OBT Forum

Chapter One

Taurian Concordat Navy DropShip Black Bull
Samantha City Spaceport, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 22, 3025

Space Master Anton Lefebvre stood as his passenger entered the compact bridge of the DropShip reserved for the use of the Protector of the Taurian Concordat.  “Lord Calderon,” he greeted the young man with a salute.  “The Protector wishes to speak with you before departure."

“Thank you, Space Master,” Edward replied with a nod—not saluting in return since he was (technically) not acting in his role as a TDF officer today.  No, for today and the duration of this assignment, he was instead the Protector’s Heir and designated Special Ambassador to the Federated Suns.  “Open a channel, if you please.”

Anton nodded and snapped his fingers—the highly experienced crew was already anticipating the order and in short order the image of Thomas Calderon appeared on several monitors.

“Ah, Edward,” he said as he saw Edward’s image appear on an identical screen within the palace.  “I-I,” he stuttered and then paused, and Edward blinked. 

“It’s okay, Pop,” he said softly.  “I know how far go I’m allowed to go in the negotiations—and you’ve given me the best pack of bodyguards in the Concordat.  We’ll do you proud—we’ll do the Concordat proud.”  Indeed, the old Fortress-class vessel was filled to capacity with a two companies of the elite First Battalion of the Taurian Guards, one ‘Mech and one Armored, supported by ninety of the finest infantry troopers that the Concordat could fill.  Plus, one of the Concordat’s rare Union-class marine assault carriers—the ‘Mech carrier heavily refitted to carry eight Aerospace Fighters, four small craft, and a company of zero-G Marines—was assigned as escort.

Thomas swallowed and then he nodded.  “I know you will, son,” he whispered.  “God speed—and good hunting.”  Thomas paused again and then he shook his head.  “Lord knows, I told myself I wouldn’t mass a fuss over this—but you come back, understand?  You come back home after this is done, boy.  And in one piece.”

“That’s the plan,” Edward whispered as he swallowed a lump in his throat, and Thomas nodded, his one organic eye shining with unshed tears.  Then the image abruptly ended as the Protector cut the transmission.

“Space Master Lefebvre,” the young man said after a moment.  “I will return to my quarters—you are authorized to lift at your convenience for transit to Gateway and docking with the JumpShip Auroch.”

“Sir,” the veteran officer said simply as he remained standing until Edward Calderon had been escorted from the bridge.  “Comm, inform Taurus Flight Control that we are ready for boost to orbit—confirm that our flight-space is clear and our escort is standing by.”

“Flight confirms we are go for launch, Sir—Onslaught is holding in planetary orbit to match vectors and velocity.”

Anton nodded crisply as he sat down and secured his safety straps about him.  “Sound acceleration warning and begin sixty-second countdown to main engine ignition.”

A loud WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP echoed through the ship as the klaxon wailed its message; alerting all of those onboard that take-off was imminent.  “All hands, we are at T minus fifty-five seconds until launch—stand-by for acceleration boost to orbit,” the Comms rating broadcast.

Black Bull shuddered as fuel pumps began to circulate the fuel prior to ignition; Anton looked down at his instruments and he nodded.

“T minus thirty seconds,” the intercom broadcast.

“Power, life support, and comm umbilicals have been retracted,” reported a rating from the engineering station.  “We are on internal power and comms—all systems green for launch.”

“T minus twenty seconds.”

“Set laser igniters for automatic firing,” Anton ordered, “fuel flow to maximum.”

“Aye, Sir, igniters to automatic, fuel flow to maximum.”

“T minus ten seconds.  Nine.  Eight.  Seven.  Six.  Five.”

“Ignition!” screamed a voice from engineering as the fusion drives lit off and the DropShip shook.

“Four.  Three.  Two.  One.  Lift-off!”

The building thrust from the drive pods began to lift the six thousand tons of metal and alloys, slowly at first, but increasing exponentially every fraction of a second.  The ship shuddered and shook and rattled, but it lifted on columns of fire and streaked away toward the distant sky.

“Passing fifteen thousand,” the maneuvering officer reported.  “All engines at max thrust.”

