OBT Forum

Damn, I hate it when I get a message that there is activity on a thread I'm watching, and it turns out to be nothing from the story. 

As for any further material coming from MA on this story, wait and see is my best guess.  Sometimes his muse takes a while to get him back to a storyline.

Which new AU?

I can't keep up

Chapter Three

ComStar Executive Medical Facility
Hilton Head Island, North America
Terra
November 24, 3025

Julian Tiepolo woke with a sudden gasp—he attempted to sit up, but a sudden weakness caused him to collapse back upon the bed.  He tried to speak, but his throat was extremely dry and only a hacking cough emerged.

“The sleeper wakes,” a quiet voice said as the lights slowly increased the room’s illumination.  “Here—sip this,” and the face of a dark-haired, rough-hewn physician came into Julian’s vision holding a cup with a straw sticking out of the lid.

Julian tried to sip, but his throat was too dry, too constricted, and the man sighed.  He raised the cup at an angle and slowly water trickled down the straw and Julian gratefully swallowed.

“Enough, Primus?” the man asked as he took away the cup—and Julian nodded.

“Do not try to speak yet,” the doctor ordered as he checked his patients vital signs and returned the cup to a tray.  “I called for those in charge of this mad-house when you began to emerge from your coma.”

“C-c-oma?” Julian asked in a weak voice, and he began to cough.

“It was necessary to allow your heart and brain to recover—you suffered a near-fatal combination of cardiac arrest and a mid-grade stroke.”  The doctor snorted in amusement.  “Perhaps it should have been fatal; but the equipment you people have here is astonishing.”

The Primus blinked.  And then he realized he didn’t recognize this physician—and he knew personally all of ComStar’s senior medical personnel on Terra.  He began to open his mouth, but the door swung open and a smiling man with hair the color of sand entered the room.  He was tall, lean, and he wore the pure white robes only allowed to the holder of the title Primus.

“Ves-Ves-Vesar?” Julian stammered.

“Ah, you do remember after all,” Vesar Kristofur said with a bow.  “How are you feeling?” he asked with a slightly sardonic smile on his face.  “No chest pains?  No numbness in the hands?”

“Where is Nicolas?” Julian whispered.

“Dead—my successor as Precentor ROM is dead, Julian,” Vesar said bluntly and Julian looked up in alarm.  “So is Myndo Waterly—the two idiots nearly destroyed Hilton Head in the war they fought against each other; the rest of the First Circuit were simply . . . collateral damage.”

Julian blinked.  “How long was . . .,”

“Were you sleeping?  The doctors have kept you in a medically induced coma for the past month, Primus.  To ensure your eventual recovery.”

“A MONTH?” Julian hissed in alarm.

“Yes—well, twenty-seven days to be exact since your heart attack and stroke.”

“Wh-who’s in charge?”

“Well, since you asked,” Vesar chuckled as he pointed a thumb at his own chest and the robes he wore.

“I exiled you, Vesar.”

“Yes.  Yes you did, Julian,” he said as he shook his head.  “But given the recent . . . events in the Concordat, certain members of the First Circuit . . . suggested that I return.  I was already en route when you suffered your attack and ComStar nearly suffered a schism which we could ill afford.”

Julian blanched.  “You do not have the support,” he whispered.

“I did not—not when you controlled the First Circuit so tightly, old friend,” Vesar smiled again.  “But Nicholas and Myndo managed to eliminate them with quite the bang—and you weren’t here.  No one was here to stop me from putting an end to the violence.  For reminding our people of what ComStar has as its mission—to unite Mankind once more under our rule.  Rule from Terra, Julian.”

“I’ll fight you—you know that.”

“I do.  But it is a small matter, Julian.  You have been complacent and failed—I shall not.  This matter with the Taurians has gotten too far out of hand when it should have been handled far more directly far sooner,” and he grinned.

 â€œYou threaten all that ComStar stands for,” Julian pleaded.

“Old man, you are the threat.  You have allowed these periphery barbarians under Thomas Calderon to seize control of the HPGs; you are an embarrassment.  An asteroid?  Playing puppet-master with Liao and Hasek?  Sending the Fleet—what little there is—to Taurus?  An outline of a plan to kidnap Edward Calderon and replace him with a dupe . . . or brainwash him into your puppet?  You would take us from the shadows when we are not ready, Julian.  I will not allow it to happen—the Taurians will pay; all who oppose ComStar WILL pay.”

