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Again it is great to see you back at this fanfic. I think the Saucy Sam is my favorite fanon BattleTech warship.

Chapter Four

Taurian Defense Force Military Reservation (I Corps HQ)
Port Sheridan, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
February 8, 3026

Ardan sighed.  “You don’t have to do this, Edward,” he spoke softly to the young man walking beside him.  “Marshal Calderon can do this just as well as you.”

“You are wrong, Ardan,” Edward replied in a voice just as soft—but one with a bitter edge. 

No, Ardan thought, he doesn’t like having to do this either.  But he is determined to see it through and once again, he shook his head at the similarity between this young man and the two brothers Davion he had served with over the years.

“I have to be the one who passes the sentence,” Edward continued after a moment.  “Not because of my rank, but because I am my father’s son.  And because I am the Heir Designate to Thomas Calderon.  If I don’t,” and he swallowed hard, “then my own people will see it as dereliction of duty.  A man cannot lead if he cannot stand by his given word.”

“I understand that all too well, Edward.  But there are two hundred and seventeen survivors of the final Fusilier assault.  You are going to have to sit on that dais, hear each and every one of them plead and beg for their lives, pass the sentence on them, and then watch them hang one by one until they are dead.”

Edward’s face pinched slightly at that, but he nodded.  “Damned if I do and damned if I don’t, Arden.  Still, we are lucky that it is only two hundred and seventeen that are being put on trial today.  We saved the lives of over six thousand by convincing the ones that defected,” the largest concentration of those being the former Sixth Fusiliers logistical and support elements that had deserted Michael en masse, “we weren’t going to hang them.  Michael’s dead, his command staff and headquarters are dead, and these two hundred and seventeen sons-of-bitches still attacked into the teeth of our defenses and could not find their death on the field of battle.  Well, today, they are going to find that death they sought.”  Edward paused, and in even a softer voice, he continued.  “And may God have mercy on their souls.  As well as my own.”

More than three thousand officers and men of the former Regimental Combat Team had already been killed on New Vallis.  Almost none of the MechWarriors who had followed the Duke had tried to make their way to the surrender point—just a bare dozen, only a single company.  Those twelve had been joined by a mere seven lances of tanks and combat vehicles and less than two battalions of infantry.  The rest of the Fusiliers combat forces had followed their leaders into the defensive lines and fought like madmen—died like madmen.

Outside of the support elements, no officer survived that ranked higher than a Captain.

Ardan winced at the thought.  The Fusiliers had fought bravely and fought well, though the cause—and the man—they fought for had not been worth the price they paid in the end.  And the Fusiliers had extracted a toll from the Taurian defenders—and their associated mercenaries, including Ardan’s own mercenaries-in-name-only—that was all too painful as well.  Tanis Verbet’s 1st Hyades Light Infantry had suffered the worse with over three-quarters of her ‘Mechs destroyed or disabled, although over seventy percent of those “destroyed” units were in good enough condition to be salvaged and returned to service.  Eventually returned to service; it would take months to make good all the repairs the battle had created the need for.

All of the defenders had taken some casualties, though it was relatively light compared to those of the 1st Hyades and the Sixth Fusiliers.  Especially once the Foxhounds and Calderon Red Hand had slammed into the advancing Fusiliers just as Wylie’s Coyotes, Colonel Fiona Jamesen, and Erwin Tyrell’s Nobles Regiment had smashed into their flanks.

Ardan had feared that not even that would be enough to break the Sixth, but in the end, they did break as ‘Mech after ‘Mech was shattered and the Fusiliers fighting power continued to shrink and shrink.  Well after it had been obvious that the battle was lost, the Fusilier MechWarriors had begun to surrender . . . and Edward had ordered that those surrenders be accepted.

Little had the Fusiliers known it was only to await this tribunal and a noose.

Oh, they had heard the broadcast, the MechWarriors who Michael had trusted as much as he trusted any man.  They knew that the Taurians—that Edward—had already told them if they fought and killed Taurians on their own soil, their lives were forfeit.  But either they hadn’t believed the message or they thought that this young man could be convinced to spare their lives.

Either way, they had been wrong.  And the time had come for the survivors to pay the price that the Taurian need for justice demanded.  And Ardan shook his head at that thought.  Not justice—vengeance.  And then he regretted that thought as he glanced at Edward still walking silent beside him.  No.  Not all of them see this as revenge.  Not all of them by far, though he will still go through with it because he has to.  If he wants the treaty with the Federated Suns, he has to, and Ardan winced at the thought of the price that had already been paid in blood and lives to give this treaty even the barest chance of success.

Paid for by both sides.  By Edward and by Hanse and by Ardan himself with some small part of his soul.

The two men approached the doors leading outside to the parade grounds where the Tribunal would sit and hear the appeals of those appearing before them.  Where they sat before the gallows that had been erected over the past week and would stand silent behind the survivors as those few pleaded and begged for mercy that could not be shown to them.

The guards on the doors opened them and Edward drew in a deep breath.  And then he took one step forward and Ardan advanced at his side.

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

Subaltern Jon Kincaide stood and the discussion around the dinner table came to a halt as the officers of the Taurian Defense Force, nobles of the Concordat, and their guests rose as well.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” the young man said firmly as the junior officer present at the table today.  “The Taurian Concordat!”

He raised his glass in salute and those gathered answered him, “The Taurian Concordat!”  And they drank a sip—some a swallow!

“The Protector!”

“The Protector!”

Another sip; another swallow.

“The Defense Force!”

“The Defense Force!”

And again, they drank.

Some began to sit, but Edward remained standing; Ardan looked at him in surprise.  Those three toasts were the only ones required by ritual.

“To our absent friends,” the young man said softly and raised his own glass again.

“To absent friends,” repeated Corey Calderon and Helena Vickers, followed quickly by every other person in the room.  They drank a fourth time and all watched Edward as they waited to see if he had any more surprises in store.

Now, Edward sat at the head of the table, followed by Marshal Calderon at the opposite end and then all of the others, and he leaned back in his seat as he appeared to be listening to the conversations around him, but the look in his eyes was haunted and he absently swirled the dark red wine in his glass without taking another sip.

And Helena Vickers, sitting at Edward’s right hand—just as Arden sat on his left—frowned.  She leaned forward.

“Never an easy thing, my boy, to send men to the gallows—or a firing squad.  Lord knows, I’ve done both and it has never been easy and never failed to turn my stomach as I watched.  Even if it was men that deserved it, it is not an easy thing to do.  Or at the least, it is not an easy thing for any officer—or Protector—that I want to serve under and or have serve under me,” she said in a soft voice.

“You’ve sent men—men you condemned with your own voice—to their deaths, Fleet Marshal?” Edward asked quietly.

“I have,” she answered and she took a sip of wine and gestured towards Edward’s own glass.  He gave a half-hearted smile and raised it, then took a sip as well.  “Better, young man.  I’ve sent enemies of the Concordat to the gallows and the firing squad and I’ve sent my people before them as well; men and women who betrayed the Concordat or deserted the Defense Force in a time of war.  It’s never been easy for me.  I pray it never becomes easy for you.”

She sighed.  “And there are many, many more that never committed any crime that I sent to their deaths—with my own voice—because I needed them to fight and die to buy time to save more than I sacrificed.  Those deaths weigh more heavy on me than the ones I’ve had to hang or shoot.  And I think that is true of you as well.  Absent friends, indeed.”

She took another sip, and Edward followed suit.

“I’m glad that I decided to come planet-side today for this . . .,” and she grimaced, “occasion.  Wasn’t sure I wanted to, but I got to meet you, boy.  I got to meet you here, in the field, and use the occasion to gauge the quality of your character.”

Edward sat down his glass and he looked the old woman directly in her eyes.  “And what did you decide about my character, Fleet Marshal?”

“That you are a Calderon, Lord Edward.  A true Calderon and one I am willing to follow when the day eventually comes.  If I don’t die before Thomas passes on, that is,” and she laughed.  “Of course, I’ve been called stubborn, so I’ll probably live to be two hundred, least a’ways as long as Thomas and you both keep me in my command chair up there.”  And she pointed up at the ceiling.  But Edward knew what she meant.

“So, you are the woman that Thomas appointed to command that battleship in orbit, then?” Arden asked.

Helena Vickers turned to stare deep in Ardan Sortek’s eyes and then she nodded.  “It is my distinct honor to be the commanding officer of the Taurian Concordat Ship Samantha Calderon.  And you are Ardan Sortek—you know when Thomas heard you were here with your . . . mercenaries,” and she chuckled, “he nearly had a stroke.  Almost sent you into exile, Lord Edward, so I wouldn’t make a habit of doing what you did.”

“Not planning on it, Fleet Marshal,” Edward answered.

“Doubt you planned on doing it at all,” Helena replied sharply.  “But there is a secret that we higher-ranking officers don’t really like spreading around—and the Protector is just about the highest-ranking officer we’ve got.”

Ardan smiled.  The woman was certainly charismatic, but there was something about her name that nagged at the back of his mind.  “And what exactly is that secret, Fleet Marshal?”

Helena snorted another bark of laughter.  “You know the secret I mean, Marshal Sortek—ah, excuse, Colonel Sortek.  The secret, Edward, is that the rules of what we are and aren’t supposed to do . . . well, sometimes you have to break them to get things done right.  You take your command where you know they would never let you, but you do it because it is the right thing to do.  You tell your boss NO when everyone else around you is scared shitless because it is the right thing to do.  You stand up to your father and your commanders and your people and you say, I will not be moved, because damn it what you want me to do is wrong.  Wrong for our people, wrong for the Concordat, wrong for the times.”

She paused and she took another sip of wine.  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you, Ardan Sortek?”

“I do,” he answered softly.  “As a soldier you obey orders—until those orders are the wrong orders.  And you make a call.”