“Taurus Flight reports we are in the corridor and looking good,” said comms.

“Approaching Max-Q,” engineering snapped as Anton watched the altimeter climbing faster-and-faster.  The most dangerous portion of any ascent, max-Q was when the dynamic aerodynamic stresses on the DropShip reached their maximum—a failure of the any system at this point could be catastrophic.

“Stand by to reduce main engine thrust to 60% power at Max-Q,” Anton ordered, “in three . . . two . . . one . . . MAX-Q!”

“Powering down to 60% on mains One through Five, skipper,” maneuvering barked.  “All systems still green—passing forty-five thousand and still climbing!”

The thundering of the drives roared through the ship, but ahead of them, through the viewports, Anton could see the sky fading away to the deep black of space.  And he released a breath he hadn’t quite realized he was holding.

“Approaching MECO,” engineering reported as the DropShip near the moment for main-engine cut-off and a stable orbit.  “In three . . . two . . . one . . . MECO!”

And with that, the roar of the engines died and Black Bull coasted along in orbit above Taurus. 

“Comm, signal Onslaught that we will await them to match vector and velocity before we begin transit to Gateway,” Anton ordered.

“Aye, Sir.  Onslaught reports they will come alongside in two minutes.”

“Outstanding, people,” the DropShip commander said warmly.  Now, we just have to protect the Heir all the frigging way to New Avalon—seventeen jumps.

Very nice, those GuardShips put the A Team vehicles to shame. 

May I make a suggestion? Promote Vickers to Fleet Marshal. Yes it Starship Trooperish but it denotes her special status and gives her title to the entire Taurian Navy.

I've posted the design here, but so far haven't used it in a story.  Until now.

MA

ComStar Class A HPG Station
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025

Thomas gritted his teeth as the robed figures searched him—physically patted him down!  But he endured the indignity without a word as the Adepts and Acolytes completed the check for weapons, and their leader nodded.

“Your guards—they are not needed within the confines of this Holy Structure,” the man spoke from behind the folds of his hood.  “Only you have authorization to pass this point, Protector Calderon.”

John MacLeod—the head of his security detail—bristled, but Thomas held up one hand.  “Taurian law requires that the Protector be escorted, Adept.”

“Taurian law does not apply here within the Sanctum, Protector Calderon—only the Holy Writ of Blake and the will of the Primus.  They shall remain at this juncture or you shall all be required to depart.”

Thomas glared at the man, but he forced himself to swallow the first answer that boiled to the surface of his brain.  Telling the man to have intercourse with himself would not, after all, be in the best interests of the Concordat.

“Agent MacLeod,” he said at last, “you and the detail will remain here until my return—that is a direct order!”

“Yes, my Lord,” the body-guard answered through gritted teeth of his own.

“Then if you will follow me, please, Protector Calderon,” the Adept said with a wave of his arm.

The Adept led, and Thomas followed, trailed by three beefy looking fellows, who—despite their robes—obviously were security.  Winding passageways led them deep within the domed structure that stood in the center of the ComStar compound—and Thomas inhaled deeply at the sight before him.  A massive piece of machinery being swarmed over by Adepts and Acolytes, chanting lines of liturgy as they made adjustments to the control systems, filled the room to capacity; one long arm—resembling nothing else so much as a cannon of some sort—almost touching the hemi-spherical ceiling high above. 

“That is the Hyper-Pulse Generator?” he asked.

“Indeed . . . it is the Sanctified and Divine Device through which communications is made possible—designed by the Blessed Blake as he wrote down his teachings which guide us to this day.”

Thomas stood there, and he gawked—until one of the three beefy men behind him pushed him forward.  The Adept lowered his hood and he shook his head.  “None of that, Acolyte—the Protector is a guest.  Still, guests must abide by the restrictions their hosts place upon them.  You are no Servant of the Blessed Blake, Protector Calderon—the Engines of his Magnificence and Holy Power are not yours to observe; you have had sufficient privilege to cast a merest glance upon them.  This way,” he said, pointing towards a chamber set to one side.