“Enlighten me,” Julian said in a bitter voice.

“Have you forgotten your history?  The Core means nothing without scientists and engineers to decipher it—the ship means nothing without a trained crew.  Holy Shroud III will take care of those individuals . . . even if it requires years.”

Julian winced.  “We haven’t enough agents in place,” he protested.

“Soon enough we shall.  I have issued orders already—and ROM is moving.  Soon enough the assets will be in place and we will strike at the heart of the matter.  Burn the books, burn the teachers; and the Bulls will gain nothing but misery from their possession of this Core.  As for Thomas,” Vesar shrugged.  “He will pay as well.  The ruler must bear the price of his people’s sins . . . Thomas and his heirs will die.”

“We have never acted so boldly, Vesar—you are risking it all.”

“I am saving humanity, Julian,” the new Primus of ComStar said simply.  “If Thomas needs to die for that to happen, so be it.”

“He’s not the threat—this alliance between Hanse Davion and Katrina Steiner should be your concern.”

Vesar snorted.  “An Alliance that requires just one additional thing, Julian.  One little act where two people—a man and woman—exchange their vows.  Stop that simple ceremony and the alliance will never be born.”

“You are mad,” Julian whispered from the bed.  “We have never struck directly at the leaders of the Great Houses—they will destroy you.  And ComStar.”

“Only if they know who is responsible; it matters not the least that you object . . . the orders to terminate Melissa Steiner are already dispatched.  With her death, this Federated Commonwealth nonsense will be stillborn—and we can devote our attention to the true threat that is coming.”

Vesar stood as a doctor entered the room, and he sighed.  “I fear that it is past time for your reign to end, Julian.  The good surgeon here—one of my people, mind you—has the final dose of your medications.  I’d wish you a peaceful rest in Blake’s arms . . . but I don’t believe in that nonsense anymore than you do.  Goodbye.”  Vesar turned and he exited the room as the physician approached with a syringe in his hand.

Julian began to struggle—but he was weak and exhausted; he began to whimper as the doctor inserted the needle into the intravenous drip connected to his veins, and he began to cry as the cold liquid entered his blood-stream.  All around him faded to black and his limbs felt as heavy as lead; within minutes Julian Tiepolo no longer saw or whimpered any longer as his eyes closed for the last time.


First Circuit of ComStar
Hilton Head Island, North America
Terra
November 25, 3025

Vesar Kristofur waited until the last of the sixteen members of First Circuit had entered the chamber and then he nodded at the guards.  In response, they bowed low and sealed the doors—completing the enclosure of the Faraday cage built into the walls, isolating the First Circuit from all eavesdropping.

All sixteen were new to their posts; their predecessors having died during the October Coup . . . or the month that had passed since.  Yet, new to their posts they may have been, some still had questions for their so-recently ascended Primus.  Questions . . . and concerns about the orders which he had issued.

Vesar smiled and he nodded.  So be it, he thought.  I do not want sycophants advising me or serving me—that path leads to me like Julian Tiepolo and Myndo Waterly.  And he nodded to himself.  Give me men and women strong enough to question me—to make me consider my actions.  A Council worthy of serving me—serving Terra.

“Precentors, the Chamber is sealed,” he began.  “Ask of me your questions—and I shall answer them plainly.”

“This plan, this order, that you have sent out,” snarled Vincent Palmer, Precentor Oriente, “Holy Shroud II failed to accomplish its goals—yet you seek to start this Operation a third time?”

“Our goals are not as ambitious—Holy Shroud I and II both sought to destroy the research accomplished by scientists of the Inner Sphere, and the scientists as well, throughout the entirety of the Inner Sphere.  Destroying information on two thousand separate worlds is an ambitious goal, one that we are not attempting to duplicate.  Holy Shroud III will be concerned solely with the Taurian Concordat,” Vesar said with a grim smile.  “I do believe that ROM and our special operations units augmenting them will be able to deal with scientists and researchers and educators on a mere thirty-eight worlds.  We need not destroy the Taurian Core, ladies and gentlemen; if we kill those who can unlock its secrets than it poses to us no threat.”

“The Taurians have already shown that they are not willing to be pushed—look at the blow they dealt to McCarron’s Armored Cavalry!” interjected Tabitha Shaw, Precentor Sian.