“And you pay the price,” Helena added.  She looked at Edward.  “This time, Lord Edward, Thomas was willing to forgo the price.  Next time, he might not.  But you knew what might happen to you and you took a stand anyway,” she raised her glass and clinked it against Edward’s own.  “Welcome to the Club.  It is a rather exclusive club for there are not many men or women out there who are willing to take action against orders when they should.  Too worried about losing their exalted ranks and their damned privileges.  Now, we could have won the day without Sortek’s Foxhounds or Enzo Wiley’s Coyotes, but it would have been bloodier on our side.  You knew what you had to do to shore up the defenses of this world and you did it.  Knowing full well the consequences that could have fallen upon you.”

She paused and raised her glass again.  “That is leadership, Lord Edward.  That is a man that I, or Raphael Montoya, or Corey Calderon, or . . .,” and she smiled over at Ardan, “or even Ardan Sortek would be willing to follow.”

And Arden raised his own glass.

“At least until you dismiss him from service and he goes back to New Avalon as a Marshal of the AFFS,” and she laughed again.

“Touché, ma’am,” Ardan replied with a chuckle of his own.

Edward nodded as he took another sip of his own wine.  “Thank you, Fleet Marshal.  I needed to hear that.”

“I know.  I have been there, I have done that.  So has Ardan Sortek.  And tonight, I am going to break another order and put my own fate in the hands of the Protector,” she said with a smile.

“What order are breaking, Fleet Marshal?” asked Ardan Sortek.  “You are not going to blast away my Foxfounds from orbit, are you?”

“Nothing like that,” she answered.  “No.  I have a message for your Prince Hanse Davion.  You see, when viewed one way, I’m already way past two hundred years in age.  I was born in 2529, you see.  I’m that Helena Vickers, Marshal Sortek, and in three short years I will celebrate my 600th birthday.  Must be some sort of record for humanity, right there, eh?”

She laughed and Ardan began to chuckle . . . and then he saw Edward’s expression and he stopped.  He looked at her eyes and she nodded.

“Thomas didn’t find and salvage that ship, did he?” Ardan asked very quietly.

“No.  We had a misjump that sent us flying more than five centuries into the future.  My crew and I, Raphael Montoya and his Calderon Red Hand as well, we are combat veterans of the almost twenty years of Hell that you people today call the Reunification Wars.”

She paused, and then she nodded at Ardan.  “Go ahead.  Take a drink, you probably need one.”

Ardan raised his glass and took a deep swallow.  “Why?  Why tell me, for God’s sake?” he asked when he had recovered.

“You are a man of honor.  I can see that.  Edward trusts you, and even though you are a Davion, I think I do as well.  So.  I want you to tell Hanse Davion himself, that if he decides to try and take Lord Edward here as a hostage or invade the Concordat or seize Saucy Sam, I’ll be waiting for him.  I’ll be coming for him.  With a crew that knows that ship inside and out.  Not a bunch of spacers impressed into service from any available DropShip and JumpShip and trying to operate systems they don’t understand or know how to fix.  Not saying he can’t kill me and get the job done, but that job just got a Hell of a lot harder.  And I want him to know that.”

“He’s not planning on doing any of that!” Ardan snapped.

“I don’t know him.  I know you.  Now, if he keeps a man like you around him, well, maybe Edward is right and we can trust him.  To some degree.  Maybe Edward is wrong.  I don’t know.  And you don’t know—not deep down when you know that any ruler has to be willing to consider anything to preserve their own realm.  Their own people.”

Helena took a sip of her wine and she shook her head.  “You might think because we limped into orbit that Saucy Sam is on the verge of falling apart.  We found the fault yesterday; a fuel pump failed and two of our three main drives couldn’t get enough to provide any thrust.  A minor problem, already fixed.  Just took us a little bit of time to get done.  My ship, my crew, they are not a target, Ardan Sortek.  If the Protector wanted, I’d load up Edward and the Red Hand and personally escort him all the way to New Avalon.”

She sighed.  “But that would be seen as provocative . . . which is why I am having this conversation with you right now.”  She shook her head.  “I believe everyone, including your Hanse Davion, should get one warning—just one.”

“Don’t forget, Fleet Marshal, we learned a long time ago how to kill battleships and cruisers and carriers with just our own aerospace fighters,” Ardan said softly.

“Don’t I know it, boy.  I think this is what they used to call detente?  Right?  You can kill me and I can kill you, but all either one of us has to do to live is just back away from the edge.  If the other one also pulls back from brink, that is.”  She took the last sip of wine from her glass.  “I don’t want to go to New Avalon.  I don’t want to fight Hanse Davion.  Frankly, I’m sick and tired of war and could use a vacation—don’t think I’m going to get one any time soon, but I’d like to spend about a year on the beach drinking fruity drinks with little paper umbrellas and fucking the brains out of some twenty-year old massage therapist.”

Despite himself, Ardan let out a short bark of laughter and Helena nodded.

“And your Hanse Davion doesn’t want a war on the Taurian border either, or you wouldn’t be out here and we wouldn’t be talking.  So just tell the damn man my message,” she said as she stood.  “Lore Edward, you have a good evening.  Colonel Sortek.”

Edward stood.  “Fleet Marshal,” he said with a slight bow, and Helena smiled at him.

“You’ll do, boy.  You’ll do fine,” she whispered as she patted him on the shoulder and walked from the dining hall.

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

“Edward?”

Edward stopped and turned around.  He had been about to call it an evening and retire for the night, but the sound of Corey’s voice had stopped him.

“Uncle Corey,” he said with a slight bow.

“Leaving us so early?” the old man asked softly.

“Today was not the best of days, Uncle Corey,” Edward answered just as softly.

“No, it wasn’t.  But you did your duty, son, and I am proud of you.  Now, I know you want to retire for the night and torture yourself with how you might have been able to do something else instead of what you did,” and Corey chuckled sadly, “but before you go, I wanted you to meet some people.”

“Of course, Marshal Calderon.”

“I understand you are going out to the Detention Facility tomorrow.  Inspection tour?”

“I want to see how we are treating the others,” Edward finally said.

“Like human beings, son.  Like human beings,” Corey paused and he waved over at Erwin Tyrell.  The New Vallis nobleman began to make his way through the crowd, a young woman following him.

“Seriously,” Corey continued, “right now we are still processing them, treating any wounded, debriefing them,” and he smiled.  “You know, there was one cavalry recon company—the remains of one—that came in and had a horror story to tell us.  They ran into a nest of Demon Spiders out there in the Waste and damn near lost half their men to them.  Just for trying to stop and refill their water canteens.  Turns out Michael never briefed them about the dangers of the Wastes—guess he thought they wouldn’t be in it for more than a day and it would be easy to push us aside to get to Port Sheridan.”

“Guess he was wrong, Uncle Corey.”

“Damn straight, my lad.  Ah, Erwin!  Subaltern Edward Calderon, you know Colonel the Baron Erwin Tyrell.  But have you met his daughter?”

The young woman—Edward guessed she was about his own age—came forward and curtseyed.  Edward bowed in reply, and then he took a good look at her.

She was tall—almost taller than him—slender, with lovely honey-brown hair and expressive hazel eyes.

“Subaltern Calderon, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said in a soft soprano voice.

“Lord Edward,” Erwin Tyrell spoke up, “may I make known to you my daughter, Moira Tyrell.”

“My lady,” Edward said simply.  “The honor is mine.”

“Lady Moira is also Doctor Tyrell,” added Corey.  “She graduated from Santiago Medical on Samantha at damn near the top of her class.”

“I am impressed,” Edward said as he smiled.  “That is one of our most prestigious institutions.”

She nodded her head slightly, acknowledging the compliment.  “It is my understanding that you are coming to inspect the Detention Facility tomorrow?”

“I am,” Edward answered.  “But I was not aware that was common knowledge.”

“Oh, it’s not,” she replied with a smile—and Edward froze at the sight of her beaming face.  “I am running the medical side of the Facility until we get everyone treated and processed,” and her smile faded and she shook her head.  “Where they are going after that no one will tell me.”

Corey Calderon smiled and he took the young ladies arm.  “Perhaps, my dear, you might offer to show the Subaltern here around the Facility tomorrow?  You know it better than any other, right?”

“I do.  Lord Edward, it would be my pleasure to escort you around the compound, unless you are otherwise engaged?”

Edward started to speak, but suddenly had to swallow and he nodded.  “T-that would be fine, my lady,” he finally said.

“Eddie, why don’t you and Lady Moira—Doctor Tyrell,” he quickly corrected and she smiled at him, “go get a fresh drink and leave us old men here to talk.  Boring stuff you young folks don’t want to hear, you know.”

“My lady?” Edward asked, holding out his arm. 

Moira smiled and slid her own into his and the two of the them began to walk towards the bar, smiling and talking the entire way.

“My Lord Marshal,” Erwin said in an acrid tone, “just what the fuck are you playing at?”

“Well, he’s a single boy.  She’s a single girl.  They are both attractive, both young, both smart.  Who knows what might happen?”

“I know what could happen, and I really don’t want to have to kill Thomas’ heir in an Honor Duel.  That’s my daughter!” he snapped.

“Calm down, Erwin,” Corey replied with a laugh.  “I’ve known Eddie his entire life; he won’t do anything improper.  But I did want him to meet her before he left for New Avalon.”

“He might not—but she just might!” Erwin answered and then he sighed.  “Why?  Why did you want them to meet?”

“What?  Is a Calderon not good enough for your daughter, Lord Tyrell?”

“It’s not that . . . why tonight?  Why before he leaves?”

“He’s going to be on New Avalon—a Davion world—for weeks, perhaps months.  He might meet some pretty Davion girl.  Do you want him bringing home a Davion wife, Erwin?”  And Corey smiled as Erwin Tyrell began to sputter.  “Or do you want him thinking about that little vixen you raised that probably has him wound around her little finger by now,” and Corey looked over towards the bar where the two young people were smiling and chatting and completely ignoring everyone else in the room.

