OBT Forum

Government House
Port Sheridan, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
April 20, 3026

“And you are live in three . . . two . . . one,” said the producer as Thomas sat behind his borrowed desk.  The red lights on all of the holo-cameras blinked on and Thomas Calderon, Protector of the Taurian Concordat looked straight ahead.

“My fellow Taurians,” he began.  “Today I am making several announcements that will affect all of us in the Concordat.  First and foremost, I am on the world of New Vallis where I, my heir Edward Calderon, and officials of my government have concluded negotiations with ComStar.”

He paused for a moment and then he smiled at the cameras.  “The Interdiction is over.  By the end of May, all HPG Stations in the Concordat should be resuming their normal operations.  The . . . incident that caused the Interdiction and the Concordat takeover of all the HPG Stations was not authorized by the ruling body of ComStar, but rather by rogue agents acting against not only the interests of the Concordat, but against their own organization.”

“Those guilty of conspiring against both ComStar and the Concordat have been punished and the matter is now settled.  Normal interstellar communications should resume on all worlds of the Concordat with an HPG station by the end of next month.  I have been given the personal assurance of the Primus of ComStar—Vesar Kristofur—that such an incident will not occur again.”

Once again, the Protector paused and he looked down at his notes and nodded before he resumed looking at the cameras.  “Regardless of what assurances I—and the Concordat—have received, rest assured that we will be watching ComStar very closely in the future to prevent any such a repeat.”

“On other matters, my son and Heir-Designate, Edward Calderon has just returned from a diplomatic mission to the Federated Suns.  Hanse Davion and I have agreed to formally sign a peace treaty between the Taurian Concordat and the Federated Suns.  The embargo against Taurian manufacturers and resource extractors selling to the Federated Suns is hereby lifted, along with the ban on purchasing items and material from the Federated Suns.  First Prince Hanse Davion and I have agreed to a Free Trade Agreement where commerce—without tariffs—between our nations will commence.”

“As part of this Treaty, the Taurian Concordat will send representatives to the worlds of Bromhead, Horsham, Robsart, Wrentham, Flintoft, Diefenbaker, Midale, Carmichael, Lindsay, Ridgebrook, Electra, Maia, Merope, Brockway, Brusett, Hyalite, Keuterville, Anaheim, Warren, Weippe, Caldwell, Pierce, Tentativa, Montour, Vedigreis, Cohagen, Estuan, Armington, and Csomad.  These twenty-nine worlds will, in 3031, hold a plebiscite of their population to consider the following question:  do you wish to rejoin the Taurian Concordat as member worlds or remain part of the Federated Suns?”

And even though the journalists and cameramen in the office knew what was coming, the was an audible intake of breath at that blunt statement.

The corner of Thomas’ lip quivered for a moment and then he nodded his head.  “Representatives of my government will be on each and every one of those worlds for the next five years, answering questions and pledging ourselves—the Taurian people—to the promise that each world that chooses to return to us will receive investments to restore the population and industry to where it was before the start of the Reunification War.”

And then Thomas leaned back in his chair and he sighed.  “But despite what we are doing to convince the people of these worlds that their future will be better if they are aligned with the Concordat rather than the Federated Suns, we are not assured that they will vote that way.  Our representatives will be there to monitor the elections and ensure that they are fairly conducted.  Yet, some of them—perhaps even all of them!—might well elect to remain part of the Federated Suns.”

Thomas paused for a moment.  “And we, the men and women of the Taurian Concordat will respect their choice in this matter.  If our brothers and sisters of old return to us we will welcome them with open arms and make them Taurians once again.  If they choose to remain separate, we will acknowledge their desire and forsake—once and for all time to come—any claims upon them.”

“There are some of you out there among the Taurian Concordat who will see this as a betrayal of our ideals.  It is not.  We—the Taurian people, you and I and all those who dwell on our worlds—we are fulfilling our ideals by honoring those who once part of us with the choice of where their future lies.”

“In five years, we may have the Pleiades returned to us; we may not.  We may have systems that were part of the Old Concordat back in our fellowship of worlds.  We may not.  For that decision is not ours to make—we are not invaders.  We are not conquerors.  We are Taurians.  And we shall respect the choice the people of these worlds make.”

“We will not lash out against them if they choose to remain apart.  We will not try—by force of arms—to join them to us when they have chosen not.  I ask that all of you remain patient and in 3031 we will discover what the future may hold.  Until then, I will—by my oath and on my mortal soul—continue to protect each and every one of you.  Just as Samantha Calderon and every Protector of the Taurian Homeworlds and Taurian Concordat have done before me.”

“Finally, for those among you who fear that Hanse Davion is using this as a ruse, as a means to lull the Concordat into complacency—rest assured that I have taken steps to assure that this is not the case.  And should it be the case, we will have Wolf’s Dragoons—all five regiments and their supporting elements—in the employ of the Taurian Concordat.  Colonel Wolf and his command should be arriving in the Concordat by the end of June and his regiments will take up station along our borders with the Federated Suns and Capellan Confederation to keep our worlds safe from predation.  They will also work to train the Taurian Defense Force and the Constabulary to an even finer edge so that any attempt to invade the Concordat in the future will be repelled.”

Thomas leaned forward and one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.  “I swore an oath to protect you all—and I shall do exactly that.  I am Thomas Calderon, Thirty-Second Protector of the Taurian Concordat and this I swear to you all.  Good night and may God above watch over each and every one of you as we enter a new age of peace and prosperity for all of our people.”

Thomas waited for a moment, then the red lights on the cameras flickered off, and a voice announced, “And we are out!”

And there was applause from those scattered around the office as Thomas held up one hand.  Slowly the applause faded.

“Henri,” he said to his intelligence minister.  “That goes out via HPG and courier ship to every world in the Concordat.  Today.”

“It shall be done, my Lord Protector,” Henri answered with a bow.

“Good.  Now let us head home.  New Vallis is nice, but I miss Taurus—and my children.”

Chapter Five

TCJS Patrick Flannagan
Zenith Jump Point, MKC-17934
Unknown Space
July 8, 3026

Aramis Hall smiled at the men and women who comprised the crew of his Tramp-class JumpShip.  Other a handful of personnel essential to maintaining a sensor watch, the entire crew—and those of the attached DropShips, two Mules and a Leopard CV—were assembled here in the small grav deck of the JumpShip.

They had gathered because while they might be far from home, they were still Taurians.  And today—the 8th of July—was one of the Concordat’s national holidays.  Exodus Day.  Celebrated throughout the worlds and systems of the Concordat to commemorate the day that the hated Star League Defense Force had followed General Kerensky into the unknown space beyond the borders of the far distant Draconis Combine and vanished from all recorded history.

