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TCS Samantha Calderon
The Gateway, Hyades Cluster
September 27, 3025

“My god . . . am I dreaming?” whispered Ethan Mendoza as he touched the solid bulkhead reverently once again.

“Here,” Helena answered as she handed him a crystal glass filled with liquor, keeping a second one for herself.  “Dan?”

“One of us needs to stay sober, Skipper,” the XO answered with a grim chuckle.  “If you are dreaming, Commodore, then for us it is a nightmare come to life,” his smile and chuckle faded away.  “Just based on what you have said, the Star League was more vindictive than even we thought they could be . . . all of the yards are gone?” he asked in a shocked voice.  “The graving docks over Samantha; the orbital foundries at Jamestown; the component and weapon factories on Taurus itself!  According to your information, we have a single yard—in the entire Taurian Concordat!—one yard able to produce JumpShips!  And no WarShips.”

“The Star League was rather . . . perturbed,” Ethan said with a shake of his head, “at our continued intransigence following the War, Commander Stiles,” and then his face clouded and red anger—a deep and broad anger that was clearly visible on his face and body—welled up from inside him.  “The bastards didn’t want to ever have to fight us again; so they crippled as much of our industry as they could.  Crippled and maimed us enough that when the Star League fell we lost about half of our worlds thanks to their policies that didn’t let us build vital components out here.”

Ethan shook his head and he swallowed half of his whiskey in one quick gulp—but the shock of the powerful liquor calmed him down . . . somewhat.

“They stole half of our worlds, and when we rebuilt, their death throes destroyed half of those we had left, Admiral, Commander.  Which isn’t to mention the pirates and renegades that have plagued us non-stop since authority collapsed outside our core systems.  Oh, we have had peace—for a given definition of peace,” he spat sourly, “but the incessant raids and attacks on our people, the need to relocate millions of civilians as power and water failed on a score of worlds; all of this and a series of unfortunate . . . accidents kept us from rebuilding.  And when we finally managed to stop our slide we discovered that the nice people from the Star League who just wanted to help their backwards and primitive cousins had censored and edited all of our libraries.  They didn’t just make an effort to remove blue-prints and plans, because that would be too easy to overcome,” and Ethan laughed grimly.  “No, the bastards actually changed text in instructional manuals and textbooks; they deliberately removed the knowledge that we needed and so fucked up the basic learning materials that we haven’t been able to rebuild back to what we had in the Age of War even now, two centuries after it all fell apart.”

Helena exchanged a look with her executive officer, and he shrugged; she nodded in reply—and then she smiled.  “Commodore,” she began in a quiet voice, “I do believe that you count on that part of history being over and done with.  As I said earlier, we were part of an expedition that intended to preserve the best parts of the Concordat independent of Ian Cameron’s damned Star League.  The rest of the Flotilla, if they survived,” she added, “are still out there somewhere—we just have to find them.  And,” and here she grinned broadly, “my flagship carries aboard her a Data Core containing the accumulated knowledge of the Taurian Concordat, as of the year 2596.  You still have printers?  Because engineering textbooks, blue-prints, and schematics are NOT going to be a problem.”

Ethan blinked and he swallowed the second half of his whiskey before setting down the crystal tumbler.  He nodded.  “It is indicative of the sad state of affairs, Admiral Vickers, when I tell you without exaggeration, that the information you have offered is quite possibly more vital than the entire firepower of this WarShip.”  And then he winced.  “A WarShip . . . we have a fucking WarShip, a working WarShip.  Hanse Davion and Maximillian Liao will go fucking ballistic.”

Helen sighed again.  “Unfortunately, Commodore, we are working and functional only if you can discount the Kearny-Fuchida Drive Core.  Commander Fletcher might be able to restore the drive . . . given a few months to make repairs; if, IF, that is, that you are able to retool factories to produce the components that we need.”

“Understood, ma’am,” Ethan answered, but then he grinned.  “But your guns work, and so do those big-ass transit drives back there on your hind-quarters—you can fight and you can maneuver, and ma’am, no one has had a WarShip able to do that in more than a century.”

“Oh, yes, Commodore,” Helen laughed, “our guns work and I’ve got a full load of nuclear ordnance aboard.  I would say that I pity anyone that tries to attack Taurus on my watch—but my pity reserves are just about depleted,” she finished in a cold, cold voice.  “Someone jumps into this system on my watch, planning to strike the capital, their JumpShip and DropShips are going to be devoured in nuclear fire.  Unless I am feeling like playing with them; in which case our Naval Lasers and PPCs will tear them apart a millimeter at a time.”