“God,” whispered Erwin.  “I need a drink.”

And Corey Calderon laughed.

Prisoner Detention and Processing Facility
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
February 9, 3026

“We built this in two weeks?” asked Edward as he walked through the rows of hastily erected barracks, storage rooms, guard quarters, and mess-halls that had sprung up here on the northern edge of the Tabernas Wastes.  One side of the facility bordered the Glitterstream, and pipes drew up the water from that rushing river to be purified for the prisoners—and guards—to drink.

Jon Kincaide nodded, even as Corey, Erwin, and Ardan trailed along behind them.  “Most of these structures are pre-fabricated buildings that the Constabulary had in storage.  To the west we have the DropShip landing zone and the vehicle park where we interned their gear.  As the men and women came here to surrender, we took their weapons, got their names, ranks, and serials numbers, assigned them living quarters, and provided medical care to those in need.”

“And that area?” Edward pointed toward a collection of larger buildings and several tents.

“The Medical Facility, sir,” Jon answered.  “I believe that Doctor Tyrell is supposed to meet us there and finished the tour.”

“Good,” said Edward brightly.  “Uncle Corey, I want to meet those cavalry troopers you told me about last night—see how things are going from their perspective.”

“Of course, Edward.”

Edward turned back towards the medical facility where he spotted Moira Tyrell exiting one of the buildings and heading in his direction.  He smiled and began to wave . . . but then he saw the look on her face and his smile faded.

“Is this how the Calderons keep their word?” she snapped as she walked right up to Edward and pointed her finger at his chest.

“What are you . . . Moi—Dr. Tyell, what is wrong?” Edward asked.

“This morning, we were told by the new commander of the facility—a Constabulary officer appointed by Governor Dupont that the prisoners no longer required any further medical care.  We have been ordered to pack our things and leave camp.”

She stared at Edward with accusing eyes and he shook his head.  “I didn’t know,” he whispered.  “Corey?” he asked in a louder voice.

“Not my doing, Edward,” the old man answered.  “Dupont insisted that the Constabulary take over running this facility . . . and my infantry have more than enough to do cleaning up after that battle.”  He paused.  “First I’ve heard about the medical staff being dismissed, though.”

“Jon,” Edward spoke to his aide and bodyguard.  “Tell the commander of the facility that I want to meet with him—at once.  Take a squad of the Guards with you in case he doesn’t want to come.”

“Sir,” Jon Kincaide replied with a nod and he began to trot away, speaking into handheld radio as he went.

“Lord Edward,” Erwin began, and then he stopped.  “Look, I know Fredrik Dupont; the man is an ass, but he is also a loyal Taurian.  I’m sure he had his reasons for this.”

“I gave these folks my word, Erwin,” Edward snapped.  “They would be taken care of—that includes medical care for those who need it.  And I have no doubt that Governor Dupont is a loyal Taurian and is trying to do what he thinks is best, but he is undermining my given word.  As not only an officer, but as a Calderon!”

Erwin shook his head.  “Let’s not jump to conclusions.  We are going to be moving these men and women to one of our colony worlds pretty soon—maybe everyone that needed medical care has received it.”

Corey sighed.  “Fredrik Dupont is a rabid Davion-phobe; he was very much in league with Shraplen and his ilk.  I’ve got a feeling he is trying to find a ‘better’ solution than sending then prisoners to work on building up a colony on the frontier.”

Edward frowned and then he set his jaw.  “Marshal Calderon, if you would please inform Brigadier Montoya and the remainder of my Guard detachement, I would like their presence—and that of the Red Hand—here as soon as possible.”

“I can have the Foxhounds here in fifteen minutes,” Ardan spoke up, a worried look on his face.

Edward shook his head.  “No.  Having your troops—what with their former allegiance—thrown into the mix might just ignite a spark, Colonel Sortek.  We’ll deal with this with Taurian forces.”

He paused and looked a Moira.  “I will fix this, my lady,” he said softly and she smiled.

“I do think I believe you . . . my Lord,” she answered.

Behind the two, Corey smiled again and Erwin put one hand on his face.  “Edward and I are going to have a LONG talk after this, Corey.  You are a bastard, you know that?” he whispered.

“Yep,” the old man whispered back.

A jeep turned down the gap between the buildings and drew up close to the visitors.  From the passenger side, Jon Kincaide exited, while a thick, short balding man pulled his way out of the back.  An armored personnel carrier followed, disgorging a maniple of troopers from the Taurian Guards.

“Subaltern Calderon,” Jon announced, “may I present Brigadier Liam Cochrane, commander of the 17th New Vallis Infantry Battalion, Concordat Constabulary.”

“Brigadier,” Edward greeted the man.  “What the devil are you playing at here?”

“Excuse me?” Cochrane sputtered.  “What do you think gives you—a Subaltern—the right to question me—a Brigadier?”

“In that case, what the devil are playing at here?” snapped Corey Calderon.  “As the Commanding Marshal of I Corps, I do believe I outrank you.”

“Sir,” Cochrane answered and came to a position of attention—a very loose position of attention.  “I am doing my duty to the Concordat, sir.”

“And how exactly are you doing that, Brigadier?”

Cochrane paused and then he looked down.  And then he raised his head defiantly and stared Corey Calderon square in the eyes.  “By not letting these Fed Sons-of-Bitches get it easy, Marshal.  They don’t deserve to be treated any better than pirates and bandits—you hanged some yourself!”

“I—and Lord Edward, heir to the Protector—hung those who refused to surrender without a fight.  And we—the two of us—promised those who did they would be well treated.  Are you breaking our word, Brigadier?”

“I’m doing my duty, Marshal.  This facility is a civilian facility, manned by Constabulary assigned by the Governor—you have no say here.  Not since we took over.”

“Really?” asked Corey in a mild voice.  “Okay then.  Subaltern Kincaide, may I borrow that radio?”

The Subaltern handed him the hand-held device and Corey clicked it one.  “All units of I Corps, Taurian Defense Force.  This is Marshal Corey Calderon.  Assemble at the Prisoner Detention and Processing Facility as soon as possible to quell by force an armed insurrection by the Concordat Constabulary against the Taurian Concordat.  All those who refuse to lay down arms will be shot.”

Cochrane blanched and he shook his head.  “You can’t do that!”

Corey looked down at the radio in his hand and then back up at Cochrane.  “But I can—and I did.  So.  If you want to keep on breathing, Brigadier—soon to be Private—Cochrane, you will have your men stand down.  NOW.  The Taurian Defense Force is resuming the operation of his facility—your Constabulary will stand down,” and Corey smiled, “or they will be gunned down.  Your choice.”

“The Governor won’t stand for this, we aren’t under your command!  We’re under his!”

“Brigadier, Governors come and governors go.  But the long silent sleep of death is with you for eternity.  So which is it going to be?” Corey answered.


Outskirts of Prisoner Detention and Processing Facility
Tabernas Wastelands, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
February 9, 3026

“Put your backs into it!” the Taurian soldier snarled at the gaggle of former Federated Suns troopers struggling to dig the long narrow trench under the heat of a noon-day sun.  The ground was baked, virtually desiccated, and the rocky soil resisted the dull and pitted blades of the shovels that the prisoners had been issued. 

Henry Barksdale, often-upon-a-time Leftenant in the Armored Forces of the Federated Suns, stood upright and he rested for a moment to wipe away what little sweat his body could still produce from his forehead.  For a moment, he considered keeping silent, but as he looked over the surviving men and women of his platoon—his platoon, his people—he shook his head.

“We need water, Corporal,” he said in a parched voice through lips cracked in the blazing heat.  “we’ve been digging this latrine for three hours straight, and you haven’t let us have a sip of water the entire time.”

The Taurian hustled over to him and he stopped three feet away, a sub-machine gripped in his hands pointed at Henry’s chest.

“You want water, you Fed-Rat scum?  Dig, or I’ll water the ground with your blood,” the trooper snarled.  “The rest of them are thirty enough, they can lick it up from the ground, afterwards.”

“LT,” Joshua Franks whispered, “it ain’t worth it, sir.”

Henry looked at the SMG and then he looked at his men and women—his men and women—and he threw the shovel to the ground.  “Okay, fine.  Three-Echo,” he shouted in a hoarse voice, “we are done.  Put the shovels down.”

All of the digging came to a halt at the other nineteen soldiers that had formerly belonged to 3rd Platoon, Echo Company, Cavalry Scout-Recon Battalion, 6th Syrtis Fusiliers RCT stopped their digging and stared as their platoon leader.

“Tell them to keep digging, Fed-Rat,” the Taurian guard snarled.

“Or what?  You will shoot me?” Henry asked in a soft voice.  “Go ahead.  Shoot me.  We were told we would be treated fairly—and you want us out here working ourselves to death with no water in this heat?  We are done.”

The guard pulled back the bolt on his SMG and chambered a round.

“Tell them to dig, Fed-Rat, or your body won’t be the only one at the bottom of this trench.”

Henry shook his head.  “This isn’t a latrine, is it?” he asked.  “You brought us more than a kilometer outside of the camp, why do you want us digging a latrine this far from the camp?  You don’t plan on any of us going back do you?”

The guard smiled.  “They hanged over two hundred of you yesterday; what’s twenty-one more?”  He looked around.  “Okay, boys.  Time for some target practice!”

And he sneered at Henry at he raised the SMG.  “Never did like officers, ours or theirs.  And a Fed-Rat officer?  Why that is just a bonus.”

“Corp?” A voice called out from among the remaining Taurian Guards.  “We’ve got company—armored transports.  Looks like a platoon.”