“Ah, Tabitha,” Vesar laughed.  “But here there is no invasion of the Concordat.  No hated foe which to focus the Taurian people against . . . it is a war of knives in the shadows.  A war that we excel at . . . and the Taurians will not realize we are coming until it is too late.  Their domestic intelligence services are good, I will grant—but they are not in the same league as ROM.  Do you disagree?”

“No, Primus,” Precentor Sian answered.  “I would caution, however, that Thomas Calderon is not one to underestimate; others—in this very chamber—have already done so to their great regret.”

“You need fear nothing upon that score, Tabitha,” Vesar nodded his agreement.  “He may be a barbarian from the Periphery—but he is a crafty and cunning barbarian.  Rest assured that soon enough, Thomas will be of no concern to us; nor his family.”  The Primus smiled.  “In fact, with the demise of the Calderons, I would expect that internal turmoil will occupy the Concordat for years to come.”

“There are a great many Calderons, Primus,” warned Neil Kikwete, Precentor Altair.  “Destroying them all is rather . . . ambitious.”

“Forgive me, Precentor Altair,” Vesar laughed.  “I should have said the ruling line of the Calderons—once Thomas, his brother and sister—and all of their children—have been eliminated, strife between the remaining Calderons will need no prodding from us to commence.  We will, of course, be targeting high-ranking Calderons in their government and military, as well as the ruling line . . . leaving only those distant relations who will squabble and,” Vesar smiled, “with no small amount of gentle prodding, instigate a Civil War in the Hyades.”

“True,” added Precentor New Avalon, Janice Kirk, “but as you have said, Primus; the Taurian domestic intelligence is rather good.  Their security for the Protector—and his family—is substantial.”

“ROM has already considered that . . . haven’t you, Charles?” Vesar answered with a nod at the very young man whom he had appointed to run ComStar’s intelligence agency.

Charles Seneca nodded and he smiled.  “We have indeed.  It helps that the Calderons do not isolate themselves or their families behind fortifications; they are seen among the denizens of their capital quite frequently . . . which gives my people a shot at accomplishing this task.”

Dennis Rainer (Precentor Tharkad) snorted.  “That’s all well and good—but I can tell you for a fact that Melissa Arthur Steiner is a far more difficult target.”

Vesar laughed.  “She is indeed—but she has a wild heart, Dennis.  I do believe that I read in the dossier that she loves to leave behind the Triad and wander in the wilds surrounding Tharkad City . . . with a very small detail trailing her.”  He shivered theatrically.  “Brings to mind several faerie tales of little princesses getting lost in the woods, all alone.  But this faerie tale will not end well for little Melissa; no, not this time.”

“It won’t be as easy as that, Primus,” Dennis said as he shook his head.

“Nothing ever is, Precentor Tharkad,” Vesar answered with a bow.  “Any further questions?  Inquiries?  Requests?”

For a moment there was silence, and then Jan Chow, Precentor Dieron looked up from his podium.  “I would know of these . . . foreign mercenaries which you brought with you to Terra.  They are not ComStar, but now?  With your assumption of power?  Now, they are here in great numbers, even more arriving with every DropShip—and their equipment!”  Chow barked in trepidation.  “These are no mere mercenaries, there are not enough mercenaries available for you to have hired them on such short notice!”

Vesar laughed.  “I was exiled to the Periphery after the Marik Civil War, Precentor Dieron.  Not to serve as an honored Precentor on Canopus or Taurus or Alphard—no,” he continued in a sour, bitter voice.  “Julian Tiepolo sent me away to die in ignominy.  But he never considered what I might discover out there in the long-lost stars of what was once the Rim Worlds Republic.”  Vesar paused and then he nodded.

“I discovered—rediscovered,” he corrected himself with a smile, “a group of eight worlds reduced to barbarism almost eight years ago,” and his smile vanished.  “Eight years.  It is hard to believe that such time has passed, for I have been busy in the Periphery.”  He paused again and nodded, then he continued.  “Kerensky and his campaign was thorough in the Rim Worlds—and the Lyrans finished that realm after the Exodus.  But the man wasn’t a god and the speed with which he had to finish the campaign and turn his attention to Stefan Amaris on Terra; well,” he grinned again.  “Let us say that he missed some choice assets that Amaris had gone to a great deal of trouble to conceal.”

“Rim-worlders?” Precentor Kirk asked in an incredulous voice.