Now his crew—after six long months in space—were celebrating that holiday.  Carefully hoarded bottles of liquor had been broken out, although the stern-faced Bosun—the senior non-commissioned officer aboard the Patrick Flannagan—kept a careful watch on what everyone was drinking.  Twice already he had cut a member of the crew off, simply declaring, “You have had more than enough.”

Aramis snorted in amusement.  No one aboard the ship, no one in the Flotilla, wanted to get on the bad side of Bosun Jackson Donato.  And then his amusement faded as he looked over the electronic note-pad he carried.

They were twenty four jumps out from Gateway, having covered over 600 light-years in the past six months.  And so far the flotilla had detected nothing.  No sign that the Exiles had come this way.  Jump twenty-five would take place tomorrow morning, to a G5 star twenty-two point three light-years distant.  Spectral analysis aboard his ships had determined that there were at least a dozen planets in orbit—two in the habitable zone.  And so far, all indications—as limited as those might be at such a range!—showed that at least one of those worlds in the habitable zone had both an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere and liquid water.

It might be a good place to rest his crew and get them to stretch their legs—it might not, and then he shrugged.  Well, tomorrow we will find out for certain. 

Standing, he nodded at the Bosun who cleared his throat.  Slowly silence descended into the compartment.

“All right people.  We’ve celebrated, but we have a busy day—many busy days—ahead of us come tomorrow morning.  Last call for alcohol—after this round, the Bosun will secure those bottles.  Don’t stay up all night partying.  Jump Twenty Five will take place at 0600 whether or not you have a hangover or have failed to get any sleep!”

There were groans from the audience at those words, but the complaints were in good humor—his crew still had high morale and had known in advance when the jump-time was.  After all, Aramis had issued the warning order three days ago, only delaying until tomorrow to allow the Scout-class Whitetail to finish repairs on one of their sail deployment spars.

“Get some rest.  We start the pre-jump checklist at 0500 and I want all systems ready to go.  Okay, boys and girls?”

Everyone either mumbled an answer or nodded and Aramis smiled.  “Good.  In that case,” he said as he raised his glass.  “A toast!  To the Star League Defense Force . . . may those bastards never stop running until they jump into Hell itself!”

A cheer went up through the compartment and the crew—Aramis as well—drank their last drink of the night.  Then, by ones or twos or threes, the crowd started to head out, some singing, some smiling, some holding the hand of another crewmate—either from their own vessel or visiting from another.

TCJS Patrick Flannagan
Zenith Jump Point, MKC-17934
Unknown Space
July 9, 3026

“All right, people, final checks—go/no-go for Jump Twenty Five.”  He paused.  “Communications?”

“All systems green, all ships in our group standing by to execute.  Comm is go,” a rating answered.  Half of Aramis’s small flotilla of a dozen ships had jumped to the Nadir Point of MKC-17934 on their arrival ten days ago.  Having six ships at each of the two primary jump points of a star gave Aramis and his people the best chance of detecting any lost or abandoned ship—and the sensor data gleaned from having more than one vantage point had been invaluable in cataloging each of the systems along their path.  Eight inhabitable worlds had been found, each teeming with life, but untouched with man.  So far, anyway.  Still, Aramis had not paused to survey those worlds—that would be for a future expedition.  And while the separation of the Zenith and Nadir groups meant it took a great deal of time—and forty-eight irreplaceable communications drones to date—to share the data collected, it was still close enough to coordinate their operations.  If those operations were scheduled a few days away.

It was a risk, Aramis well knew, but then all space travel had some degree of inherent risk.  And the ability to survey—via sensors and drones—each system from two vantage points more than outweighed the known risks.  The unknown ones?  Aramis snorted.  Those were precisely that—unknown and unknowable.  At least until they happened. 

“Engineering?”

“Full charge on the Core, skipper.  Sail is retracted, all systems are green.  Engineering is go.”

“Navigation?”

“Jump Twenty Five is plotted, all vessels in Group A have confirmed the target coordinates.  Nav is go.”

“Helm?”

“Holding station at the Jump Point.  We are free and clear for jump, with the remainder of Group A following at one minute intervals.  Reaction thrusters standing by to maneuver off of the jump point following emergence.  Helm is go.”

“Good,” answered Aramis.  “We are go for jump.  Start the clock.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” a rating answered.  “Jump Clock started—one minute until Jump Drive activation.”

The seconds ticked steadily down as Aramis looked over his readouts  and screens one final time, and then he sealed the visor of the helmet of his space suit—all personnel aboard the ships of this flotilla always wore a space suit on any jump into the unknown.

Then the countdown reached zero and Aramis felt the universe twisting in on itself.

TCJS Patrick Flannagan
Zenith Jump Point, GKV-2198
Unknown Space
July 9, 3026

“Emergence,” the rating at the helm console reported.

“Sensors are rebooting—coming online . . . now,” the engineer added over the suit’s radio and Aramis nodded.

“MOTHER OF GOD!” the petty officer at the sensor station screamed.  “CONTACT!  Multiple contacts at 30,000 plus kilometers—bearing roughly 063 Mark 174,” the petty officer paused.  “They are pretty dispersed, no organized formation—like their station keeping thrusters aren’t working.”

Aramis jerked forward in his seat—only his safety harness kept him in it.  Sure, enough, more than four dozen vessels were out there as he read the sensor data on his repeater display.  “Set Alert Condition Two!” he barked and the WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP of the klaxon sounded throughout the ship. 

“Skipper—no emissions, any band, from the contacts,” the engineer said in a flat voice.  “Including the cooling vanes—those vessels are cold and dead.”

The commander of the flotilla forced himself to sit back.  “Comm—hail them, all channels, no encryption.  Helm, back us off the jump point—do not start sail deployment!  Talk to me, Peterson!” he barked at the petty officer assigned to the sensor station.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the two answered and Aramis swallowed heavily as he read the data the ship’s radars and other systems were collecting on the contacts.

“I’ve got forty-seven JumpShips out there, Captain, at varying ranges and bearings from 30k KM up to almost 300k,” the sensor operator said quietly.  “Most of them look like Merchants and the old Liberty-class, but there are five Leviathans, Sir, and two Aquila-class that appear to be refitted for docking collars.  As well as five WarShips—a Winchester, a Wagon Wheel, two Concordats, and a St. Helens-class Fleet Tender.  There might be more out there as well—I can’t get reliable radar returns beyond 300k kilometers.”

Stunned silence descended on the bridge, before someone—perhaps even Aramis himself—whispered into the quiet, “We found them.”

“Sir,” the comm tech said, “there is no answer on any channel.  Not even their transponders are active, Sir.”