The chamber was dim and the Adept ushered him within—to where Precentor Taurus stood waiting.  “Ah, Protector Thomas; thank you for answering our request to attend us at this hour.”

“It was an offer that I literally could not refuse, Precentor,” Thomas answered slowly.

“Of course, you could have—if you wished to sign the death warrant of the Concordat,” the leader of the Taurus A Station replied with a smile.  “If you will stand there,” and the Precentor indicated a circle upon the floor, “we are ready to proceed.”

Thomas stepped into the circle and the lights dimmed still more—then a light began to emerge from the darkness.  It coalesced into the image of a man dressed in the purest of white robes—Julian Tiepolo, the Primus of ComStar.

“Thomas Calderon, I greet you in the Name of the Blessed Blake.  Peace be upon your House this day.”

“Primus,” Thomas said simply with a bow of his head.

“Ah, you are almost a stereotype of Taurian intransigence and refusal to bow down to anyone.  It has been too long since I have personally experienced such, Thomas.”  And then the Primus’ face grew cold and somber.  “But that is not what we are here to discuss this day, is it?”

“No, Primus, it is not.  I can assure you that no orders originated on Taurus calling for an attack on the Jansen’s Hold compound—further, all those responsible will be identified and they will be punished for their actions; severely, I might add.”

“It is good to know that you take your responsibilities so gravely, Thomas—however, ComStar cannot allow such an affront to take place without . . . retribution.”

“We are prepared to offer restitution to ComStar for the facility and the loss of life,” Thomas said through jaws almost locked into place by his tense muscles.

“What value do you place upon a soul, Thomas?  Eighty-eight of my people perished—eighty-eight souls who might have accomplished miracles in the future; now all have been cut short.  Our neutrality has been violated, our territory intruded upon, our blood has been spilled.  What price would you place on such?”

“That is for you to determine, Primus; we will, of course, offer to share all of our investigative findings with you on this matter.”

“Too little, too late,” Julian said with a grim smile.  “My own advisors on the First Circuit tell me that you threaten the balance of power within Known Space, Thomas—combined with this attack, whose order most definitely originated from Taurus,” and Thomas hissed in shock, “these two together make Us question as to whether or not you desire to see peace . . . or if you are as blind as your fore-fathers and only want to see the Inner Sphere in flames?”

“This order—I did not authorize any such thing,” Thomas growled.

“Thomas, your name was not upon it; but I doubt that anyone would have dared to authorize such an action without your approval.  Still, a Holy Interdiction of the Taurian Concordat will cause great pain and suffering to your people.  Especially as we inform your neighbors that you are under Interdiction for Crimes waged against this Holy Order.  Liao and Davion and the pirates of Tortuga will have a field day—and your forces will be isolated and alone; easy prey as they fall one world after the next.”

Thomas bit his tongue and he nodded.  “What price do you demand as a starting point?”

“Am I a merchant to haggle, Thomas?  No.  I am PRIMUS of ComStar.  You will pay full restitution for the reconstruction of the Class B HPG station on Jansen’s Hold—and pay full cost for the construction of a new Class B facility on another world.  You will compensate the families of the dead for all of the future efforts which those Holy Servants were capable of making—and you will surrender unto US this WarShip which draws unto you greedy Successor Lords like flies drawn to honey.”

Thomas clenched his jaw.  “The ship is ours—it belonged to Taurus before, it belongs to us now.”

“The ship will be the cause of your destruction, Thomas—I seek only to spare you and your people.  ComStar does not desire this vessel for ourselves; indeed, we intend to cast it into your sun at the center of the Taurus system—to destroy it and remove from you the instrument which your enemies so greatly desire.  With it gone, Peace shall have a renewed chance to flourish.  Retain it . . . and you shall have more War and Pestilence and Famine,” and Julian smiled again, “and Death, oh, yes, Death; you shall have more of these things than you can possibly imagine, Thomas.”