Vesar nodded his head.  “Incredible, is it not?  Eight worlds that lost the ability to travel between the stars—whose populations reverted to barbarism and a mythology concerning Stefan the ‘Great’ and his promise to one day return to them.  The factories there were long-ruined, but for many, many years after they lost contact with the Inner Sphere and Stefan Amaris, they continued to produce and store military equipment.  The same factories that provided the Territorial States with the hidden armies they used to good effect in the Uprising.”

A shocked gasp emerged from the ranks of the Precentors and Vesar’s grin grew larger.  “They may be barbarians and unused to our amenities—quite mocking of the truth of Blake’s Word as well—but they retained their warrior culture.  And they have agreed to serve me.  Only me,” he said sternly as the smile vanished and the temperature in the First Circuit seemed to drop several degrees.

“How large a force are we speaking of?” asked Precentor Shaw.

“They have three thousand ‘Mechs in storage—ten times that number of tanks.  And in a few years time, they will have enough trained soldiers to man all of that equipment.”

“Rim Worlds equipment from before the Coup—our own ComGuard and Militia uses advanced Star League combat vehicles and ‘Mechs.  Will not this dilute our force strength?” Tabitha Shaw continued.

Vesar laughed a second time.  “Quantity has a quality all its own, Tabitha.  And twenty-seven plus regiments of ‘Mechs—ten times of armor—is a force that make even the Great Houses stand up and take notice.”

The Precentors began to exchange glances with each other, nervous and worried.  “Can you trust these neo-barbarians from the Rim, Primus?” Palmer asked.

And now the laughter of Vesar Kristofur deepened and he slapped his own knee in amusement.  “I do not trust you, Precentor Oriente—I trust no one.  Not anymore,” he said after he finished his laughter.  “The ComGuard will be expanding as well and when we recover all of their equipment, then we will dispose of the Periphery trash piloting those ‘Mechs.  And replace them with good, loyal members of ComStar.”  His grinned became infectious.  “Firm believers in the Word of Blake and the Supremacy of Terra one and all.”  He gestured at the First Circuit.  “Unless, that is, one of you have a better plan to deal with all of the many threats arrayed against this organization at this time?”

For several moments there was only silence as one by one, the Precentors exchanged glances and then slowly nodded.  Finally, Precentor Atreus spoke.  “I move that the First Circuit approve the plans suggested by the Primus—by acclamation.  I see no need to bring it to an official vote; is there a second?”

“Aye,” another Precentor whispered.

“All in favor?” Vesar said in an amiable voice—and he smiled wider as each and every member of the First Circuit spoke at the same time.  “Good.  Then let us begin.”

University of Taurus Campus Quad
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 27, 3025

“Max, don’t get too close,” the whispered voice emerged from the wireless receiver hooked over Maxwell Danforth’s right ear.

“Right, CONTROL,” the SAFE agent answered as he sat down on a bench and unfolded his copy of the Samantha City Tribune—one of eight daily newspapers that the Taurian capital boasted of.  And probably the best for hard news reporting, Max thought as he opened the old-fashioned hard-copy to a random page and pretended to read . . . while he was actually watching a group of surprisingly fit ‘students’ moving crates into the Performing Arts Center.  A structure that was located less than a hundred meters across the tree-lined boulevard from the heavily guarded Computer Sciences Center.

Max sighed and he turned the page, peering over the edge of the news sheets and he shook his head slightly.  While today was a national holiday in the Taurian Concordat—the Protector’s Birthday—the campus wasn’t as deserted as he would have thought.  No, like the rest of the population of the city, the Taurians had turned out for a PARTY.  And Max smiled.  Live bands were set up, and the students—and people of similar age and mindset!—were dancing in the streets, sampling food from a hundred different grills and chests, drinking beer and alcohol and coffee alike . . . all waiting for the sun to go down and the fireworks to begin.

The SAFE agent snorted to himself.  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the Taurians—of all of the major and minor Houses throughout the Inner Sphere and Periphery—were in love with fireworks of all kinds.  The official program listed no fewer than eighty-two different displays in the hours leading up to midnight . . . capped off by the multi-million bull display paid for the Calderon family themselves.  Never mind the fireworks purchased by individuals who were already letting off screamers and sparklers and poppers.

Max turned the page again as a woman sat down beside him and he glanced across at her and returned her smile.

“You aren’t having any fun, sweetheart,” she said with a bat of her eyes.  “Buy a girl a drink?”

“Oh, but I am having fun, my dear,” Max answered as he folded his newspaper and stood, tipping his hat to the young lady.  “Watching you and the rest is quite the experience.”