“Whitetail emerging from jump, Sir,” the sensor tech sang out.

“Inform them of our status and tell them to go to Alert Condition Two—have them pass the word to the rest of Group A as they exit,” Aramis ordered as he stared at the cold, motionless, and silent vessels on his screen.

“Options?” he asked.

“Board them,” spoke up the Bosun bluntly.  “We’ve got a platoon of zero-G Marines trained by the SASF aboard our droppers for just this reason.”

“Still no response?” Aramis asked, and the comm tech shook her head.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Bridge, engineering.  I’m looking over the data from the sensors—those ships aren’t running on primary or auxiliary power, skipper.  Or even the damn batteries!  They aren’t radiating any heat whatsoever through the cooling vanes—that means that life support is down.  Every system onboard must be down—otherwise the sensors would have picked up something and they would venting at least some waste heat.  I can confirm they are drifting—no operational station-keeping thrusters.  The way they are scattered, their thrusters have been dead a long time.”

Aramis just kept staring at the vessels and then he nodded.  “Donato, get those Marines ready to go—we will send across both shuttles.  And take an engineering team with you.”

“Fifty-two ships out there, Captain,” the Bosun replied.  “Where do you want us to start?”

“With the Winchester—Admiral Vickers said it was the flagship of her second-in-command—Commodore Raymond Capaldi.  I want to know what the hell happened out here.  And launch the comm drone—I want to speak with Group B as soon as we are able to.”

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

“Abandoned?” Aramis asked in a shocked voice.

“Yes, Sir,” the Bosun answered as he stood in front of his captain.  “Every airlock and hatch was open to vacuum; we found no one—living or dead—aboard.  But we did find this,” and he tapped his finger on a data storage module.  “Commodore Capaldi’s log.”

“Have you . . .,” Aramis began to ask, but the Bosun was shaking his head.  “Chief Heller was right—everything over there is down, even the batteries are drained.  Those ships aren’t keeping station—not anymore.  They are drifting,” and he paused.  “But the controls for the station-keeping thrusters were set on automatic.  They operated until they used up all of the onboard fuel—their tanks were completely dry.  Even their sails have been furled; they must have done it to minimize the drift once the thrusters eventually quit keeping them in formation.”

Aramis sat back.  “We’ve confirmed two planets in the hab-zone, Donato.  No artificial emissions from either one—but they both have oxygen-nitrogen atmospheres.  Could they have gone there?”

The Bosun shook his head.  “All the DropShips are docked—along with the small craft.  Cargo bays are still full with all sorts of things a new colony would need.”

And the commander of the flotilla shook his head.  “Okay,” he said and he picked up the log module and loaded it into a slot on the side of a computer—one isolated from the rest of the ship’s network.

It took a few moments, but the module came to life and information flowed across the screen.

“Last log entry—May 20, 2597.  What the hell,” he muttered and he pressed the key that started that particular video log.

The image of an obviously exhausted man—both physically and emotionally, it seemed to Aramis—dressed in a vacuum suit with the rank insignia of a Taurian Commodore appeared on screen.  “This is my final entry,” he spoke into the helmet microphone as he looked into the recording camera.  “We haven’t found a cure—we don’t have a clue where to start looking for a cure.  This damn virus is so insidious—and the incubation period long enough that we thought the fourth planet was safe.  It’s in the water we loaded, the air we stored in our tanks, the food we gathered.”

There was a pause.  “But once that incubation period is over—the damn thing is lethal.  Every person in the expedition has tested positive—every last one of us is going to die out here so far away from home.  I had the last DropShip to return to the Task Group put a warning buoy in orbit—that solar panels should keep it powered for a good long time.  It’s set up to activate when its passive systems detect radar, so whoever you are that found this, you should get some warning.”  A tear leaked down his eye.  “It’s my fault.  I know we needed to replenish our food, water, and air, but I should have been more careful.  We followed every protocol, guideline, regulation, and standard procedure—but this thing waits so long to kick in, we didn’t know.  We just didn’t know.”

Another, longer pause.  “Once it does though, once it starts, the pain is unbearable.  And everyone who has gotten to that point has died.  So.  I’m not going to let some virus kill us.  I—and the other ship commanders—have vented our atmosphere.  Death was quick—a mercy really compared to the Hell this virus causes.  We’ve said a few words over the bodies and then buried them in space.  Jettisoned the food and water stores.  Maybe we will get rid of that virus, at least.  We are the only ones left alive.  But not for long.  This is my last entry.  I will be joining my people out there floating in space when I finish.  If anyone ever finds this—don’t land on that damn planet.  You’ll just die like we did.  Tell them back home,” and his voice cracked.  “That we failed.  That I failed.  And, I am so sorry.”

The screen went blank as the log entry ended.

“My god,” Aramis whispered.  And then he raised his head.  “Go through this completely—Bosun.  And get the medical staff looking at this—there must be some symptoms or a test we can give ourselves to find out if we carried that thing over here.”

“Shit,” the Bosun cursed and then he shook his head.  “We were in suits the whole time, Captain.  In hard vacuum aboard that ship.  And we went through De-con on our return.  It’s not likely we brought it back aboard with us.”

“Even so—this ship and everyone on it are now quarantined until I’m certain we don’t have what killed them aboard.”

“Aye, aye, Sir, I’ll pass the orders.  If we don’t die—what then, skipper?”

“We return to Taurus, of course . . .,” and then Aramis stopped himself.  “Those ships.  They are out of fuel, right?  But what about the rest of their systems?”

The Bosun shrugged.  “They have been drifting cold and lifeless for over four centuries, Sir.  They are in pretty bad shape—but I think if we fed them some fuel and got them powered up, some of them might work.  Might.  Can’t make any promises about that—thankfully, we are far enough out that they haven’t been too irradiated, but a lot of their systems are shot.”  The Bosun paused now and he shook his head.  “We don’t have nearly enough people out here to put even a skeleton crew aboard each of those ships.  And I know I wouldn’t want to be aboard one about to make a Jump until we have a thorough inspection of the systems.  But we might be able to salvage some of them, Sir.  We might.”

“Forty-seven JumpShips—including a pair of Aquila-class!—and five WarShips,” Aramis mused.  Well, he thought to himself with a chuckle, four WarShips and one Compact Core Fleet Armed Auxiliary.  Which might well prove more valuable to the Concordat than the four WarShips, since—according to history and Admiral Vickers—the St. Helens class had been designed to repair damaged WarShips in the deep space without having to return to a repair yard, as well as carry copious amounts of fuel, munitions, and spare parts for the Taurian Concordat Navy.  They were not full-on YardShips—or any substitute for an actual WarShip—by any means, but in this time and in this place, that ship would be a godsend to the Concordat.  IF he could get her operational, that was.