The leader of the guard frowned and looked in the direction the other soldier pointed—and sure enough, there were six armored vehicle driving their way.  Fast.

“Cover the prisoners,” he ordered.  “I’ll see what all this is about.”

The six armored vehicles came to a halt just meters away, and disembarkation ramps on the rear opened, letting a full platoon of Taurian infantry—infantry bearing the shoulder flash of the elite 1st Battalion, Taurian Guards.  And trailing behind them was Edward Calderon and Colonel the Baron Tyrell, along with two other men and a woman.

“Sirs!” the guard corporal snapped as he came to attention.

Edward stepped forward and he looked at the long line of men and women, their sweat-stained clothes, the long, narrow trench they had been digging, and the shovels laying on the ground.  And the squad of guards that held sub-machine-guns pointed at the prisoners.

“What are your orders, Corporal?” Edward asked.

“Sir?”

“Your orders?  You do have orders to have these prisoners out here and away from the detention facility, don’t you?”

“Ah, sir, well, we were told to come out here and dig a new latrine?”

Edward frowned.  “A new latrine?  For the detention facility?  All the way out here?  Must be a kilometer and a half back to the camp—and aren’t the existing latrines dug just a week ago?”

“They were finished six days ago, my Lord Edward,” interjected Jon Kincaide.

“Ah.  Six days old.  Yet we needed a new latrine so far away from camp—far enough that the gunshots wouldn’t be heard, right Corporal?” he asked in a voice that was absolutely devoid of any feeling.

“Well, sir, I-I,” the corporal stuttered.  “We were just doing what we were told, Sir.”

“Just following orders, right?” Edward sighed.  “Corporal, you and your men are relieved.  My guards will escort these men back to the facility.”

“Sir, we have out orders,” the guard began, but then he stopped as Edward just glared at him and thirty soldiers of the Taurian Guards clicked off the safety on their rifles.  “And you just gave us another one, Sir.  I stand relieved.”

The five Constabulary guards quickly left and Edward sighed again.  Beside him, Erwin shook his head.  “This is going to get worse, Edward,” the New Vallis noble whispered.

“I know, Erwin.  But we have to stop this right now, right here.”

“Won’t be any better on the penal colony, my Lord,” the Baron added.  “And you won’t be there to save them the next time.”

Edward nodded.  Then he turned around.  “Doctor Tyrell, can you make sure these men and women are not injured.  Jon, get them some water and put them in the shade of the vehicles.”

The two began to carry out his orders and Ardan walked over to join him and Erwin.  Corey had remained behind to try and defuse the situation in the detention center itself.

“I hadn’t even given any thought to this,” Ardan said quietly.  “The Constabulary is your volunteer militia?”

“Sort of,” answered Edward.  “They are volunteers and they have had training, but their primary role is to assist in natural disasters, search-and-rescue, and providing the police with assistance as needed.  In an emergency, they are usually called out to support the regular TDF armor and infantry battalions assigned to a world, but they seldom see actual combat.  They didn’t here on New Vallis; we left them to garrison Port Sheridan and the other cities.”

“And they are under civilian command,” added Erwin.  “Whereas the Nobles Regiments are under the command of a former TDF officer ennobled by the Protector and mostly consist of former TDF and mercenary personnel who want to have a home life without worrying about packing up and changing planets on a moment’s notice.  My retainers would never have done this—but the Constabulary is much less disciplined.”

“If I had assigned your retainers to this guard detail, they might have strung me up yesterday, Erwin,” Edward said softly as he watched the Constabulary guards march off into the distance in the direction of the detention facility.

Erwin snorted.  “Not a chance.  Oh, they would have burned you in effigy and cursed you whether or not you were in the same room, but they would have followed my lead, no matter how much they disliked doing it.”  He paused and sighed.  “Best bet is to assign the Marshal’s regular TDF garrison.  Shouldn’t take more than a company or two of infantry to guard these folks.”

“Bit of a short-term solution, though,” interjected Ardan.  “Once they get loaded up and moved, how likely is it that it will be the local Constabulary guarding them again?  That time without you to put a stop to it?” he asked Edward.

“I think I may know a more permanent way,” whispered Edward.  “Did that engineer from the Samantha Calderon manage to get the New Vallis HPG back on-line?”

“I think he did,” Erwin answered.

“Then it is past time for me to call home and talk to my father.”

Taurian Concordat Class B HPG Station
Port Sheridan, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
February 9, 3026

The two-way real-time transmission was somewhat garbled and static laced, but Edward and his father could see each other—and, perhaps more importantly, understand each other.

“Are you certain about this, Eddie?” his father asked.  “I know we agreed to let their families ransom them out from their sentence early, but . . .,” his voice trailed off.

“Pop, we have to face facts.  Odds are, no matter where we send them, we are going to get the same thing happen.  There won’t be any of them left to ransom within a year.  And that is an affront to both our honor if that happens.  We gave our word.”

Thomas scowled and he shook his head.  “I can’t.  I cannot do this, Edward,” and then he paused.  “I won’t you tell you that you can’t however,” he finished in a quieter voice.

Edward nodded and he swallowed.  “How much have you decided to set their ransom at, Pop?”

The old man sighed and he ran one hand through his thinning hair.  “Hadn’t really thought about it—hadn’t actually set a price on the damn thing.”  He thought for a moment and he sighed again.  “I can’t go under 10,000 Bulls apiece.  Not and keep this looking like I mean it, Eddie.”

The young man winced and then he nodded again.  “I can work with that, Pop.”

Thomas snorted.  “I know your finances, son.  You can do this, but you will have almost nothing left except your pay as a Subaltern.”

“So be it,” answered Edward as he raised his head and looked his father squarely in his one remaining real eye.  “You can’t put a price tag on the honor of House Calderon, after all.”

For a moment, there was silence and then Thomas nodded, one tear flowing ragged along his cheek.  “In case I have not told you, son, I’m proud of you.  I’m proud of the man that you have become—in spite of me.”

“Because of you, Pop.  It’s because of you I am who I am.”

Thomas inhaled sharply and he nodded.  “Best you be going then.  You’ve got some more calls to make—and then an announcement, so you best be after it.”  He paused one last time.  “You come home, Eddie.  After you get Hanse Davion to sign that paper, you come home.”

“High water or Hell’s Heart, Pop.  I will.”

Taurian Defense Force Military Reservation (I Corps HQ)
Port Sheridan, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
February 11, 3026

The ranking officers of the TDF on New Vallis—and their mercenary associates, plus a handful of guests—all sat around a number of tables in the dining hall of the Officer’s Club.  This would be their final meal together, for tomorrow, Fleet Marshal Vickers would be returning to Taurus . . . and Edward, along with Ardan Sortek, his Foxhounds, and Wylie’s Coyotes would be heading into Federated Suns space.

As the stewards finished taking away the last of the plates, Edward Calderon stood and he faced the assembled crowd.  A hush fell over them as conversations came to a halt.

“As this is our last night on New Vallis, I wanted to thank Marshal Corey Calderon for allowing me to assist in the defense of this world,” Edward said as he smiled down at his distant cousin—an uncle in all but name.  “Even though he kept me in the command bunker instead of letting me go out to fight.”

And there was laughter throughout the room at that.

“Hell, boy,” Corey bellowed, “I’m more afraid of your father than I ever was of the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers!  Those Sassy Fools!”

And more laughter, as Edward smiled.

“He had reason to keep me safe, though, and I am grateful for the opportunity to learn from him.  And from each of you as well, I have learned much.  Colonel the Baron Erwin Tyrell taught me many things . . . some of which were actually worth learning,” Edward added with a broad smile and there was still more laughter and Erwin nodded at the slight dig made against him.

“Colonel Jamesen and Brigadiers Verbet and Montoya have taught me the meaning of patience and the value of resilience.  Of knowing when a fight has to be fought and to witness the courage it takes to fight even against the odds, knowing you are doing the right thing.”

No laughter this time, only applause and the three surviving Taurian regimental and battalion commanders nodded their appreciation.

“I’ve learned some hard lessons here,” Edward continued.  “I’ve learned that it is sometimes necessary to send men and women I know and care about into harm’s way—sometimes to their death,” and he saw Fleet Marshal Vickers nodding.  “I’ve learned that it is sometimes necessary to order the deaths of others for their crimes—and that if such a thing becomes necessary to bear witness to the execution.  If I give the order, I must be watch it carried out, I have found.  If I am to honor the man that I want to be,” Edward said.

There was no applause this time, no laughter, only a few faint cries of “Hear, hear!”

Edward paused.  “But we aren’t only killers, are we, my comrades-in-arms?  We are human beings, men and women, each and every one of us and we are able to be more.  And in being more, we often find we gain more.”

Edward stepped forward and he gestured at Ardan Sortek.  “Colonel Sortek, could you join me up here at the podium?” he asked.

Ardan looked at Edward, looked at the crowd, and Edward could see lips moving—a curse perhaps as he slowly stood and came up to stand beside Edward.

“Ardan Sortek didn’t have to come here to New Vallis with me.  He didn’t have to bring his men and women—some of whom died to defend this world—with me.  But he did.  And I promised him that I would pay his contract and that of Enzo Wylie.  Colonel Wylie has already received the transfer of funds he was promised; this however, belongs to the Foxhounds,” Edward said as he handed Ardan a Secure Financial Transfer Module.

Ardan looked pained as he took it, and Edward shook his head.  “Your men and women deserve this—20,000 Bulls for each and every one of them, including your fallen.  I would have given you more, but I unfortunately no longer have a fortune to spend,” he continued.

And there was silence in the crowd.  Ardan, Corey, Erwin, Helena, Tanis, Raphael . . . all of them just stared.

“I no longer have a fortune because my father decided to set the ransom on those former members of the 6th Syrtis Fusiliers who surrendered at 10,000 Bulls each.  That is a ransom that I have personally paid in full as of today, with the full knowledge and approval of my father.  It is your fortune, he told me, you may spend it how you wish.”