“New to Samantha City?”

“Not really—but this is the first major holiday I’ve spent here,” the field agent answered.  “Are they all so . . . raucous?”

She laughed.  “Christmas is quiet . . . usually cold and snowing too.  The Protector’s Birthday is one of the big ones, though . . . only the Fall and Exodus Celebrations are bigger and louder.  Founding Day,” January 23, Max thought, “comes close.”

Max nodded.  Only the Taurians had a national holiday celebrating the Fall of the Star League; August 12 of each year.  Then, on July 8, they had yet another holiday commemorating the Exodus of the Star League Defense Forces into the unknown.  He reached into his pocket and handed the young woman a five-note.  “While I don’t have time to buy you a drink, I’ll let you buy one for yourself,” he said with a smile.

The girl beamed at him and she stood and kissed Max on the cheek.  “You get some free time tonight, come back and dance with me!”  Then she sashayed away, and Max sighed.

“Focus, Maxwell,” said a different voice—a woman’s voice—in his earbug.

“On it, CONTROL,” he answered as folded the newspaper and looked at the very well-defined rear-end of the young lady walking away.  “I do have to stay in character though—are you getting the picture okay?”

“We’re getting the picture,” the woman snarled.  “The whole picture.”

“Okay—making my pass.  Record their faces; we can hope that we have their IDs loaded in the facial recognition program,” he ordered as he placed the newspaper under his arm, adjusted his hat and tie, and then walked down the street and right next to the van that the ‘students’ were unloading.

One of them looked up at Max as he approached, and the agent suddenly took a tumble, holding his ankle and cursing—the man shook his head and ignored Max as he picked up another box and headed inside.

“That wasn’t smart, Maxwell,” the woman hissed.

“You okay?” another student—this one actually looking like a student!—asked Max as he knelt down next to him.  “We’ve got an aid station set up right down the street if you need help.”

“Only my pride is bruised, thank you sir,” Max answered.  “If you could give me a hand?” he asked as he held out one hand—and the athletic student helped him up as Max looked at his hand-held phone . . . and the blood drained from his cheeks as the device translated the data from the sensor concealed in his right shoe heel.

“Sure you’re okay?  You look a little pale,” the good Samaritan asked in a worried tone.

“I’ll be fine, thanks—if you could help me to my car right there?”

“Sure,” the young man answered and he assisted Max to the cheap sedan commonly used by junior instructors at the University, and after reassuring the man that he was indeed fine to drive, Max shut the door and started the engine.

“Uploading the sensor runs now, CONTROL,” he announced.  “I picked up traces of Plutonium-239; they’ve either got, or have been close, to a fissile package.”

There was silence for a moment and then the earbug crackled.  “We confirm, Max.  How many?”

“At least a dozen, CONTROL—too many for us to deal with.”

“Alert Taurian security?” the woman asked as Max started the car and began to back out, then put it in drive and rolled slowly down the street—being careful to keep his eyes away from the van and those unloading it.

“We do that, we lose any chance at nabbing the Core ourselves,” he answered after a moment.  “The Bulls will move it and triple security across the board.”

“And we lose it if that bomb goes off, too.”

“You know, CONTROL, my grand-father always said that half-a-loaf is better than no loaf at all.”

“No.  No.  No, Maxwell Danforth, we are NOT going to invite MI-4 and the others to get in on our play.”

“Option 1, we do nothing and we lose the Core when the big firecracker goes off.  Option 2, we call the Taurians and lose the Core because they move it—and the big firecracker might STILL go off.  Option 3, we already know they are here—the other agencies.  We can’t take these guys alone—I’ll bet you a thousand C-Bills they are Death Commandoes or DEST, probably here on a suicide run.  But if we team up, we might still get a copy of the Core and save tens—if not hundreds—of thousands of innocent lives.  Depending on how big the firecracker really is.”

The woman groaned.  “Central Command on Atreus will go freaking ballistic—we will never get a promotion or a good field assignment again!”

“If you have another idea, I’m open to suggestions,” Max said and then he began to count.  Before he reached five, the woman sighed.

“I don’t.  And I guess that you know where they are?  The Davions and Centrellas and the Steiners and probably even the O’Reilly’s!”

“As a matter of fact, I do know a local café, CONTROL,” Max said with a smile.  “Just do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Keep that ass Krogh behind a desk in the Embassy—he’s screwed up this op more than enough already.”