“The shuttles spotted at least a dozen more that are further out, skipper, but I’m not sure we’ve seen them all.  Vickers said there were a total of seventy-seven ships in her expedition.  Where would we even start?” the Bosun asked.

Aramis looked at the sensor display in his day cabin and then he shook his head.  “As much as I hate to say it, we are not going to start with the damn WarShips.  We are going to need some of Admiral Vickers people out here to tackle that.  And those two Aquila are so bloody old, I’m not about to try to bring them back to life.  Not without some specialists from our JumpShip yard on hand.”  He paused and then he nodded after he considered for a moment.  “If—IF—we are not infected and don’t die in screaming agony in a few weeks, we’ll work on getting some of the Liberty-class and the Merchants and perhaps one of those Leviathans up and running.  Depending on how badly her systems are compromised, we might try to get that St. Helens operational as well, but I doubt we can get her online by ourselves.  If we can get any of them up and running, we’ve got enough personnel to put a skeleton crew on about six or seven ships—we do that and then we go home.  And come back with enough skilled engineers, JumpShip crews, and every bloody repair tech we can find—plus food, water, air, and fuel!—and grab the rest of them we can get jump-capable.  If we don’t all die first, that is.”

“Oh, Sir.  We won’t all die even if we brought the bug back with us—just those of us on this ship.”

“That, Bosun, makes we feel just so much better.” The stoic non-com actually smiled at that and Aramis nodded.  “Okay then.  We have a plan.  First, we don’t die, then we get to work.  And that means, as of right now, pass the word.  No one on or off this ship until we get well past that incubation period or we find out what test they used and we are all negative.  Until then, we wait and we pray.”  Aramis downloaded the log to his systems and then pulled out the data storage module and handed it to the Bosun.  “And get with medical and go through every last byte of information on that thing.”

“I’ll make sure the crew understands, Captain,” and he held up the module, “and I’ll get it done.”

Aramis leaned back in his chair as the Bosun exited his day cabin and he looked at the computer monitor again.  Okay.  Time to watch the whole thing, he thought as he scrolled back to the first entry and pressed play.

Wolf’s Dragoons DropShip Chieftain
Outbound to Gateway Point, Taurus System
Taurian Concordat
July 14, 3026

Jaime Wolf looked around the small table in his executive office aboard the Command-Overlord DropShip.  J. Elliot sat to his right—as usual—and Natasha to his left.  Stanford Blake was on Natasha’s left, while Jason Carmody sat between him and J. Elliot.  The rest of his senior command staff was deployed with their regiments—and Chieftain was en route to New Vallis to rejoin Alpha Regiment and Zeta Battalion there.

“What did we learn?” the Colonel commanding Wolf’s Dragoons asked.

“First off, Colonel, there is no way in hell that they salvaged that battleship,” Jason said in a sour voice.

Wolf raised an eyebrow and he nodded at the middle-aged man who commanded an independent aerospace fighter group—and one of the few remaining Dragoons with knowledge of WarShips and their operation.  “Go ahead, Jason—tell me why it isn’t salvaged.”

Jason snorted.  “I spent eight years in the Clan Wolf Naval Reserve Cache, Colonel.  Mothballed ships take time to restore to service—derelicts take even more effort.  But that ship?  She’s too clean.”

Natasha frowned.  “They’ve had her for over eight months—what is so wrong with it being clean?”

“Not clean as in spit-polished, ‘Tasha,” Jason said as he shook his head.  “The control systems—sure some have been replaced, probably from battle damage.  But most of them are still original equipment—just like the spares in their parts locker.   You leave a WarShip or a JumpShip floating out in the deep black for a century or more without power, without crew to maintain systems,” he shook he head again.  “Too many of her systems have never been replaced—and those systems are precisely the ones that should have required replacement if she’s been drifting for more than four centuries!  Second, they found her in the Hyades, didn’t they?”

“That was certainly implied, but I do not believe anyone actually said those words,” J. Elliot said slowly, his mind working on the problem that Jason had presented him with.

“Okay then.  Where are the micro-meteoroid impacts?  Sure, she’s got some armor burns on the outer hull—one damn big crater too—but the whole hull should be covered in impact points.  You can’t drift through this nebula for four centuries and not be hit once.  And the damage she does have on the outer hull?  That’s recent—no more than a year old.  That crater in starboard side aft armor plate?  That’s a direct impact from a NAC-35—and the scoring and deterioration of the armor isn’t more than one year old at the most.”

“Impossible,” whispered Stanford.

“And look at the crew.  Colonel Wolf, Colonel Jameson, you both know just how hard you have to work to get the kind of esprit de corps we saw in that crew three days ago.  Those spacers aren’t new to that ship—they know that ship inside and out.  They know each other and know they can rely on each other when there are lives hanging in the balance.  It’s right there in plain sight, Sirs.”

“It is not possible,” Stanford insisted.  “If she’s not a derelict, where did she come from?  Where did she get the crew?  How did she get that damage if it is no more than year old?”

“Where do you think?” Jason answered, and for a moment there was silence at the table, and then Stanford barked out a burst of laughter.

“Are you mad?  You can’t be seriously suggesting that this s-ship,” he sputtered, “came—somehow!—through time from the last days of the Reunification War!”

“Why not?  We know misjumps happen.  We’ve seen ships displaced by one or two weeks sometimes if the misjump is severe enough.  What’s to say that they had one hell of a severe misjump and ended up here?” Jason answered.

“That would mean,” J. Elliot said in a slow voice, “that Helena Vickers wasn’t named for one of Concordat’s naval heroes, that she is in fact . . .,” his voice trailed off.

“. . . that Helena Vickers,” Natasha finished and she chuckled and shook her head.  “She’s a firecracker, that is for certain—hell, she intimidates me and that takes some doing!  But it also explains this Calderon Red Hand,” and she paused.

“Their new ‘Mech battalion?” asked Stanford.  “What’s so strange about that?”

“Not much, I mean, Stan, even in the Concordat I am sure you can find forty-eight or fifty dispossessed MechWarriors and given the opportunity to get back in a cockpit, they’d just be all over it.  But you did read their Inspector General’s evaluation of that unit, right?”

“They just about maxed their eval, ‘Tasha.  So?” Stanford asked in a puzzled voice, and J. Elliot and Jaime both groaned as it came to them simultaneously.