Edward paused and there wa silence in the room; many of the officers were just staring, slack-jawed and open-mouthed.  And even Ardan, up alongside the podium was shaking his head.

“Edward, that is over sixty-four million!” he sputtered.

The Protector’s heir nodded.  “They are free to leave New Vallis as free men.  They will travel alongside Colonel Wylie until they reach the Federated Suns and be repatriated,” Edward paused.  “I did not do this because I refused to see Davions suffer.  I did not do this because I wanted to forgive them and grant them release from their five years of service.  I did this because it became clear that too many of our own people would have done all they could to kill or main or cripple them—and we did not sentence them to that fate.”

“I did not.  My father did not.  Marshal Calderon did not.  Honor demands that if I cannot keep them safe—as prisoners who surrendered to me—it is my duty to send them where they can be safe.  And so I have, despite what many of you and many of my countrymen might think of that decision.”

Edward shook his head and he smiled.  “I would do it again, if I had to.  I would give up my fortune once more to retain the honor of my House and my own self.  Ladies, gentlemen, it has been my distinct honor to have served here with you all.  Good fortune.”

Helena Vickers and Corey Calderon rose and began to clap and then one-by-one, each of the others in the room did so as well.

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

Edward was shaking hands and saying farewells as he tried to make his way through the crowd to the exit—to escape.  When he saw two familiar faces blocking his path, the last two to block his way to the door.

“You know,” Erwin said as he shook his head, “when I first met you I thought you a fool.  I learned better, but then you did this.  Gave up the fortune your mother left you—for your honor.”  He shook his head again and then he smiled.  “Seldom have I been so wrong about another man, my Lord Edward.”

Erwin put out his hand and Edward took and the two shook, and then Edward looked at Moira and she smiled back at him.

“I’m not rich anymore,” Edward said.  “I’m not broke, but I’m not rich.  Hope you weren’t interested in me for my money.”

“I’ve got money,” she replied.  “But you are wealthy in ways that no bank can ever tabulate, Lord Edward.”  She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips and beside her, Edward heard her father groan.  “Write me and let me know you are safe.”

“I will if you will,” Edward answered with a grin and then he kissed her back.

“Oh, for the love of God!” Erwin sputtered beside them, and both Edward and Moira began to laugh.

Talk about promotions! 

Cháteau des Calderon
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
February 19, 3026

Thomas Calderon stood as Helena Vickers and Jack Fletcher were escorted into his office.  Henri Jouett, Brenda Calderon, and Raoul Calderon were already present, along with the Exchequer of the Concordat Semyon Cantrell.

Thomas scowled; he still wasn’t entirely happy that Helena had revealed the truth about the Samantha Calderon and her crew to Ardan Sortek . . . but the woman had done so to help keep Edward safe . . . and because of that, Henri, Brenda, and Raoul had talked him out of launching into a blistering tirade.

“Welcome back to Taurus,” the Protector said instead.  “Will you join us?” he asked.

“The Protector’s request is our literal order,” Helena answered with a slight smile.

“Would you care for some coffee, tea, wine, or, perhaps, something stronger?” Raoul asked before Thomas could respond acidly and his brother nodded at the Minister-without-A-Portfolio.

“No thank you, Minister Calderon,” Helena answered.  “Jack had hoped to have this meeting before we departed for New Vallis, but we were in a rush to get out there in time, as you know.”

Thomas nodded.  Commander Fletcher had requested this meeting just hours before the news of the invasion of New Vallis had reached the capital . . . and that Edward had returned to that to aid in the defense.  There had not been time to meet before Vickers had departed, but whatever the engineer wanted to discuss must be urgent, because he had once again made the request last evening when the WarShip had returned to Station Three.

“I presume that this concerns your report on the status of Vandenberg?  You completed your survey the day before you left Taurus,” the Protector continued.

“Yes, Sir,” the engineer answered.  “That is one of the reasons that I requested this meeting.”  He paused and ran a hand through his thinning hair.  “She’s a bloody mess, that Terran boondoggle.  Can’t fathom why the bloody Terries would build a 420,000 ton Compact Core WarShip, give her paper-thin armor, less weapons than most Assault DropShips, and the fighter complement of a Leopard CV!  There are cheaper ways to build a bloody freighter!”

“Jack,” Helena growled softly.

“Sorry, Ma’am, Sirs,” he said after a moment.  “She needs a lot of work—eighteen months at a minimum—but I think we can rebuild her into something we can use.”

Semyon Cantrell frowned.  “And just how much will that cost, Commander?”

“A lot,” Jack replied bluntly.  “But, if you want her back in service, the cost will have to be borne out.”

“We will be receiving funds relatively soon from our offering the Vickers Core to Marik, Steiner, Kurita, and Centrella . . . Duchess Humphreys of Andurien may make a bid as well.  And when Edward is successful in his mission, we will receive funding from the Federated Suns,” Henri interjected.

“I would prefer not to spend in advance the eggs our chickens have not yet laid, Minister Jouett,” replied Cantrell.  “Still, even Alvarez might pay us something for a copy of the Core.”

Thomas shook his head.  “The Outworlders fought against McCarron alongside us,” he said briskly and in a strong voice.  “Their agents will take home a copy of the Core non-gratis to show the Alliance our appreciation for their standing besides us when few others would.  Once you find those idiots out there in the wilds of Gamma Continent, Henri.”

“Already done, my Protector,” Henri said with a smile.  “Our Search-and-Rescue Teams found them this morning . . . and they also found what those two managed to discover.”

Thomas blinked and everyone in the room got silent.

“They found something . . . on Gamma?” Thomas sputtered.

Henri nodded.  “Seems they had some good intelligence based on very old information they dug up on Alpheratz . .  .the SLDF built an intelligence station way out there on Gamma to monitor signal traffic here on Taurus.  My people and those from the Science Ministry are going through the place, but it is a treasure trove of computers and surveillance gear, mostly still operational in a sealed—well, it was sealed—underground bunker.”

“Another Core?” Brenda asked in a strained voice.

“No.  It was a very small and clandestine operation, but Fitz-Hugh and Milbarge found it for us,” Henri frowned.  “Which is what we should have done ourselves decades ago.  The bastards had built dedicated taps into all of our secure government communications links before the Uprising and the Amaris Coup.  They were reading our secure internal mail just as soon as it got sent; thankfully, most of those systems have been replaced over the centuries since and the taps lead to—mostly—dead ends today.”

“Will miracles never cease,” Thomas muttered, then he shook his heads.  “The Alliance gets their copy of the Core for free; we Taurians pay our debts.”

Semyon Cantrell grimaced, but everyone else in the room nodded.

“What exactly needs to be done to get the Vandenberg ready for service?” the Protector asked.

“Well, the transit drives are almost completely inoperative, my Lord.  WarShip transit drives are quite different from those of DropShips and Aerospace Fighters, and the people that you had trying to repair them, made all of the mistakes that someone unfamiliar with their systems can possibly make.  Fortunately, we have all of the parts we need on hand, and fixing those in-system drives is rather simple, if somewhat time consuming.”

Jack paused.  “But the sensor arrays are gone; whoever hid the Vandenberg did so inside an irradiated belt of the Hyades and all of external sensor arrays will need to be replaced.  Along with the armor, what little the Vincent-class carries.  The sensors are not a problem; sure, you haven’t had to design WarShip sensors for centuries, but it isn’t any different from the long-range sensors you have emplaced on your stations.  The armor, on the other hand, is almost useless . . . and we cannot produce the Ferro-Carbide composites that New Delhi used for the Vincent.”

Jack shrugged.  “But we don’t have to.  We’ve already got factories here in the Concordat that are gearing up to produce the IFA that armors the Samantha Calderon, and incidentally produce Ferro-Aluminum armor for Aerospace Fighters and DropShips as well as Ferro-Fibrous armor for ‘Mechs and vehicles,  and we can simply replace the original Ferro-Carbide with Improved Ferro-Aluminum with little problems.”

And he smiled.  “In fact, we can improve the overall armor protection by installing a far heavier belt of armor than the Terries ever intended for the Vincents to carry; of course, without reinforcing the structural integrity of the hull, it will still be relatively light armor protection . . . at least from my point of view and that of the Fleet Marshal.”

Thomas frowned.  “You cannot reinforce the structure of the hull?”

“I could, my Lord, but it would triple the cost and double the time required.  We—the Fleet Marshal, the Marshal of the Armies, and I—have decided that it would be simpler to avoid he added expense and time required and accept a vessel with less armor protection than the old TCN would have endorsed.”

Thomas nodded his understanding.  And then Jack continued.

“She will be fragile for a vessel of her size, but once we replace the sensors and armor and get her transit drives operational, she will be able to maneuver and fight.”

He paused again.  “Or, she could if she had any functioning weapon systems.”

He looked down at his hands and shook his head.  “None of her guns are operational, but we—the three of us—have some ideas about how to deal with that.  Now, the Terries classified the Vincent as a Corvette, but she’s only twenty-thousand tons lighter than the Concordat-class Frigate that the TCN used to field.  She’s in the size range of what we would term a Destroyer and with no docking collars that is what she should actually be.  Now,” Jack carried on as Thomas listened intently, “we have looked at what the Concordat actually needs.  We need an escort that is designed to deal with hostile aerospace fighters determined to kill the Samantha Calderon.  That is the greatest threat that the Inner Sphere possesses right now, sending in groups and regiments of ASF to kill the Saucy Sam with Alamos.”

Jack paused again and he smiled.  “But there are two answers to that problem.  First option, we remake the Vandenberg into an Aerospace Fighter Carrier.  We can easily fit one hundred and twenty-eight aerospace fighters onboard her, but there aren’t one hundred and twenty-eight spare ASF in the Concordat right now, my Lord.  That is the best option, but one we can’t quite get to.”