“Done.  I left the Ambassador my own handcuffs.”

“The padded ones?” Max asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No, darling, I keep those for you.”

And Maxwell Danforth laughed as he cautiously drove through the celebrating streets of the Taurian capital.


Café la Fleur
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 27, 3025

Not again, Phil thought as a shadow fell across the table he was sitting at in the bustling café and he looked up at the man who was joining him.  It had been a pleasant day, warm for the late autumn, but with a nice gentle breeze blowing through the trees that lined the streets.  Streets that were filled with celebrating people and music.

“You have to acknowledge that the Taurians do know how to throw a party,” Victor Li mused as he sat down at the table and sipped at his cup of espresso.

“What do you want?” the MI-4 agent asked sourly, setting down his own cup of sweet—too sweet—iced tea.

“Some of those bar-b-que oysters on the half-shell would be nice—say, is that the famous la Fleur stuffed artichoke you have there?”

Phil frowned, and then he sighed and slid the plates across the table; Victor smiled and he lifted a piece of the artichoke stuffed with peppers and crab meat and placed it within his mouth—he smiled as he chewed with his eyes closed.

“Oh, that is good,” he said after swallowing.

“What do you want?” Phil asked again, and then he frowned as he saw the Samantha City Metro ticket that the Capellan had set on the table.  “Going somewhere?  Not staying around for the fireworks tonight?”

Victor smiled and he shrugged.  “I hear the fishing is good along the coast—they are biting tonight.”

Phil’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head.  “Your boys are making a play for the Core tonight—we both know that they are.  Why are you leaving before the job is done?”

“Not my boys—they don’t work for me,” the Capellan answered as he placed the ticket back in his jacket pocket.  “And they don’t play by the normal rules, Phil,” he warned.

The Davion agent nodded slowly.  “Didn’t think they looked like normal field agents from the Mask—Death Commandoes?”

Victor smiled, but he said nothing, and Phil nodded again.

“The Chancellors bully-boys themselves; they planning on shooting their way in and extracting the Core?”

“Phil,” Victor chuckled.  “I do like you—you are one of the better agents that Quintus has out here in the real world.  You know I cannot answer that.”

“I know that you wouldn’t be leaving on the eve of the mission getting underway . . . unless,” Phil suddenly cursed and he sucked in a deep breath of air.

“The fireworks will be rather . . . spectacular tonight, so I understand,” the Capellan said with a nod.  And then his face grew rather serious.  “If things go according to plan, I would imagine that you could see them from orbit!”

Phil looked around, but the two men were—relatively—isolated in the bustling open-air patio.  He leaned forward and whispered.  “Are they out of their fucking minds?”

Victor shrugged again.  “To those men, the mission comes first—and if the Chancellor cannot have the Core, then no one will.”

“The Bulls will go berserk, Victor,” Phil hissed quietly, and then he blanched.  “Michael.  You got Davion warheads from Michael, didn’t you?”

Victor smiled—but he didn’t answer.  He didn’t need to.

“Shit, shit, shit,” whispered Phil.  “Why tell me?”

“I respect you—you are a worthy opponent, Phil Sheridan.  You can do as I am doing—and leave Samantha City before the . . . display erupts.  Or, you can try to stop them from lighting the fuse.  Either way, I owe you for the time you saved my life on Kittery.  Consider that debt paid, whichever choice you make.”

Phil sat back and he exhaled slowly . . . and he nodded.  Field intelligence work sometimes made for strange bed-fellows, he thought.  And if Victor Li was anything, it was honorable.  Or as honorable as the job allowed for.

“You won’t be lending a hand, I presume?”

“Against loyal Capellans operating at—what has to be—the direct authority of the Chancellor?  Would you go against an operation that you knew Hanse Davion had started—even if you objected?”

“I’d like to think so,” muttered Phil, “but it would all depend on the circumstances.”

Victor bowed his head, lifting one hand to acknowledge the point. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Phil asked in a bitter voice.  “I’ve got two other field agents—both MI-4—tasked with observing this cluster-fuck, not getting in the way.  There are at least a dozen of those Commandoes—how the hell can I stop them by myself?”

“Well, you can ask for help,” chuckled a woman’s soprano voice, and Phil groaned as Victor smiled.

“Nicky Kirkland,” the Capellan said as he rose to his feet.  “It is good to see you again,” he told the MIM agent.  “And your companion?”