“Major Blake,” Jaime said in a patient voice, “you can always finds MechWarriors to put into a cockpit.  But you can’t put together four dozen or so and make them anywhere nearly as effective as this evaluation suggests the Red Hand is.  I read it too—just was not thinking about what it meant.  But this battalion scored higher—across the board!—than the 1st Battalion, Taurian Guards did on their last eval.  And that should be the Bulls best unit.  Period.”

“And if they put this battalion together in the last year, why do they have four companies—forty-eight ‘Mechs—all of the same tonnage, all of the exact model, all consisting of a design—the Typhon—that everyone thought was dead and extinct for over four hundred years?” Natasha added.  “Not saying I believe you, Jason, but it does explain this Red Hand—what unit today has forty-eight Archers or Grasshoppers or Warhammers and not another damn thing?”

She shrugged.  “And talking with some of their people who came back with Edward—Sir Brigadier Edward Calderon—from New Vallis, the Red Hand kept up with that battalion of the Davion Heavy Guards posing as mercs when the two were released to counter-attack the Sixth Fusiliers and put paid to Michael’s ambitions.  The battalion that was under Ardan Sortek’s command.  That’s impressive, folks.”

“A ship that shouldn’t be here, a battalion of ‘Mechs long extinct and better than any other in TDF service,” J. Elliot said softly.  “You know, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever you are left with, however improbable, tends to be the truth.”

Stanford just stared at the others his mouth opening and closing without saying a word, and then Jaime sighed.  “And this affects us . . . how?  How does this change our operation out here?  To evaluate the Concordat as a possible base—industrial, at the least—to defend against the Homeworlds when they finally decide to come and invade.”

“It doesn’t,” J. Elliot said bluntly—but firmly.  “So they came forward in time.  They don’t have tech better than ours and we will see just how good their Red Hand really is on New Vallis.”

“They fought the Star League, Colonel Jameson!” snapped Stanford.

“And they lost.  Then the Star League fell, Major Blake, and not even General Kerensky could keep it alive, which is why Nicholas founded our society in the Homeworlds and led us back to the Pentagon for Klondike.  Putting an end to the rotting corpse of the Star League once and for all time,” J. Elliot replied in a bitter voice.

“My, aren’t we a ray of sunshine, today, old man,” chimed in Natasha with a smile.

“Keep on, Natasha—I know exactly how old you really are,” J. Elliot replied.  “And I am not that much older than you.”

“It’s not the years, Colonel Jameson, Sir.  It’s the damned mileage,” and she chuckled.  “Okay then.  I’m good with this—it has the potential for not being boring at least.  And I can always take the Black Widow Company out to Tortuga for some target practice if I get antsy and don’t see any action for a while.”

“Thomas might even pay for that, ‘Tasha,” Jaime said with a chuckle of his own. 

“God, I love this job.  I get paid for breaking things and blowing shit up.”

“And don’t forget—Thomas is planning on going into the CapCon in a year or two,” Jaime said more seriously.

And Natasha’s face stilled.  “Good,” she said flatly.  “I still owe Max a debt for handing our contract over to Anton.”  She paused for a moment and then looked up.  “Okay, Jay-El,” and she smiled.  “What’s say my Black Widow Company, a company from Zeta, and two from Alpha take on the Red Hand in wargames when we unload on New Vallis?  If you can keep up that is—old man.”

“One of these days, Natasha,” J. Elliot growled, “I am going to put you over my knee and give you a spanking you will never, ever forget.”

Natasha smiled suddenly.  “Promises, promises, promises, Jay-El.  Always with the promises but you never follow through.”

Cháteau des Calderon
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
July 15, 3026

“. . . and Precentor Taurus reports that—as of this morning—every HPG in the Taurian Concordat is once again operational and interstellar communications have been restored,” Semyon Cantrell concluded.

Thomas frowned.  He still wasn’t happy about having ComStar back in the Concordat, but then he nodded.  “Good.  What about the fund transfers from the Magistracy of Canopus, the Free Worlds League, and the Draconis Combine?”

“First installments have been transferred to the Treasury, Thomas,” Semyon answered with a grin.  “At the moment—even after paying the initial fees to Colonel Wolf for his services, the government is flush with capital.  Stocks are on a sharp rise and exports have almost doubled since we lifted the ban on exporting to worlds of the Federated Suns, even with the embargo on the Capellan Confederation.”

“Good.  Erebor?”

Raoul cleared his throat, even as Edward smiled.  “We will be ready to begin the first classes in August, Thomas,” his brother answered.  “Right now—and probably for the next two years—we are going to be focused on retraining educators, engineers, and scientists.  Thankfully, they aren’t going to need to go through the whole program—just focus on their particular professions and process, then integrate, the information from the Vickers Core.”

“Which,” Edward added, “has now not only been downloaded and copied multiple times, but we are beginning to distribute the various texts and art and music to libraries across the Concordat.  We’ve got a ways to go yet, but the knowledge is starting to flow out.”

Brenda Calderon nodded.  “And our industries which we gave a first look at the engineering data are almost done gearing up—in six months Vandenberg Military Industries will start producing the upgraded model of the Talos that was included in the Core.  Taurus Territorial Industries say it’ll be a year, but we are going to be building the Typhon as well.  Even Pinard Protectorates are getting into the act—they are going to put the Skyhawk back into production at their ASF facility within the next nine months.  The Rattlesnake is now in full production as well, and we are getting requests from the AFFS and LCAF to buy any surplus production.”

Joachim Perez, the Commodore who commanded the Taurian Aerospace Command, cleared his throat.  “The Outworlders have already asked about licensing the Skyhawk design—they took one look at it and fell head-over-heels in love!”  And he smiled broadly.  “We are looking good right now and will be a whole lot in just a few years.  Still not where we should be, but we are getting there, Protector Caldeorn.”

Thomas nodded and he leaned back in his seat.  “Give them the license with my blessing.  And what are my people saying about all this?”

Raoul grinned.  “Your support among the citizenry of the Concordat has never been higher Thomas—by-and-large, the people approve of what you are doing.  Not only are you the Protector who smashed McCarron’s Armored Cavalry and the Sixth Syrtis Fusiliers into wrack and ruin, but you ended the interdiction and got Wolf’s Dragoons out here to keep us safe.  Not to mention ended the Cold War with House Davion.  And the information pouring out of the Core—the non-military applications—the public sees that we are on the very verge of a new Renaissance.  Well,” he paused, “except for the CRP hard-liners who are absolutely furious over the Treaty Edward signed in your name.”

“Henri?” the Protector asked.

“We are watching them, my Lord Calderon.  We are watching them closely,” Henri replied in a somber voice.  “But, at this moment, they are only exercising their right to speak.  I have, however, increased security for you, your family, and senior government officials considerably.  If they decide to try something, we will be ready.”