The Protector swallowed and Julian raised his hood.  “It is great burden, leading the Taurian people, Thomas.  And it is difficult for you to accept that this must be done—but it must.  And it shall be.  If it is not, then a Holy Interdiction shall I declare upon your people and your worlds.  Still, it is a shock to you, after all.  I give you . . . four days—ninety-six hours in which to make your decision.  I trust that you will come to the realization that only one course is the correct one—the true one; the one which will preserve the lives of your people, Thomas.  Precentor Taurus will remain here to put you in contact with me at any time before the expiration of that dead-line.  But my patience is not finite, Thomas—come the passing of that dead-line and Excommunicated from all messages you shall be.”

The image flickered and then it winked out.  Thomas blinked, and he glared at Precentor Taurus, who just smirked—SMIRKED—at him.  “Escort him out of this Holy Sanctum.”

Thomas didn’t say a word when he rejoined his guard detail; he didn’t say a word as they walked across the flag-stone lanes of the manicured ground; he didn’t say a word until after the ground car was sealed and swept for bugs and driving quickly away.  When he did speak, it was but a single sentence, and then Thomas sat gazing out upon the capital city of his realm as the car traveled to home.

“Assemble the War Council—make certain that Helena Vickers and her people are present.”

ComStar HPG Station Prime
Hilton Head Island, North America
Terra
October 24, 3025

“And now we wait,” said the Primus as the transmission ended and the lights slowly brightened in the central hub of the HPG network.  “Your thoughts, Precentor ROM?”

Nicholas sighed.  “I am worried that we went too far—pushed Thomas too much.  You all but admitted to him that we are reading their mail, Primus!”

“In a conversation which he has no proof of—no copies, no data.  Just his word against that of ComStar . . . following an incident in which his troops slaughtered our people.”  Julian smiled.  “That was nicely done, by the way, Nicholas—how long have you had Boris Tharn on our payroll?”

“A few years, now, Primus,” Precentor ROM answered with a grateful bow.  “Although he wasn’t expecting the retirement package he received—still,” Nicholas mused, “it would not have been possible if you had not altered Shraplen’s message to push him into attacking the facility.  Certainly his troops would have not have followed him without that order.”

Julian smiled.  And then the smile faded as another—bitter—voice spoke up.

“Yet, you did not address the Data Core,” Myndo Waterly spat.  “We could have wrapped up this entire operation in one fell swoop had you insisted upon that as well.”

“THAT would have pushed Thomas over the edge, Precentor Dieron,” Julian snapped back.  “And it would have risked revealing to the entire human race that we—ComStar—are engaged in stopping technological progress of all of the Houses both Great and Minor alike!  ROM will destroy the Core, preventing the dissemination of technology—demanding that it be surrendered would have been one demand too many, yes?”

“I disagree,” Myndo said as she shook her head.  “We are talking about the Taurians here—a minor power with little, if any, ability to defy you.  A Great House—perhaps.  Perhaps, a Great House would have stood against you, but Thomas Calderon?  A broken man leading a broken people, clinging to delusions of greatness from four centuries ago?  No.  He would have complied with your demands because he knows that is the only way he can preserve his Concordat.”

“They fought the Star League for twenty years when all they had to do to stop the conflict was to join the League, Precentor Dieron,” Nicholas said.  Myndo Waterly spun around, and she sneered.

“I did not ask for your opinion, Precentor ROM—speak when you are spoken to!  Unless you wish that tongue removed!”

“I am pleased with Nicholas at this moment, Precentor Dieron,” Julian snapped again. “In fact, I would hear more—Nicholas?”

Nicholas swallowed and he nodded and then composed his thoughts.  “Thomas might be no Nicoletta or Henry or Mitchell . . . but he is a Calderon.  If we push him too far, too fast, there is a good chance that he will simply say ‘fuck it’, and strike back at us—the consequences be damned.  Threatening an Interdiction against a Great House with four or five hundred star systems is one thing—the Concordat has just twenty-eight inhabited star systems outside of the Hyades Nebula.  Twenty-eight, Primus, Precentor Dieron.  Half of those lack HPG Stations to begin with.  Because of that, Thomas already maintains a courier system in place—inefficient, yes.  But he has enough JumpShips that he can keep one or two stationed at every system.  I fear that our Interdiction threat might not be received in the same light as a Great House where you can cut the communications lifeline on ten or twenty times as many worlds.”