“Victor Li, Phil Sheridan,” she said with a smile, “may I introduce Hauptmann-Kommandant Gerhadt Manstein.”

“Retired Hauptmann-Kommandant, my dear,” the Lyran added.  “Now, I am just a Lyran businessman who seeks to return a profit to my home.”

Phil cursed again, and Victor chuckled.  “And business is good, ja?” the Capellan asked.

“Business . . . could be better,” Gerhadt answered.  “It has been difficult to break into the Taurian markets.  At least through conventional practices.”

“This just gets better and better,” muttered Phil.  “A Norn and Nicky.  This is my backup?  To stop your guys?”

“They are not my guys,” Victor repeated.  And then his smile got even larger.  “And it looks as if we have two more guests arriving.”

“Does everyone on this freaking planet know we are foreign agents?” Phil muttered.

“Only those of us who take the time and effort to observe, Mister Sheridan,” Maxwell Danforth answered as he took off his hat and bowed to the Canopian agent, “Madame, it is a pleasure,” he said as he kissed the back of her hand.

“Phil, you could learn a thing or two from this gentlemen . . . who is?” Nicky cooed as she batted her eyelids.

“Maxwell Danforth—agent of SAFE,” the Marik spy answered.

“SAFE?” four surprised voices sputtered in unison.

“SAFE,” Maxwell said with a grin, “you don’t think we are ALL as incompetent as Walter Krogh, do you?”

No one answered and Max laughed.  “And may I introduce to you Osami Koga, of the Draconis Combine Internal Security Force.”

“Who’s next—the Outworlders?”

“They are busy trying to find the Core on the Gamma continent,” Maxwell answered with a grin.  “But we—we six—have something that we must discuss.  A certain Death Commando operation that will kill many, many innocent Taurians this very night unless we manage to stop it.”

“I am here because you asked, Danforth,” replied the Kurita, “but why should I care about the lives of Taurians, innocent or otherwise?”

“Because the Commandoes will be destroying the Core that your master sent you to recover, Osami,” Max answered simply.  “The Core that we are ALL tasked with recovering.  I doubt that any of you have orders NOT to cooperate with other agents—I know I don’t.”

“That’s because it is so insane that none of our superiors would WRITE such an order!” sputtered Phil, and there were nods of agreement.

“A dozen Death Commandoes and at least one nuclear device, ladies and gentlemen,” Maxwell continued.  “Alone, we cannot stop them from reaching the Core and destroying it—along with a good part of Samantha City.  Together?  Ah, together,” he said with a smile.  “Together, we can stop them AND recover a copy of the Core for our superiors.”

“You say that as if we do not have our own plans for the Core,” replied Nicky.

“You mean those two nubile young women you have snuck into the chief researcher’s bed, Miss Kirkland?  Yes, they will DIE tonight when the Death Commandoes barge in . . . and those Commandoes will seize their copy of the Core that they are making.  And then the nuke will go off.”

She started.  “How the hell did you . . .,” she began.

“We aren’t all Walter Krogh, my dear.  My team and I have been watching you since you arrived on Taurus—and I have access to certain . . . equipment that can even the odds.”

There was silence for a moment and then Phil sighed again.  “We team up and stop the Death Commandoes and get a copy of the Core—what’s going to keep one of us from back-stabbing the rest and running off with it?”

Maxwell laughed.  “My dear Phil—the game will be afoot!  That is all part of the fun.”

And one by one, each of the field agents slowly nodded—even Victor and Phil.

“Good.  We don’t have a lot of time, so if you will join me at my safe house, we have MUCH to discuss and prepare for,” Maxwell finished as he stood and threw a hundred-bull note on the table. 

Ivan Patrice Computer Sciences Center, University of Taurus
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 27, 3025

“Sandra, my dear, you are a genius—genius, I say!” exclaimed Karl Mosley as he finished running the last diagnostic on the Vickers Core where it stood upright in the center of the room . . . right beside an identical (albeit empty) core.  “Suggesting that we borrow the empty core from the Navy War Museum saved us weeks—weeks!—of work on bypassing the lock-outs and safe-guards on the prize.”

“But we couldn’t have done it without your work, Doctor Mosley,” Sandra Ingram whispered in his ear as she stroked the Taurian scientist’s back (and ego) with one firm hand.  “I just thought that since we had this old, empty core sitting in the museum, you could compare the two and see what modifications the Navy made—and what extra traps they installed.”