“Like the Lyrans were ready for that attempted assassination of Melissa Steiner by one of Hasek’s fanatics?” Brenda asked sharply.

Henri shook his head.  “That came completely out of the blue,” and Henri shook his head as he remembered reading the confidential messages sent to Hanse Davion on New Syrtis via the Model K-0.  And the scathing and shocked replies!  “No one was expecting anything like that—and it was well planned weeks if not months in advance.  The Steiners got lucky.”

“How is that going to affect our plans?” asked Thomas.

“Right now, the Lyran Intelligence Corps and Davion’s MIIO are conducting intensive interrogations and running a thorough investigation throughout the Capellan March and the Hasek family.  They really don’t have a choice—it isn’t sitting well with Davion’s own hard-liners who aren’t happy with how he is currently treating the Haseks or for signing the treaty with you.”

Thomas sighed.  He sat back and he felt his stomach roll—his throat was actually dry at what he was forcing himself to say.  “How can we help?” he finally spat out.  And Thomas felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned his head to look at Edward and put his own hand on top of his son’s as he nodded at the approving face.

“I do not believe that we can—at the moment, Sire,” Henri answered.  “Other than keep our own hot-headed fools under control.”

Thomas nodded his understanding.  And then he chuckled.  “Never once in my life did I think I would be asking my government how we can help the damned Davions!” he whispered.  “Helena?”

The Fleet Marshal shook her own head.  “I well know that feeling, Protector Calderon,” she said in a wry voice.  “On the naval side, Chandler Shipwrights has completed the first Spacedock and started work on the second,” and she too chuckled.  The grandiosely named ‘Spacedocks’ were little more than orbiting scaffolding for unpressurized repair—and construction—yards.  They were a far cry from the state of the art and extensive shipyards of her own time, but something that the Concordat had lacked for far too long.  “Vandenberg will start her overhaul and retrofit mid-August, and when Spacedock 2 comes online, we are putting the Saucy Sam in her to finally repair the armor damage and fix some issues with her systems.”

“We have also received the first two Behemoths—the ones that the AFFS said they were sending.  Chandler has begun cutting them up and starting their conversion to the Goliath-class escorts.  It will take six months—at a minimum—but things are looking good on those two fronts.  The addition of the eleven JumpShips we captured from the . . . pirates . . . at New Vallis has given the TCN and TDF more options, but finding crews for those ships is stretching manpower.  And that will get worse after we get Vandenberg operational.  We are expanding training classes, but the TCN has been a rather low priority in this Concordat for quite some time.”

“Well that is going to change, Helena,” Thomas growled.  And he nodded at the commander of the Taurian Concordat Navy.  “How is your crew adapting?” he asked in a rather more quiet tone.

“Most of them are well—some are having problems adjusting,” she answered in a voice just as quiet.  “Some want to leave the service and retire—I have managed to convince most of them to stay a while longer, at least until we can get replacements trained and ready to take their place, but there are some in my crew who just want to go home.  Or at least make a new home,” she finished sadly.

“Hearing that beach on Brisbane calling your name, Fleet Marshal?” Thomas asked in a voice that was—only slightly—teasing.  And Helena smiled at him.

“When the work is done, Protector Calderon.  Not until after we deal with the Capellans, at the soonest, I’m afraid.”  And then she smiled.  “Although, according to one interpretation of the TCN Regulations, I have amassed quite a bit of shore-leave.”

Thomas chuckled.  “Take a vacation, Helena.  One of us needs to take one, anyway.”

“After we deal with the Capellans, Sire,” she answered with a smile.  And then that smile faded.  “Are you sure you can trust these Dragoons?” she asked.  “They don’t strike me as your typical mercenaries.  During the tour, they were asking all of the right questions for people who don’t know the first thing about WarShips.  Some of them were asking anyway.  I don’t think they believe you salvaged that ship.”

Thomas leaned back in his chair and he sighed.  “They have always honored their contracts, Helena; even when they suffered a lot of damage in the process.  Are they going to a problem for us, Henri?”

“I don’t believe so, Sir.  But, having spoken with their Major Blake over the past few days, I think their intelligence assets are quite a bit more extensive than we realized.  That man is sharp—and his sources are good.”

Edward cleared his throat and Thomas nodded at his son.

“What difference does it make if they know the truth about the Samantha Calderon and Fleet Marshal Vickers, Pop?”

“They aren’t Taurians, son,” Thomas snapped, but then he paused.  “But they are good at keeping secrets, right Henri?”

“After all these years, not one of them has ever revealed where exactly they came from, Sire.”

“You think we should tell them, Edward?” Thomas asked.

“We are trusting them with getting the TDF and Constabulary trained and ready for war, Pop.  I think telling them the truth will get us their respect—it will show them that we trust them.  And if we can’t, if they tell others, well,” Edward shook his head, “then that is something we need to know and know before we get them integrated too deep into our operational planning.”

Henri chuckled and Thomas looked at his son for several moments and then he nodded.  “Okay, Brigadier Calderon.  I’m sending you back to New Vallis—as aide-de-camp to Corey out there at I Corps HQ—so let’s kill two birds with one stone,” and the corner of Thomas’ lip raised slightly as he saw the shocked expression on Edward’s face . . . and then the grin as he realized he was going to see Moira again.  “You are authorized to fully brief Colonel Wolf and his staff on the truth.  Henri,” he continued, turning his gaze on the intelligence ministers, “you keep an eye out and an ear out.  If they betray that trust, I want to know.”  Thomas paused.  “If they don’t, I still want to know.”

“It will be done, Sire,” the intelligence minister answered with a slight bow of his head.

“Are there any other matters of concern before us today?” Thomas asked.

“Security needs to know just how many of the family will be attending the playoff game next week, my Lord,” Henri said.  “You are still planning on watching the game from the Protector’s Box?”

“First time in eighteen years the Samantha City Cavaliers have won the division pennant?  I’m not about to miss that—and Katherine and the children are just as big baseball fans as I am.  Raoul, you and the twins are coming as well, right?”

“Barring any unexpected illness among the girls, we’ll be there, Tom.”

Thomas smiled.  “Okay, Henri.  Tell security to plan on the whole family—minus Edward, sorry son, but you’re transport to New Vallis leaves tomorrow—will be attending.”

“Send me the video afterwards—without spoilers, Pop, if you don’t mind!”  Edward said with a grin.

“I think we can do that.  And if there is nothing else for today, I think we are finished,” Thomas said as he stood, followed by everyone else at the table.

TCJS Patrick Flannagan
Zenith Jump Point, GKV-2198
Unknown Space
July 17, 3026

“. . . and medical has administered the test for the virus to all members of the crew—twice, Sir,” the Bosun reported.  “Not one positive result.”