“You fear too much, Precentor ROM,” Myndo sneered.  “Thomas will be cowed by this threat—and even if he is not, his friend Grover was certainly . . . vocal enough about his displeasure over Thomas’ brat and his covert mission to New Avalon.  Though I do wish that he had complained about the specifics more to Tharn—still, it is enough to know that Edward Calderon is en route.  If Interdiction will not deter Thomas, then perhaps holding his eldest son and heir as hostage will,” she mused.

Nicholas winced.  “Precentor—Primus.  My personnel are already occupied with planning operations against that ship and the Data Core—adding another high-risk mission . . .,” he began.

“I wasn’t asking for your personnel, Nicholas,” Myndo cooed.  “I am handling this particular tangent myself.  With the permission of the Primus, of course.”

“Of course,” Julian answered with a slight frown.  “Alive, Myndo,” he enunciated very slowly.  “Alive and unharmed—Thomas Calderon is already unstable, and I doubt that news of the death of his eldest son and heir at our hands would result in a change of this situation to our liking.”

“Oh, do not worry, Primus,” Myndo answered with a smile.  “Soon enough he will be in our clutches—and then, whether or not Thomas chooses to cooperate, we can . . . instruct Edward.  Make him believe in Blake and the supremacy of ComStar.”

“Brainwash him,” muttered Nicholas.  “Not a reliable technique.”

“Where is your faith, Precentor ROM?” Myndo hissed.  “Once we have Edward and he is one of us, then we have little need of Thomas should he prove . . . intransigent, I believe was the word that you used, Primus.”

Julian nodded.  “We have many arrows in our quiver—best to use them all to make certain that this Memory Core does not spur a technological renaissance.”  He sighed.  “Very well, Myndo.  Edward is yours to toy with—do not make me regret this.”

“Why, never, Primus,” she chuckled, and then left the two men behind her.  For a moment there was silence, and then the Primus said a single word.

“Nicholas?”

Precentor ROM sighed.  “Yes Primus.  I will have my people watch hers—closely.”

“Good, Nicholas.”

“I remain concerned about the ultimatum you delivered, Primus,” Nicholas pressed on.  “I’d like permission to increase the threat alert of all of our operations in the Concordat—just in case.”

Julian considered.  “You think Thomas might—in truth—attack ComStar, Nicholas?”

The younger man sighed.  “I don’t know—and that scares me.  He can’t run the HPG stations—but he can certainly abduct our people and tear their knowledge from their bodies before dumping their corpses in the nearest star.  Damn, I’d feel better if we had a few battalions of the ComGuard and Militia out there.”

The Primus nodded, frowning.  “Do it.  Put all of them on alert—but without being able to work the HPGs, I think we can discount an all-out attack.  Your other idea—that sounds like Thomas to me.  And no, we can’t deploy the CGM so quickly, but . . .,” the voice of the Primus trailed off.  “We have hired mercenaries in the past to defend our installations.  And there are some out there who would jump at such a safe contract.  I will contact them, myself.”

“Yes, Primus,” Nicholas said with a bow as the Primus turned to go, but the older man stopped and stood in the entrance way.

“And despite what Myndo wants, Nicholas—I believe that we will leave the pot alone to cook for a while.  We have too many spoons in the pudding as it is.  Too many cooks arguing about the recipe.  Time to leave it alone and trust our agents to do their jobs.”

“Yes, Primus—by your command.”

General Headquarters, Taurus Defense Force
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 24, 3025

“They want MY ship?  They want to send MY ship into the fucking sun?!?” snarled Helena Vickers.  “I’ll shoot a fucking nuclear warhead right up his god-damned ass, if you let me, Protector Calderon!”

“Aside from the small matter that Sam cannot leave this system at the moment, Marshal Vickers,” interjected Henri, “we also have a dead-line on this ultimatum.  And confirmation that they are reading our mail—is there anything out there that I need to know about, ladies and gentlemen?”

“No,” growled Thomas. “I have made certain that nothing about Edward’s mission was spoken of over HPG—and none of our people are stupid enough to leak any information on the Core . . . yourself excepted, Henri.” 