Karl chuckled and he turned around to give his assistant a quick peck on the cheek.  “Of course, darling,” he drawled with a chuckle.  “I am the foremost authority on Taurus on these cores,” and then he frowned.  “I still wonder, though, how the Science Museum managed to misplace their core example.  We had two—one in the Naval Museum and the second here on Taurus, but the second one is missing.  Pity.  It was in better shape than this one.”  He sighed.  “But ah well.  We will make bricks without straw—as usual.”  He paused and then leered at Sandra.  “What say you, me, and Angelina celebrate tonight?  My apartment?”

“Whatever you want, Doctor Mosley—whatever you want,” Sandra answered in a husky voice as she nibbled on his ear lobe playfully.

There was a click from the Vickers Core as the diagnostic finished running—and Karl began to grin.  “All safe-guards are bypassed—starting decryption protocols . . . now.”

“You are certain that this is the correct decryption key?” Sandra asked, and Karl frowned.

“My dear, I am the expert here.  Yes, the key is working and in . . . fifteen minutes . . . the core will be accessible.”

“Good, Karl,” Sandra whispered as she nibbled again.  And began to work his way down his body; as her head passed his waist, the scientists trousers hit the floor—and he flinched as he felt a sharp fingernail poke him in his now bare buttocks.  But the pleasure he was receiving from his assistant put the momentary discomfort from his mind.  Especially when Angelina entered the room and passionately kissed him, even as Sandra kept working on him.  So caught up in the moment was Karl that he never noticed when he could no longer feel his muscles—not until he collapsed onto the floor with a thud.

“Nice technique,” Angelina said as the Core beeped and she began to transfer the unlocked information to the scarred example borrowed from the museum.

“Curare takes ten-to-fifteen minutes to work—had to keep him occupied,” Sandra said as she wiped her mouth on a paper towel.  “Got the plastique?”

“In the bag—according to Nicky we’ve got fifteen—maybe twenty—minutes before those Death Commandoes come barging in.  Will the down-load be complete?  And did you get his signature on the order transferring this Core back to the museum?”

“Yes and yes—and you don’t want to know how,” Sandra said with a grimace as she pulled the explosives from the bag and attached them to the outside of the Vickers Core.  “Pig,” she muttered as she kicked Karl in the head.  “The bigger question is can we get this thing out of here and away from the blast radius in time?”

“She says she and some ‘friends’ are working on that,” and the two Cores beeped in unison. 

“That’s it,” said Sandra as she armed the explosives, setting the timer for five minutes.  “Time to leave.”

“The guards are just going to let us walk this out of here?” Angelina asked as she loaded the museum core into its transport case.

Sandra waved a sheaf of papers.  “Signed authorization to move the museum core back to storage,” she said with a laugh.  “And the serial numbers match.  They’ll send two guards with us . . . but if you can’t handle two Taurians at once, I think we need to send you back for a refresher course, Angel.”

The second MIM agent stuck out her tongue, and then lifted the case.  “You're right, past time to go,” she said.  “What about him?” she asked, pointing at Mosley.

“What about him?”  Sandra answered and she kicked him again.  “Either the explosion will kill him, or the Death Commandoes will kill him, or Protector Thomas will kill him for giving us access.”

“Yeah . . . but he’s still awake and aware.  Are you really going to torture him with not knowing his fate?”

“Damn straight, Angel.  Let’s go,” Sandra answered as she held open the door to the lab . . . leaving Dr. Karl Mosley lying helpless on the ground unable to make a single sound or lift a finger.

I believe the Wolverines were the problem.

Great to see this one back. I'll have to reread it from the start. Why did the Blood paint you into a corner?

As I was outlining where I wanted the story to go, it occured to me that by introducing the Blood and Wolverines, I no longer had any reason NOT to have ComStar fully prepped and ready to fight the Clans (when/if) they return.  And with extreme measures (aka, bio-weapons from the Hidden Worlds) as well.  It made for too many changes, too fast, and the more I looked at it, the greater my unease at what I had opened myself up to.  So I changed it to remove those references and instead went with Vesar finding one of the lost Rim World depot worlds out in the Periphery.  Another idea from canon that we haven't seen fleshed out, by the way.

In short, the Blood/Wolverine arc would have taken my story in a direction I decided was wrong for the story I am telling.  It wasn't working for ME, so I changed it.

MA