“Next, we looked at making her into a Gunboat Carrier, but even though Gunboats are heavier and tougher and carry more armament, they are also slower than ASF.  And even with sixty-four embarked, we are not certain that those numbers can stop a determined attack by one of the Great Houses.”

“So, what then?” Thomas asked.  “If we can’t provide enough Aerospace Fighters and our Gunboats won’t get the job done, what are you planning to do?

Jack smiled.  “First of all, we are going to give Vandenberg a conventional scale flak-belt identical to that of the Samantha Calderon.  While we are at it, we are going to increase fuel bunkers to give her the same amount of endurance at 1-G thrust as the battleship; we will expand the fighter and small craft bays to accommodate a Taurian Aerospace Fighter Division—eight fighters—and a pair of small craft.”

“Which is work easily accomplished.  But the main goal that the Fleet Marshal, the Marshal of the Armies, and I have decided upon is this:  we are going to replace the capital scale weaponry—non-functional weaponry—aboard the Vandenberg with forty-eight Barracuda Capital Missile Launchers.”

Thomas blinked.  “Forty-eight,” he sputtered, “capital missile launchers?  We don’t have forty-eight capital missile launchers!”

“Not right now, my Lord,” Jack answered.  “But we have already contracted with several armament manufacturers for producing new Capital Missiles—Barracudas, White Sharks, and Killer Whales—for the Samantha Calderon.  Now, the Barracuda is the lightest of these and the easiest to produce, although the advanced seeker heads might prove somewhat problematic; in which case, we will simply remove them and reproduce the Nike missile that the TCN used in the early 24th Century before the Barracuda was invented.  Not as accurate, but every bit as effective against hostile fighters as the Barracuda.  And we are working with those defense contractors to build the launchers themselves; they should be ready in the next twelve to thirteen months to begin production.”

Jack smiled and Helena nodded.  “What will we have in eighteen months, Sire, is a formidable escort ship for the Samantha Calderon that can pour pure unadulterated Hell into a hostile fighter strike from far beyond their own attack range.  And with deep enough magazines to fire a full thirty salvos—one thousand, four hundred and forty Capital Missiles.  With the Vandenberg refitted to serve in this role—as an Anti-Aerospace Destroyer Escort—we can stop dead cold any attempt to engage the Saucy Sam with less than an entire Regiment of Aerospace Fighters!”

Thomas sat back and then he nodded.  “Approved.  Damn the expense, make it happen, Commander Fletcher,” and then he paused.  “You said this was one of things you wanted to speak with me about?”

And here, Jack grimaced.  “Yes, my Lord Protector,” he said quietly.  “It is about the HPGs.”

“You got them to work—we’ve got six functioning HPGs in the Concordat and we are operating them . . .,” but his voice trailed off as he saw the look on the Commander’s face.

“I did, and we do.  But in six months we won’t have any,” the engineer said flatly.

“WHAT?!?” Thomas bellowed.

“I understand the theory behind the HPGs, Protector Thomas,” he said quietly, “and I can operate them to some degree.  But after looking closely at their components,” and he shook his head.  “This technology is at least a century beyond me.  There are components that the system simply requires to function . . . and I can’t for the life of me understand how they were manufactured.  Their constituent alloys I have never seen or imagined.”

“We can’t replicate them?” Thomas asked.

“We can.  We will.  But it will take decades, Sire,” Jack answered.

“But we can run the HPGs until then, right?”

“One of the main components we are looking at has been deliberately designed with a six month life-expectancy, Protector Thomas.  Class A stations generally have enough stores on hand to replace those components twice; Class B stations just have one spare for each.  And we cannot reproduce those parts.  Not now, maybe not for twenty or twenty-five years, once we start heavy research into the materials sciences that were used to build the damn things.”

Thomas sat for a moment.  “Where does ComStar get the parts?” he asked and he feared that he already knew the answer.

“According to the former ComStar personnel now working for us, the only factory for these components is on Terra, Sire.  Nowhere else has the knowledge or facilities to produce these components at this time.  I can get all of the HPGs we seized up and running, Sire, but in six months—a year at the outside—they are all going down and I cannot restore them after that.  Not without new parts.”

“From Comstar,” Thomas whispered.

And Jack nodded.

Thomas looked over a Henri Jouett, who shrugged.  “It was never a sure thing we could run the HPGs . . . and ComStar does insist it wants to start talks,” but the look in the spymaster’s face said he knew perfectly well—as did Thomas—that ComStar was not to be trusted.

Thomas cursed under his breath and he shook his head.  “Doesn’t the Data Core contain any information that might help?” he snapped.

Jack started to answer, but Helena put her hand on his shoulder.  “Thomas Calderon,” she said, “we didn’t know everything.  And we had no idea that what you call the HPG was even possible—it was just something theorized that no one had ever made work.  We just don’t know enough to make building these parts possible, much less practical, at the current time.  Give us ten, fifteen, twenty years?  We might.  But your communications are going to go down in just one year.  At the most.  It isn’t what you want to hear, Protector, but it is what you need to hear—and to understand.  Either we rely on JumpShips as couriers—and we don’t have enough to keep them permanently on station in every system—or we agree to start negotiations with ComStar to stop the Interdiction and get them to resume control over the stations.”

And she paused.  “Of course, we can always insist that they don’t have total control,” she said with a slight grin.

“What she means, my Protector,” added Henri Jouett, “is that after ComStar acted in such bad faith, perhaps they might be persuaded to allow representatives of our government assigned to each HPG station to monitor the official communications of our government that are transmitted.”

Thomas frowned.  “Would they agree?” he asked.

Henri shrugged.  “I have no idea; but we can talk about it with their leadership at the conference they have asked us for . . . if you decide to attend.  Otherwise . . .,” and Henri shook his head.

“Damn it,” muttered Thomas.  “Otherwise, we will never get this Interdiction lifted and lose interstellar communications in a matter of months!”

There was silence in the room until Thomas at last looked up Raoul; his brother nodded and then Thomas sighed.  “Alright.  Henri, let them know we are willing to meet.  On one of our worlds, and protected by the best that the TDF has to offer!”

“As you command, my Lord,” Henri answered as Thomas stood, followed by everyone in the room.

SLDF Signals Intercept Station TC-01
Calderon Nature Preserve, Gamma Continent, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
February 22, 3026

“Junk,” the worker grumbled as he slowly catalogued the items discovered within the hidden facility.  “It’s all obsolete junk.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said a second worker as he placed a carefully wrapped piece of equipment into a carrying case and sealed the top.  “How much has communications and surveillance equipment really changed in the past two hundred years?  Sure, we’ve got tons of archives to go through, all from before the fall of the Star League and most of that data is out of date and useless; well, except to historians.  But, the actual comms and surveillance devices and computers?  All of that is still in pretty good shape.”

“All we are doing here is cataloguing this stuff, damn it!” the first one snarled.  “I’m a researcher, for god’s sake . . . and there isn’t anything here worth researching!”

The second man sighed and he shook his head.  “You are a junior researcher, just like me, Bradley.  And the only way to get to be a senior researcher, doing the research you want to do, is to do a good job doing the things you are told to do.  So get on it with and quit your bitching, man.”

“Easy for you to say, Esteban . . . you belong to one of the Founding Families.  You got a leg up the day you were born.”

“So?  Where am I right now?  Right here in this hole in the ground on Gamma doing the same exact job that you are doing.  My family doesn’t mean squat—if I can’t do this job well, how can the bosses trust me doing something more important?”

Bradley shook his head.  “It just isn’t fair.  I had a hot date set up for this weekend and then they fly us out here on just an hour’s notice!  And we are going to stay here—no restaurants, no feminine companionship, no booze!—for at least two weeks!”  He was so worked up that he punched the wall.  “It isn’t fair!”  And his second punch broke through the dry wall.

“Brad?  You okay, man?” Esteban asked in a more concerned voice.

“What the hell?  This is a false wall—there’s a room back here!”

“What about your hand?  You punched the wall pretty damn hard.”

Brad looked down and finally noticed it was bruised and cut, but then he shook his head.  “I’ll live—let’s take a look back here.  They must have hid something.  Maybe something more important than the rest of this junk.”

Esteban sighed.  “More likely, they sealed it up because they were down-sized and didn’t need the extra space.  You want to clean an extra dozen rooms when you don’t have to?”

Brad just glared at his partner.  “You take all the fun out of everything.”

“I try,” Esteban replied with a grin.  “Are the lights in there working?”

Brad put his eye down near the hole and he nodded.  “Yep.  Doesn’t seem like they would have left the lights connected if they didn’t need the room or rooms, does it?” he asked hopefully.

“Maybe you are right,” Esteban answered slowly.

“Hand me that pry-bar,” Brad said firmly.  And few minutes later, there was a man-sized hole in the wall of the store-room.

Brad stepped through, followed by Esteban and the two of them looked around.  No exits---just more shelves lined with dusty travel cases, some small, some large.

“More junk,” Brad said and then cursed softly.

“Maybe not,” Esteban said just as quietly.  “All of these cases are marked CLASSIFIED—SPECIAL CLEARANCE.  And have two seals, one from SLDF Communications Command and the second from SLDF Intelligence Command.”

Brad snorted.  “Intel files from two centuries ago—special clearance, my ass.”

“I don’t think all of these are files, Brad,” Esteban said as he wiped the dust off one of the largest cases—a heavy black armored case.  “I think we need to get the bosses down here.”

Brad stepped up and he looked at the case and letters stenciled on it.  “What the hell is a Model K-0 Transmitter?”

Cháteau des Calderon
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
February 26, 3026

“A what?” asked Thomas Calderon. 

