas slowly nodded his head. 

“Thomas,” Henri said seriously he leaned forward.  “If I had not leaked the information, it would have eventually come out—and they would make a play for the Core at a time of their choosing.  Now?  It’s a race.  They not only have to get through our security, but they also have to get to it before their opponents do.”

Murmurs of understanding circled the table, and Helena Vickers raised her cup of coffee in silent salute—Henri nodded, his hand over his heart.

“By way, did I mention that my leaks—which foreign intelligence agents will note that I am desperately attempting to quash—indicate that we salvaged that ship; a ship abandoned and derelict for four hundred years?”

“Oh, you tricky bastard,” muttered Helena.  “You want them to think that Sam is just barely operational, don’t you?”

“Exactly, Admiral Vickers.  That WarShip—obviously with battle damage as anyone can see in the visual records—must be in a perilous state of disrepair after drifting for so long.  And we have no one who understands those systems, knows how to work those system, repair those systems . . . to them, it appears that she is nothing more than a hanger-queen at this time.”

“But Helena Vickers and her crew . . . ,” protested Grover before Henri cut him off.

“You will note that I have held that particular piece of information rather tightly, my Lords—it hasn’t leaked.  Not to the best of my knowledge—so far, neither foreign nor domestic source yet knows about the gallant Admiral and her crew.”

Henri smiled.  “Furthermore, the leaks from my office lead one to believe that the Vickers Core is encrypted—and that we are moving heaven and earth to try and locate the decryption codes from archives four centuries old.  Archives that the Star League gutted during their occupation.”

“But we have the decryption keys,” Shraplen asked in a bewildered voice.  “Why . . .?”

“Governor Shraplen,” Edward said slowly and gently.  “Those who want the Core will believe that we cannot yet access it.  Taurian Cores of that period were routinely booby-trapped with explosives and even nerve gas,” and Henri nodded his approval at the young man, “and will wipe all their data if someone attempts to bypass the security systems.  Oh, it can be done, given enough time—but if they want the Core before we open it, then they must make a play soon.”

“Not to mention that the leaks place the Core in a TDF secure installation outside of Samantha City—a research station that is but lightly guarded,” Henri added.  “And we do have a duplicate Core module there . . . an empty one.  Well,” he laughed, “one filled with rather useless information that is quite thoroughly encrypted.”

“Where then is the real Vickers Core, Henri?” Thomas asked.

“Remember that loon who wanted to build an entire city under a mountain—named the bloody place Erebor after that old film?” Henri said with a smile.

Thomas winced.  “Ralston bankrupted his family for that project—you didn’t,” he said with a slowly expanding smile on his face.

“Oh, but we did.  He had dug out dozens of levels all buried under hundreds of meters of granite, Tom.  We’ve decided to build SCARS—and a city to support it—inside Erebor.  One way in, one way out—and it will be heavily defended.”  Henri snorted again.  "That bloody mountain will laugh at even nukes."

“So, the Inner Sphere will vie for a Core that is a fake—and they will assume that Samantha Calderon is crewed by trainees who haven’t a clue about what they are doing . . . with many of her systems possibly off-line.”

“Yes, my Lord.  And as we all know, assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups,” Henri added.

“If your plan works.”

“My plan depends only on human nature, Thomas.  And which is more believable—that we salvaged that ship or that it jumped across Time to arrive with a fully trained crew and an unlocked Memory Core?”  Henri smiled again.  “No, they will use Occam’s Razor to arrive at exactly the wrong conclusion; and gentlemen, ladies, when their teams make a play for the Core . . . well, they can report home that it was destroyed.  Their survivors can report, at least; the handful that we permit to escape off-world.”

Thomas nodded, and then he smiled.  But then the smile vanished.  “Next time, Henri, I want to be informed ahead of time—understood?”

Henri’s lips twitched at the phrase next time.  But he merely said, “Yes, my Protector.”

“Until then, what do you need to arm the jaws of your trap—and how are we going to play this with the media?  I need to answer them before the end of this day on this subject.”

And with that, Thomas and his government rolled up their sleeves and went to work.