Thank god, Aramis thought to himself as he released the lungful of air he had unconsciously drawn and held.  “Good.  Captain Walsh is jumping Group B to join us here at the Zenith Point tomorrow . . . with the additional ships, supplies, and crews, how is that going to help with the salvage effort?”

“We ain’t gonna salvage much, Sir,” the Bosun said in a sour voice.  “Every last of those derelicts has blown helium seals—I figure that fatigue and a lack of maintenance caused them all to fail.  None of those ships have any liquid helium left in their cooling tanks.  Now,” and he shrugged, “since the drives were dead cold when that happened, there shouldn’t be any permanent damage, but replacing the seals and liquid helium will take time.  And we don’t have a lot of either of those particular spares aboard the flotilla.  Sir.”

Aramis frowned.  Actually, they did.  Each JumpShip in the flotilla carried two full sets of replacement seals and enough liquid helium tankage to refill the cooling system twice.  But . . . he couldn’t use all of those spares in case one of his ships lost their own seals on the way home.  No, he had to keep a reserve—just how much of a reserve was the question at hand.

He shook his head.  “Talk to me, Bosun,” he ordered, asking the more experienced spacer for advice. 

“The boys down in engineering—and on the other ships—want to concentrate on getting six of those Merchants out there up and running.  Not a bad idea—we’ve got six Merchants in the flotilla ourselves and doing that will leave plenty of spare seals and helium for the voyage home.  But, I think we should instead grab four of those Liberty class floating out there.  It’ll cost us about the same amount of supplies as the six Merchants, but require less crew to man—and gives us four more docking collars.”

“Not any of the Leviathans?” Aramis asked.

The Bosun shook his head.  “Those things require a lot of helium, boss.  We could get one and two Liberty class, but that would cut our reserve stockpile to right at the bare minimum.  And those Compact Core ships?  The Aquilas and the WarShips?  They require three times as much helium tankage as a JumpShip of the same tonnage would.  They are all—including that St. Helens—way over what we can afford to spare.  If we want to make certain everyone in the Flotilla comes home.”

Damn, Aramis thought to himself again and then he nodded his head.  “Okay.  When Walsh gets here with Group B, let’s concentrate on picking out four of the Liberty class that are in the best condition—and tell medical that we will continue daily blood draws and screening to make damn sure that the virus doesn’t get aboard.  That includes full decontamination procedures for any personnel going aboard those ships.”

“Heard and understood, boss,” the Bosun answered.  “But we really need to consider what those sixteen collars are gonna be hauling back home, Sir.”

Aramis sat back.  From the reports he had already read, each and every one of those DropShips was loaded down with cargo that the Concordat—and its member worlds—desperately needed.  But the Bosun obviously had some ideas that differed from his own.

“Go ahead, Bosun, talk to me.”

“They’ve got a pair of Snowden Mining Stations over there, boss,” he said with a smile.  “Fully stocked and ready to be put back into service.”

Aramis sat up straight.  “The original Snowden?  The one with the K/F booms?”  And Aramis began to smile.

“Yes, Sir, Commodore, Sir.  And that derelict fleet has a modular space station—which includes a shipyard module large enough to accommodate a Wagon Wheel or any smaller WarShip or JumpShip.  It is small, compared to an Olympus, but the damn thing still takes up six collars.  I think we need to bring that one back, too.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you found those earlier?” Aramis snapped.

“Just got the report on them a few minutes before I reported here to your day cabin, Sir,” the Bosun answered with a chuckle.

Aramis shook his head.  “You have a low and mean sense of humor, Bosun.”

“I try, Sir.  I do try.”

Aramis snorted.  “That is eight collars—eight left.  Any ideas on those?”

“Yes, Sir.  The Winchester is carrying two Legionnaires—the Wagon Wheel has another two.  Both are fully loaded.  That is two battalions of ‘Mechs with attached aerospace fighters—battalions with four companies each.  The Protector will have an orgasm if we bring him those four droppers back.”

“Part of the Red Hand?”

“No, sir.  According to the manifest, they were part of the Concordat Chasseurs and Concordat Velites—two battalions each with forty-eight of the second generation Talos and eight Skyhawks.”

“Well, bringing ninety-six ‘Mechs and sixteen ASF home—plus the rest, plus the information on where the remainder of the Exiles Fleet is located—ought to please the Protector something fierce.  The last four collars?”

The Bosun shrugged.  “Pick a Jumbo—any Jumbo.  There are almost a hundred of those damned things over there and all loaded down with supplies for a colonial expedition.”

“Okay.  Sounds like a plan.  Pick me out a pair of Jumbos and four Liberty class that are in the best condition—and then we are going to get to work on moving those modules and DropShips.  And when we are done, we are all going home.”

With a few golden nuggets in hand and information on where to find the whole damned motherlode, Aramis thought with a smile.

Ah, that evil phone company is at it again.

Henderson Space Port
Port Sheridan, New Vallis
Taurian Concordat
August 2, 3026

Edward passed through the doors of the arrival concourse and his smile faded as he noticed who was waiting for him.

“Eddie, my boy!” Corey Calderon said loudly.  “Welcome back to New Vallis.”

“Uncle Corey,” Edward forced a smile on his face and shook the older man’s hand.  Since Corey hadn’t addressed him as Brigadier, Edward hoped that it meant this meeting was neither formal nor work.

Corey shook his head with a grin.  “Not planning on ruining you spending a few days with your young lady, Eddie,” he said with a chuckle.  And then his happy expression faded.  “But, first, we need to talk,” and he motioned with one hand towards one of the security rooms where customs inspectors—on occasion—questioned visitors to New Vallis.

Edward frowned, but then he nodded.  “Okay then,” and he walked over to the door which was guarded by four men—but these weren’t customs agents or standard spaceport security.  No, these men were serious and expressionless and their eyes flitted from one passerby to the next.  Edward had grown up in the care of men and women just like these—and the tension he already felt ratcheted up another couple of notches.

One of the agents opened the door, and Edward walked in, followed by Corey and Jon Kincaide, then the door was closed behind the three.  A fourth person was already seated in the room and she rose as they entered.

“Sir Edward,” she said politely, “Marshal Calderon thought that perhaps it would be for the best if you and I met here and now.  I am Special Agent in Charge Abigail Carnes and I work for Henri Jouett.”

“Special Intelligence and Operations,” Edward replied.

“I am the station chief here on New Vallis—the last two times you were here, we didn’t meet.  That was because both of those times there was no reason for you to be aware of my identity and no real benefit to brief you on intelligence matters not within your purview.”  And she paused.