“The item appears to be designated as a Model K-0 Transmitter, Sire,” answered Henri Jouett.  “It is almost unremarkable in appearance—about the size of a large suitcase.  But the case itself is armored and the equipment inside,” Henri paused and he smiled.  “We weren’t certain what we were dealing with, but there was a file attached to the outside of the travel case it was stored in.”

Henri slid a file folder—containing copies of the original file—onto the Protector’s desk and Thomas began to read.

“This is correspondence—from 2634!—between that hidden facility on Gamma and SLDF Communications Command on Terra.  Ordering the recall of four Model K-0 Transmitters to Terra, and return messages sent citing that getting the equipment out clandestinely was not possible as it risked exposing the existence of the facility to our predecessors,” Henri continued.  “One of whom had decided to prove himself as able as any big game hunter in recorded history and had just moved the entire Protector’s Court out to Gamma to spend a year on safari.”

Thomas snorted.  “Malachi Calderon—known as Mal the Mad.  Harmless enough, but he left the government in the hands of his advisors and spent his time enjoying himself.  Lucky him.”

Henri nodded his agreement.  “The next communicade then instructs the Chief of the Station to destroy the four Model K-0’s that were stored at the Station; once again he protests as the facility is too small to do so underground and setting of an explosive device on the surface might be noticed by the sensor satellites of the time as well as Malachi’s guards on his safari—they set their base camp quite close to this facility by accident of fate.”

“Finally,” he said with a smile, “Terra authorized their Station Chief to lock these devices away until he or his successor could successfully move them off-planet.  After that?”  Henri shrugged.  “It appears as if the Star League bureaucracy simply forgot that the devices still existed.  And they have sat there since 2634 in a room sealed away from the remainder of the facility, along with case after case of highly classified transmissions received and retransmitted by SLDF SIS TC-01.”

“And?” asked the Protector as he looked up at Henri.  “These are all blurbs—look like old telegrams out of one of my favorite Westerns.”

“They do.  Those are the transmissions received and passed along via the Model K-0 Transmitters, Sire.”

“Received and passed along . . .,” Thomas began and then he stopped.  “Some of these are from New Syrtis, from Robsart, from Electra, from Victoria!  How could this device have received them—and transmitted them?”

“I have no idea, Sire.  But one of the devices included an Operator’s Manual.  According to that manual, the Model K-0 Transmitter was an early Star League attempt at FTL communication and the first prototype was tested in 2570—the same year the Reunification War began.  It was a success and several thousand were produced, but the devices had just a 100 light-year maximum range and were restricted to a couple of hundred kilobytes of information—text only, no images, no holograms, no audio, no video.  Like an old-style telegram or facsimile transmission.”

“Why would they stop using this?” Thomas asked.

“Why would they not?” Henri answered with a question of his own.  “An HPG—which they were getting ready to reveal in the 2360s—is far more capable.  This thing is obsolete compared to even an HPG “B” Station.  And it is slow.  Whereas an HPG transmission is instantaneous to the receiving station, the messages this transmitter sends only travel 10 light-years in an hour.  Getting a message here to a planet a hundred light-years away would take ten hours.  At least twenty to get a reply back if you needed one.”

“Now, I asked Commander Fletcher to take a look at one of these and he and several of the top scientists that were aboard the passenger quarters of the Samantha Calderon have poured over it the last two days.  They don’t understand the theory, but they do understand the technology.  And we can build it.  Not today, not within a year.  But within five?  Within five years, they are certain we can begin producing these for ourselves.”

Thomas began to smile.  “And then we can tell ComStar to get the Hell out of the Concordat and stay out,” he growled.

“Two problems with that,” interjected Henri, “as much as I hate to bust your bubble of glee there, my Protector.  First of all, almost no one else has these.  So.  If Vandenberg Mechanized Industries or Pinard Protectorates Limited or Taurus Territorial Industries or any other of our industrial giants wants to communicate with customers outside the Concordat, we cannot rely on these.  Second, they are omni-directional, unlike an HPG.  You send a transmission and any Model K-0 within 100 light-years will receive the message—even if it isn’t one of yours.”

Thomas’s single natural eye narrowed. “Almost no one else has these?” He asked.  “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Over the forty-eight hours since we turned one of the devices on, we have received seven messages from systems in the Capellan March—including New Syrtis.  Apparently, the Federated Suns has several of these as well.  And has had them long enough that they have been distributed and are being used.”

“And if we use them . . .,” Thomas began.

“. . . they will know we have them,” Henri finished.  “On the bright side, apparently they believe that they alone have this technology—and they might well have been right until yesterday . . . because none of the messages we have so far received have been encrypted.”

Thomas laughed.  “We are reading their mail?”

“We are, my Protector.  Providing that mail originates within 100 light-years of Taurus.”

“Anything I need to be concerned with?”

“Actually, no.  But there is a great deal here that validates Edward’s views toward the Federated Suns and Hanse Davion.  It seems that Prince Davion is absolutely furious over what Michael Hasek-Davion nearly managed to pull off—without the approval of or any authorization from New Avalon.  Their Intelligence Ministry is sending out inquiries in regards to people loyal enough to the former Duke of the Capellan March to attempt to start another incident—along with orders to quash those efforts hard.  In fact, Hanse Davion himself is en route to New Syrtis to set his own people in line—with two full RCTs backing him up.”

Thomas frowned.  “It could be a deliberate misdirection—what if he attacks with those two RCTs and other forces in the Capellan and Crucis Marches?”

Henri snorted.  “Hanse Davion would have to be the Devil himself to arrange for us to find these devices and plan on us overhearing his instructions just to lull ourselves into a false sense of security before he comes crashing over the border.  No, Sire.  And he is planning on meeting with Edward on New Syrtis instead of New Avalon.”

“Could h-he,” and Thomas swallowed.  “Could he be considering taking my son prisoner in retaliation for our killing his brother-in-law?”

“Not according to these transmissions—he is instructing his people on the ground, people loyal to him personally, to ensure that Edward stays safe and secure while he is in the Federated Suns.  Sire,” Henri continued.  “Edward was right.  Not about everything, but he was right about enough that I think we can trust him to be right on Hanse Davion.”

“I can’t trust a Davion!” Thomas snapped.  And then he sighed.  “But I trust Edward.  Okay.  We have these, we can build more in a few years, even if we don’t understand the theory.  But we can’t use them without letting the Fox know we have them.  So what, Henri?”

“We listen.  We learn.  And we respond when and where appropriate to keep your realm—and your people—safe, my Protector.  If Hanse Davion ever decides to invade the Concordat, we should have some alert passed along via these devices before that ever happens.  Not that I believe it is going to happen, if some of what I have been reading is true.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.  It seems that Michael Hasek-Davion was in league with Maximillian Liao; he was a traitor to the Federated Suns.”

Thomas frowned.  “And Max invaded us, just as Michael did.  They were working together?” he snarled.

“Unknown.  But apparently, there are preparations being made by the Federated Suns for some action—not in the immediate future, but it can’t be further away than five years—against the Capellan Confederation to settle this and other scores.”

“And nothing about operations against us?”

“Not one word, my Protector,” answered Henri.  “In fact, some of the transmissions have been asking New Avalon that if the talks with Edward go well, would it be beneficial to factor into their plans a possible Taurian drive into the Victoria Commonality.”

Thomas just sat there, his mouth opening and closing without a single sound.

Henri chuckled, “So far, all responses have been its too early to tell.  Make your plans without factoring in the TDF or Wolf’s Dragoons.  It seems the Dragoons have informed the Federated Suns that will be in transit through the Federated Suns en route to the Concordat to take up station here as contracted mercenaries.  I’ve seen a general advisory to that effect on one of the transmissions.”

Finally, Thomas swallowed.  “It’s a new world, Henri,” he said very quietly.  “I’m not certain I’m the man to lead the Concordat into it.”

“Sire, you are . . .,” Henri began.

“I’m not.  And you know I’m not.  Even at my best, I’m not.  But you think Edward is?” he asked, looking Henri square in the eyes.

“I do.  He’s your son—and your first wife’s, God rest her soul.  He’s the best of both of you—and he doesn’t want your job, Thomas.”

Thomas snorted.  “Hell, I don’t want my job, Henri.”  And then he sighed again.  “Okay.  Get your people listening in on their internal communications—and let’s spread these devices out a little.  Send one out to Amber Grove and a second one to Althea’s Choice—that will give us a little more depth to intercept any messages from the Crucis March.”  Thomas snorted.  “We’ll keep the other two here on Taurus.  One in your hands and one for the scientists and engineers to dissect and figure out exactly what makes it tick.”

“I’m not certain we are going to get many messages from that part of the Crucis March, Sire.  Although,” he mused, “we might get some information out of Panpour and their JumpShip yards there.”

“Can’t hurt, can it?” Thomas asked.

“It can if we lose one of these devices,” Henri answered.

Thomas snorted.  “So don’t lose it—that’s an order, Henri.”

“I live to serve, Sire,” the Intelligence Minister replied with a bow as Thomas began laughing.

The Obsidian Fortress
Saso, New Syrtis
Federated Suns
February 28, 3026

“Hanse, are you certain you want to do this?” asked Marie Louise Davion-St. Claire (formerly Hasek-Davion) in a very quiet voice.  “Rebecca has been doing well as Minister standing in for Mich-. . .,” but she was suddenly cut off.

“Rebecca Hasek,” and Hanse Davion deliberately left off the hyphenated ‘–Davion’ that Michael had insisted his sister legally change her name to, “is on my naughty list.  There is no way that Michael managed to convince five RCT and one Regimental commander in the Capellan March to undertake his failed invasion without at least her knowledge.”  His voice hardened.  “She did nothing.  She did not even attempt to inform me.  No, Marie,” he continued in a softer tone.  “She is not going be Minister of the Capellan March, not even interim.”