“Thought of as lazy and stupid—just the cover us intelligence types dream of, my Protector,” Henri said with a laugh.

“On the dead-line—we do have a contingency for this already prepared.  CASE CYAN,” Brenda Calderon said bluntly.  “We can dust it off and update it; be ready to go in . . . thirty-six hours,” she said after a moment of consideration.

“Odds of success?” asked Thomas.

Brenda shrugged.  “We’ll take the compounds—ComStar doesn’t have shit to keep my boys and girls out.  And with a little bit of luck we’ll do it before they wreck the machinery too bad.”  She sighed.  “We’ve planned this for quite some time—over a hundred years, Marshal Vickers, Protector Thomas.  But the plan requires lethal force—you might not have that many survivors to put the question.”

“Jack?” Helena asked.

The chief engineering officer from TCS Samantha Calderon shrugged.  “I can’t make promises on equipment I’ve never seen—or read about.  But, my boys and girls are the absolute friggin’ best at what they do.  If anyone can make it work, we can.  It would help to know what the blasted thing is supposed to look like, but I don’t expect the archives have any pictures, do they?  Or even better, an Operator’s Manual?”

Nervous laughter erupted from the table, but Thomas Calderon just smiled.  “John,” he summoned his body-guard over to the table with a wave.  “I can’t do it myself—I just can’t.”

“Understood, Sire,” the man said as he took out a cord; the table grew quiet as Thomas held up held and the guard held it steady with one arm—and then inserted the plug at the end into Thomas’ cybernetic eye.  “That’s got it,” he said as he attached the second end of the cable into a slot on the table—and a holographic image arose.

“That’s the HPG itself, Commander Fletcher,” the Protector said.  “I’ll download the data and Henri here can distribute the pictures—he’s the one who installed the video camera and dedicated memory after all.”

“I was hoping that they wouldn’t remove your artificial eye—even paranoids have limits, my Protector,” the Intelligence Chief laughed.


“So they do,” answered Thomas as he nodded.  “Done, John.”

The body-guard removed the plug and there was a CLICK as the hidden port in the eye closed once more.  Thomas shuddered.  “Will that suffice, Commander Fletcher?” he asked—but the engineer from the past was staring at the hologram, zooming in on various components.

“SON OF A BITCH!” he yelled.  “That’s a heavily modified miniature Kearny-Fuchida projector—not a drive, but a fucking projector!”

“WHAT?” shouts rose from the table.

“Jack,” Helena said gently, “you can’t operate a K/F system in a gravity well—what makes you think this is one?”

“Not and transport ships, skipper,” Jack Fletcher said in an awed voice.  “This was theorized ever since Kearny and Fuchida made their first equations.  Think back to Jump Engineering 101—Artificial jump points, skipper.  Artificial jump points,” he continued in an awed voice.

Vickers frowned.  “I remember that from the Academy—but the energy costs were too high; it would require the total power output of this planet to create one large enough to send a ship through.”  And then the light bulb went off.  “Oh, bloody hell.  How big a bubble do you have to create to send a burst transmission?”

“A few centimeters in diameter?  Perhaps even a millimeter?” Jack shook his head.  “Protector, you don’t need the technical shit—get me in there, and I’ll make that son-of-a-bitch work!”

Thomas snarled.  “That confident, are you Commander?  Good; because we are going to get you in there.  The Primus of ComStar wants to threaten me?  He wants to threaten the Concordat?  I think he has already declared WAR on us, ladies and gentlemen—and that he was behind the Hussars attacking Jansen’s Hold.  I would put money on it—that smirking bastard Precentor Taurus, he knows something.  That one, I want alive.”

He exhaled deeply.  “ComStar wants a war?  Well, they’ve got one.  CYAN is approved, Marshal Calderon.  Marshal Vickers, mind if we borrow Commander Fletcher for a bit?”

“Will I get a chance to blow a very nasty, very big hole in Julian Tiepolo?”

“Doubtful at the present time, Marshal—but if he and his continues to piss me off, once we get your ship repaired, I might let you nuke Hilton Head Island on Terra.”