“That has now changed,” she said sadly.

“How so?” asked Edward.

The SAIC for New Vallis motioned to the seats and Edward sat, followed by Corey and Abigail, although Jon remained standing just behind and to the side of his charge.

Corey sighed.  “It’s the damn CRP, Eddie.  They have been flooding the airwaves with talk of how you are a traitor to the Concordat, that you remain in your position and as Heir-designate only because your father doesn’t want to cause a scandal by throwing you out—they believe and they are trying to make others believe that you sold out the Taurian people to Hanse Davion and the Federated Suns.”

“And those broadcasts and editorials and town hall meetings where the CRP has been spewing this crap has fallen on a few people easily influenced.  Special Intelligence and Operations has intercepted a number of communications between members of the CRP and people not previously associated with that party.  Communications that discuss the solution to the ‘problem of traitor and turn-coat Edward Calderon’ in most vivid detail,” Abigail added.

Corey nodded, his jaw set and a furious look in his eyes.  “When they got word that you were being posted here, the crazies and fanatics dialed up their rhetoric even higher.  SIO has uncovered both voice and text signal traffic that indicate they intend to kill you, Eddie.”

Jon stiffened behind him, but Edward forced himself to remain calm.  After all, threats against the Protector and his family were nothing new.  But this wasn’t Taurus.  And while his security detail was good—the best in fact that the Concordat could offer—it was only a small fraction of the Protector’s Own:  the men and women entrusted with keeping the Protector and his family alive and well.

“I take it that the means through which SIO acquired the signals intelligence means we can’t go through the Courts?” Edward asked.

Abigail smiled.  “Actually, we have arrested almost everyone implicated and they have been charged, arraigned, and are awaiting trail—all in accordance with the law.”

“Almost everyone,” Edward pointed out the key words from her statement, and she nodded.

“Seven of the suspects managed to elude our capture teams—we think when we started rounding up those members of the CRP and their followers, they got just enough of a warning to vanish.  We are hunting them down—but, Sir Edward, you are in grave danger here on New Vallis.”

Corey leaned forward and he sighed.  “And so is anyone in your company, Eddie.”

Now Edward did sit and his face whitened.  “Moira,” he whispered.

“Moira Tyrell,” Corey confirmed.  “We’ve got her a protection detail shadowing her around the clock, but all it takes if for one of these fanatics to get lucky once, just like that attempted assassination of Melissa Steiner on Tharkad showed us.  Erwin is worried, Eddie, and so am I.  So is Abigail.”

“Which means?” Edward asked. 

“For now,” Abigail answered after a brief glance at the Marshal who commanded the I Corps of the TDF, “I would recommend that you and Moira Tyrell be placed in secure custody where none of those associated with the CRP or their followers can reach you.  At least until we apprehend those fugitives still at large.”

Edward snorted.  “I’ll bet Moira told you two—and her father!—just where to stick that secure custody,” he said in a voice that held absolutely no laughter.

“Since I’d lose that bet if I took it, I’m not gonna take it, son,” Corey answered.  And he sighed.  “Eddie, Erwin and I want you to talk to her—get her to do the right thing.  It won’t be forever, but she’s putting herself at risk going back-and-forth to Port Sheridan General Hospital and working there while these assholes are out there trying to make you hurt even if they can’t manage to kill you.”

For a moment, Edward was silent, but then he nodded.  “I’ll talk to her, but I doubt she is going to back down, Corey.  She won’t let fanatics win by showing she’s afraid of them.”  And he let out a soft and bitter chuckle.  “Just like you or I or Pop or Erwin won’t.”

Corey nodded.  “I figured that you might say that.  So.  Erwin, Raphael Montoya, and myself go together with Colonel Wolf and we moved up the FTX—it starts at 0600 tomorrow morning.  And I’ve spoken—behind the scenes—with the administrator of Port Sheridan General, and he’s agreed that we might just need a trauma team on-call out there.  And do you know who he picked to lead that team?”

Edward snorted and he shook his lead.  “Let me guess—one Doctor Moira Tyrell?”

“Right you are, my boy!”  Corey smiled.  “She can’t complain because it is a prestigious posting requiring only the best in trauma care specialists—and Colonel Wolf has assigned his 7th Kommando special operations team to provide security for the medical detachement . . . and your quarters.”

“Combined with the rest of your detail,” Abigail continued, “we can keep you safe out there on the military reservation—none of the fugitives should be able to even get on the base, much less near you.  And if they do, the 7th Kommando, base security, and your detail are authorized to respond with lethal force.”

She sighed and shook her head.  “It’s not ideal.  I’d rather have you and Dr. Tyrell down in the bowels of Fort Locke—in the deepest and most secure bunker we have here on New Vallis, with a battalion of infantry for perimeter security and my best people and your detail for close-in security.  I can make certain that no one could get to either of you.”  She paused and shook her head again.  “But if wishes were horses, everyone would ride.  Having you two out on the military reservation is a good second choice, but it is still dangerous.”

“What isn’t in this life?” asked Edward.  “Special Agent Carnes, there has not been a day in my life since I was old enough to realize reality for what it is that I haven’t known that I am a target for someone who wants to hurt my father.  Every day is a risk and just going outside to a restaurant for a meal might be dangerous and deadly—but I am not going to let these bastards win by locking myself and my family away from the world.  They can kill me.  They can hurt or kill people I love.  But they won’t break me.  And they won’t stop me and mine from living our lives to the fullest extent we can and cherishing every minute of this life we have together.”

“Well said, son,” Corey chimed in.  “Okay.  I’ve got transport waiting out front for you.”

Edward smiled, and he shook his head.  “I’ve got a better idea, Uncle Corey.  Jon?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Signal Subaltern Kennedy aboard Black Bull.  Tell him that that we are deploying the ‘Mech and armored companies now—and find transport for the infantry component of the detail and the close-in security detachement—weapons hot and live ammunition loaded in all magazines  And have the Techs get my ‘Mech and yours ready.  Bastards want to take a shot at me?  Well, I’ll be in the cockpit of a Thunderbolt if they decide they want to die today.”

Corey laughed.  “Not even the CRP are crazy enough to take on fourteen ‘Mechs, eighteen Rattlesnakes, and a company of the best-damned jump infantry troopers that the Concordat can field—much less the agents from the Protector’s Own.  Governor Hampton will have a cow about what you are going to do to the streets of Port Sheridan, but I can live with that Edward!”

“In that case, Uncle Corey,” Edward replied as he stood, “I think Jon and I need to go back aboard Black Bull and get ready.”

“Godspeed, son.  Godspeed,” Corey answered and he and Abigail stood as well.

Shame we never got any more of this.