Marie began to say something else and Hanse shook his head.  “No.  Morgan is too young for the post—and there are still some questions about his loyalties, especially with the manner in which his father died and the accusations coming to light about Michael’s extra-curricular activities.”

Hanse sighed.  “I’ve already relieved both Fiona and Tamara of their commands . . . publically, it will seem as though I let them resign their commissions and retire with honor, but let us be honest, Marie.  I sacked both of them.  And I did the same thing to Major General Jara Dahar.  I’d do the same thing to Stephen Cooper and Robert Johnstadt, but they at least had the sense to obey my orders when they got delivered here to New Syrtis!”

“The only reason that Stephen Cooper is not wearing manacles and waiting for a Court-Martial and still a Colonel and remains in command of the BattleMech Regiment at the heart of my Assault Guards is that he insists—and General Gavin confirmed—that while the Assault Guards were going to jump towards the Taurian Concordat, they were not going to follow the route they were assigned by Michael,” Hanse continued with a scowl on his face.  “They were headed for Lindsay with the intention of sending a priority message via HPG to me on New Avalon and let me know what was going on.  And the navigation data from their JumpShips backed up that story.”

He gestured at his sister.  “Sit down, Marie, please.  I get enough of the hoopla on New Avalon, I don’t need any more from my sister.”

“Half-sister, Hanse,” she said with a soft smile as she sat.  “Did not want to offer you les-majesty, after all.”

Hanse Davion snorted.  “I could use a little of that from time to time—although Ardan does a good job of reminding me, ‘You, too, are only human.’  Quintus tells me he believes that Morgan is loyal not just to the Federated Suns, but to me personally, and that he has no intentions of following in his father’s footsteps.  Hell, I like the man he is becoming!  But, right now, I need to make certain that I’ve got someone out here I can trust, someone that can do the job right and not fall victim to various plots and intrigues.”

He held up one hand.  “I will, however, confirm him as the Duke of New Syrtis tomorrow, Marie.  But, I am not going to make him—at age 21—the Minister of the Capellan March and Field Marshall of the AFFS in command of one-third the armed forces of this realm.”  And then Hanse chuckled.  “Besides, it would break his heart to have to give up his command in the Heavy Guards and come home to New Syrtis without ever seeing combat—and you know it.”

Marie laughed.  “Well do I know it!  He takes more after our father, and you and Ian, than he does after Michael.”  She paused and her smile faded and then she sighed.  “He was once so eager to gain his father’s respect, but then Michael,” and she shook her head, “he always knew how to ruin things.  After that chess game, Morgan kept his distance and tried his best to just avoid his father’s company.”

She waited a minute.  “It would be a cold day in hell, Hanse, before he ever followed in Michael’s footsteps.”

“I know, but I can’t risk it.  Not right now, Marie.”  Hanse sighed.  “So, are you going to take the job or not?”

“You have better people for it, Hanse,” she answered quietly.

“No one as admired as you are in the March,” he said in return.  “Take the job—as Morgan’s regent if nothing else.  When he is a little more seasoned, I will appoint him as Minister, but it won’t be tomorrow.”

There was silence for a moment, and the Marie nodded.  “Okay, then.”

Hanse smiled.  “You know, sometime we are going to have to meet at something outside of funerals and crisis situations; maybe a family retreat somewhere quiet and peaceful.”

“Like you and I could get that lucky!” she snorted in amused agreement.

There was a knock at the door, and then it opened and Quintus entered the room.  “He’s here, your Grace.”

Hanse nodded and he stood, followed by Marie.  “We are going to have to cut this short, sister dear,” he said then he leaned forward and kissed her on the check.  She hugged him in return.

“See you tomorrow, little brother,” she said with a grin as she left.

After a few moments, Quintus returned and in his wake was Ardan Sortek.

“Welcome home, Ardan,” Hanse said warmly and he extended his hand.  “How was life as a mercenary?”

“Decent enough, my Prince,” his best friend answered as he took Hanse’s hand and shook it warmly.  “Although I am glad to wearing an AFFS uniform once again.”

Hanse sat, and he gestured at both Ardan and Quintus and the two men sat as well.  “Heard you got into a little bit of a battle there at the end of that business on New Vallis?”

“We did; lost five ‘Mechs and two MechWarriors during the fighting, but Edward gave the Foxhounds . . .,” and Ardan paused as he blushed, Hanse and Quintus not even bothering to hide their grins, “ah, the 2nd Battalion, Heavy Guards, first choice of the salvage.  We are back up to strength in ‘Mechs and the with the rest of the Heavy Guards RCT here on New Syrtis, we also have replacement MechWarriors.  We are back up to full strength, Sire.”

“Good,” Hanse said quietly and he cast a glance at Quintus who shrugged.  “Tell about him, Ardan,” the First Prince commanded in a soft voice.

“Edward?” Ardan asked and Hanse nodded.  “He’s . . .,” and Ardan paused.  “He’s complicated, Sire.  He’s young—late 20’s.  He’s never piloted a ‘Mech in combat.  But, he has a spine.  He knows he doesn’t know everything and he asks the right questions; doesn’t always take advice, much like someone else I know,” and Hanse made a ‘moi?’ gesture with one hand as Ardan nodded, “but he makes his decisions and he stands by them.”

“Like hanging the survivors of the Sixth?” Quintus asked.  “That has set the temperature of the Capellan March to boiling.”

“He gave them chance after chance to surrender—and he did that only after Michael tried to nuke his own people—and the Taurian citizens helping them—at the surrender point Edward had designated.”  Ardan shook his head.  “I wouldn’t have done it, but he has to walk a fine line between being conciliatory to us and appearing weak at home.  He’s no good to you if his own people believe him to be a sell-out.”

“Tell me about him, Ardan.  The man, not the persona he wears,” Hanse commanded again.  “Can I work with him?  Can I make a deal with him?  Will he stab in the back first chance he gets if doing so gives a political advantage at home?”

Ardan paused now and then he nodded.  “He’s a lot like you and Ian in your late 20’s.  Damn, first time I saw him, I swear he could have been Ian reincarnated.  You can work with him, Sire.  You can trust him to stand by his word once he makes a deal—even if it costs him at home.  Look what he did to make sure that the surviving personnel of the Sixth who surrendered were treated fairly and kept safe.”

Hanse nodded and he looked at Quintus again.  Then he turned his gaze back to Ardan.  “So, he’s not his father?”

“He . . . he is the best parts of his father.  Without the paranoia and inflexibility.  He genuinely wants a normalization of relations with the Federated Suns; last week,” Ardan continued as he sat back and crossed his legs, “he said something to me.  He doesn’t know about your and Kartina’s plan to form the Federated Commonwealth, but he said, ‘Ardan, whether or not the wedding happens, this super-state is already here.  Katrina and Hanse have gone too far not to finish the job and the rest of us really small fish in a huge ocean need to get our houses in order or we will just wind up being absorbed.  Either militarily or economically.  The Concordat’s best chance for a bright future is to end this unrelenting hostility with the Federated Suns over what happened almost five centuries ago!’  And he is right, Sire.  He wants to work with you—and he brought with him a complete copy of the Data Core.”

Hanse glanced at Quintus again.  “He has it aboard his DropShip?”

“He does—under heavy guard.  I wouldn’t recommend trying to steal it; that would sour relations but good, my friend.”

“After what happened on Taurus, I wouldn’t dream of it, Ardan,” Hanse answered and he grinned, but Quintus only scowled. 

And softly muttered, “Just wait until Phil Sheridan gets here and we debrief him in person, I want to know what he was thinking!”

“We weren’t there, Quintus.  Didn’t you tell me never to second-guess agents in the field?”

“You are their monarch, Sire.  I am their boss.  He could have told me what was going on!”

“With the HPGs down?”

“That why we have courier JumpShips and the border is just one jump away.”

“That is for later, Quintus.  Right now, I need to know—how much is Edward going to push to get me to cough up?  I’ve already paid a heavy price to be able to pay the price?  What is he going to want?”

Ardan sighed.  “Some of those with him are pushing him to ask for the return of a dozen systems that used to belong to the Taurian Concordat, along with quite a bit of money and a free trade agreement,” and Hanse’s face could have been carved from stone, it appeared so still and hard.  But Ardan shook his head.  “Edward overruled them.  He might start high, but he will settle on something reasonable.”

“Is the information in the Core worth it?” asked Quintus.

“I’m not a scientist nor am I an engineer,” replied Ardan.  “That being said, we could definitely use this to our advantage.  NAIS will have a field day—and there are things in there—lost early Star League technologies—that will enhance our military once we get the factories to produce them up and running.  Never mind the WarShip data.”

“They are giving us that?” Quintus asked in a shocked voice.

“Thomas was hell-bent on refusing, but Edward talked him into it,” Ardan answered.

“Well, we have Doctor Banzai out here with us—just in case they let us have a glance at what they are offering.”

“And I bet half of Team Banzai are here as well—all posing as scientists and engineers with their ‘Mechs stored aboard their DropShips,” Ardan commented dryly.

“I wouldn’t take that bet,” Hanse answered with a smile of his own.  “Okay.  Anything else you need to tell me?”

“Nothing that can’t wait—except, that WarShip Thomas found and salvaged?  He didn’t salvage it.  It had a misjump at the tail end of the Reunification War and reappeared here and now—with a crew from that time onboard.  Helena Vickers is the commander.  That Helena Vickers, Hanse.”

For a moment no one said anything, and then Hanse whispered, “Damn.”

“Yes indeed,” Ardan answered.  “She’s every bit as impressive as the histories make her out to be—and quite concerned with the safety of young Edward.”

“It is a good thing then that I have no intention of harming him in any way,” Hanse replied with a slight grin.  And then he stood, followed by Ardan and Quintus.  “In that case, care to join me for dinner and tell me what glory the Foxhounds found on New Vallis?”