Helena Vickers laughed.  “I’d hock my soul for that chance, Protector Thomas!  You’ve got a deal.”

“Good.  Understand me, ladies and gentlemen, as of this moment—WE ARE AT WAR.”

Shraplen Estate
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 25, 3025

“House arrest!  I cannot believe that Thomas thinks I deliberately had anything to do with this attack, Henri—you must tell him.  You must convince him,” Grover begged to the head of Taurian Intelligence.

“You misunderstand the reason for this visit, Governor Shraplen,” Henri said very quietly.  “I have already questioned your men—and they have been most revealing.  About how you raged at Thomas when he told you that he was seeking an accommodation with Hanse Davion.”

“We can’t trust the Davions—Thomas should never trust the Davions!  They stole our worlds!  They took from us our strength!  Without them, the Star League wouldn’t have come for us!”

Henri shook his head.  “Governor Shraplen, you are wrong on so many levels that it is not even funny—you believe that Maximillian Liao would be a better choice for an ally?  The Liao do not have allies . . . they have servants and enemies.”

Grover began to reply, but then he shut his mouth.  “You cannot prove anything.”

The Intelligence Chief chuckled.  “In Wartime, Governor Shraplen, Special Intelligence and Operations has special . . . authority.  And yesterday, the Protector declared WAR.  On ComStar.”

“ComStar?” Grover spat.  “He will destroy the Concordat when our communications are sundered and Hanse Davion invades!  We should regain our worlds, now—ally with the Capellans, and make restitution to Terra!”

“Such a noble son of Taurus, Governor Shraplen—how long have you been taking money from Maximillian Liao?” Henri asked, and Grover’s face went white.

“Aren’t a good poker player, are you?  As I said, in wartime, my office has special authority.  Over the past decade—at least that far—you have received quite a bit of funding from Sian.  Quite a bit.  Now, that doesn’t—exactly—make you a traitor, Grover, although it does make you stupid . . . but Thomas will not be at all pleased with you all the same.”

“Damn you,” Grover whispered.

“I want to know one thing, Grover.  One little thing,” Henri paused.  “You see, I have spoken to Thomas’s valet—the one that you suggested he hire because of his qualifications.  And the valet told me that he . . . informed you that Edward Calderon was leaving the Concordat secretly.  Travelling into the Federated Suns to start talks with Hanse Davion.”

Grover snarled, but Henri just shook his head and he drew his pistol—Grover stared at the man in shock.

“Did you share that information with Boris Tharn?  With anyone else by HPG, Governor Shraplen?  HPGs run by ComStar—whom we are now at war with . . . and who read our mail.  Did you?” Henri smiled.  “Before you answer, consider that by this time tomorrow the Samantha City ComStar Compound will be taken by force and I will have access to their archives—lie to me, and you will not survive the week.”

“I-I,” Grove sputtered, and then he swallowed heavily.  “I might have mentioned it to Boris—not who he was meeting, but that he was travelling incognito to New Avalon.”

“Incognito?  Did you mention his heavily armed escorts?”

“No.”

“You are certain of that?”

“YES!”

“Good,” Henri said as he stood and holstered the pistol.  “Our interview is at an end, Mister Shraplen—I believe that Thomas will probably strip from you your title and your world for your selling of information to Max Liao.  Such a pity that is—a stain upon your name, and it alerts Max to the fact that we knew about you.”  Henri sighed.  “Of course, you are too much the coward to take the honorable exit—so I am doing it for you.”

“WHAT!” shouted Grover as two of Henri’s men stepped forward and grabbed the powerful nobleman.  A third unzipped a leather case and extracted a syringe and a vial; the powerful drug concoction sprayed into the air after he loaded the syringe.

“You CAN’T!  I have RIGHTS!” Grover shouted as Henri rolled up the man’s sleeve and his agent fixed a rubber tourniquet around his bicep.  Finding the vein, he inserted the needle—and the overdose of the illegal narcotics within.  Grover twitched as the tourniquet was released, then he spat and began to spasm—before he collapsed, bubbles foaming at his mouth and nose amid the blood. 

Henri nodded and the agent bent down and placed Grover’s hand and fingers on the syringe, and then the three gathered their gear and left.

“Good-bye and good riddance, Grover,” Henri said as he placed his hat on his head and exited through the servant’s wing of Shraplen’s empty manse.


TCOSIO Headquarters
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 25, 3025

Henri worked quickly and alone as he slowly encoded the message that simply had to be sent before the attack.  The code used was old—but it had never before been used for communication.  He shrugged as he double-checked it; not even ComStar could be expected to break this—not without additional samples, not on the first use ever.

Satisfied, he finished the message form and then he pushed the buzzer on his desk.  Summoned by the shrill noise, his secretary entered his office.

“Amanda,” he said as he passed the document across to her.  "I need this sent to,” and he checked his file again, “one Riva Allard on New Avalon—by a courier not associated with this office.  Immediately, I am afraid—can we squeeze this one in?”

The middle-aged woman smiled.  “Consider it done, Chief.  Standard or priority?”

“Oh, priority.  And use Governor Shraplen’s account codes—no sense in depleting our own.  He won’t be missing them.”

“Yes, Sir.  Will you working late again, Sir?”

“Unfortunately, yes, Amanda.”

“Well, remember to eat—it isn’t healthy to miss too many meals,” she chided as she left the office with the document case.


The Palace of the First Prince
Avalon City, New Avalon
Federated Suns
October 26, 3025

“Not bad news, one hopes?” Hanse Davion asked after the guards left, leaving Quintus Allard and the First Prince alone—Allard had insisted.

“Incredible news, my Lord,” the Intelligence Minister answered.  And then he sighed.  “My daughter received this communication this morning—and she recognized the first line.  Knowing my work, she then delivered it into my hands.”

Hanse frowned, and he picked up the piece of paper.  “Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here obedient to their laws we lie.”

“It is a code phrase that Henri Jouett and I agreed upon when we met for the first and only time ten years ago,” Quintus said simply.  “It means that we need to talk—the body of the message was thoroughly encrypted.  But I have the decryption key,” he smiled as he handed Hanse a second sheet.

The First Prince began to read—and then he looked up in shock.  Quintus nodded, and Hanse resumed—he started from the beginning, not once, not twice, but three times.  And when he was finished, he sat down the paper and he stood, beginning to pace.

“Thomas Calderon is sending Edward Calderon here—to negotiate with me over the price for a copy of the Vickers Core.  Did I read that right?”

“You did.”

“And he is—probably at this very moment—attacking ComStar facilities across the Concordat and is about to suffer an Interdiction?  I read that right—that isn’t code, is it?”

“No, Sire.  You read it correctly, Sire.”

“And this—Henri Jouett—that runs their intelligence believes that ComStar is going to try to kidnap or kill Edward . . . and he wants me to protect him.”

“In return, Prince Hanse, for the secrets of HPG operation—which he claims the Concordat has available.”

Hanse nodded and he walked over to his wet bar and poured an amber liquid in a crystal glass before he downed it.  Then he poured another.

“Is this real, Quintus—or am I dreaming?”

“I’m not wearing the French maid outfit again, am I, my Prince?” Quintus answered with a laugh.  “If not, this is real—if I am, you are dreaming.”

Hanse snorted.  “I’d be picturing Melissa Steiner in a French maid outfit, not you, old friend,” and then he sighed.  “If this is real . . .,” and his voice trailed off.

“Yes.”

“Pass the word—NOW.  Before the interdiction begins—abort all operations in the Taurian Concordat.  MI4 is to observe only—the Rabid Foxes are to return to base immediately.”

“And Edward?”

“We need to get Ardan in on this,” Hanse said with a smile.  “It seems that this is tradition he is establishing of rescuing heirs to the throne.”  He took another swallow and then he grabbed a second glass and the bottle and set it on his desk.  Pouring another for himself and one for Quintus, he raised the crystal again.  “If this isn’t a dream . . . then we have a chance to damn those bastards to hell, Quintus.”

“Amen, my Prince,” Quintus answered as he clicked his glass against that of his sovereign and both men drank deep.