And Ethan drew himself up and swallowed heavily.  He had read—in secondary school—about the heroic Helena Vickers and her twenty years of fighting against the League.  She was a national hero, for all that the Star League bureaucrats had tried to extinguish all mention of her—but only now was he beginning to understand, to see, the unremorseful utter hatred that ran through her body at the merest thought of those from the Inner Sphere invading even this Concordat—a Concordat so very different from her own centuries past.

“There are different rules today, Admiral,” he whispered.  “JumpShips—all JumpShips—are sacrosanct.  They are not attacked, but can be captured.”

“Really?” asked Helena in an acrid voice.  “Does that apply to this ship as well?”

Ethan blinked, but then the Admiral waved off his reply.  “I’ll comply with your rules—your time, your universe . . . for now, Commodore.  But if defending Taurus means blowing an Inner Sphere JumpShip and every living soul aboard her to Hell, then that is what I’m going to do,” and she took a sip of her own whiskey.

“Dan,” she continued, “while the good Commodore is still in a state of shock, perhaps you can inform him of what else we are carrying.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” the XO answered cheerfully.  “Commodore Mendoza, as part of the Expedition of Exiles, we gave up two of our four docking collars to transport the Fourth Battalion of the Calderon Red Hand.  Their Legionnaire-class DropShips carry two ‘Mech companies and two ASF lances apiece—so we’ve got a full strength Battalion of the some of the most fanatical defenders of the House of Calderon on hand,” he smirked.  Dan Stiles actually smirked at the two higher ranking officers.  “I am given to understand that units today are a hodge-podge of different ‘Mechs and vehicles; your logistics must be tangled to Hell’s Heart.”

Ethan frowned.  Where was this popinjay going?  And then the light bulb went off as Dan Stiles nodded.

“Aye, Commodore.  In our day, we fielded entire battalions and regiments of the same BattleMech.  The Red Hand is outfitted exclusively with Typhons, Commodore, supported by eight Skyhawk aerospace fighters.”

The Taurian Commodore coughed, his eyes going wide.  “Both of those are extinct designs!  The League did not allow us to retain them!”

“Fuck the League,” whispered Helena.  “In addition to the Red Hand, we are carrying two Mirage-class Assault DropShips, four Orbitmaster heavy lift shuttles, a quartet of Defiance-class gunships, sixteen Banshee light ASF, and sixteen more Skyhawk medium ASF.  All with combat veterans at the controls—just like the rest of this ship.  And I’ve got more than two hundred colonists intended for the Exiles aboard in my passenger quarters,” and Helena smiled again.  “Engineers, scientists, doctors, teachers . . . all of whom should be able to help you correct those errors that the League bureaucrats introduced.”

She paused, and then she sighed again.  “But right now, at this minute, I need to know the current passage through the Asteroids—we are dreadfully vulnerable sitting here immobile at the Jump-Point, Commodore.”

Ethan winced.  “Ma’am, until the Protector gets here, I cannot—literally cannot—give you the nav-details for an exit lane.”

“That isn’t a request, Commodore,” Helena snapped.  “WarShips are most vulnerable to a surprise attack when they anchored at rest within weapons range of a Jump-Point.  All it would take is one ship—ONE SHIP—that isn’t even armed to materialize just slightly off-target and vaporize half of this vessel in the process!”  She paused and bit her tongue as she saw Dan slowly shaking his head.  “Commodore Mendoza,” she began, “Ethan.  I need to get this ship off this jump-point ASAP.  You are a flag officer in the Taurian Concordat Navy, mister!  Start acting like one and show some initiative!”

“And if I don’t?  I suppose you will make your way through the field like a bull in a china shop?”

“Guns blazing, Ethan.  If you don’t give me a lane, then by God I will clear one,” Helena answered softly, and the younger man nodded.

“Damned if you won’t, will you?” he shook his head and grinned.  “Very well, Admiral; you will have your lane and a parking assignment outside of the Jump-Point itself—but I will fire into you if you move so much as a meter from that parking orbit without authorization; is that clear, ma’am?”

“Crystal, Commodore Mendoza—and it is what I’d expect from a Taurian naval officer,” Helena answered with a grin.

General Headquarters, Taurus Defense Force
Mount Santiago Defense Complex, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 1, 3025

“What did you just say?” Thomas Calderon gasped for air; he felt as if a giant had taken a sledgehammer to his chest.

Brenda Calderon, a distant cousin and the youngest woman in the history of the Taurian Defense Force to earn the baton of a Marshal, shook her head.  “Commodore Mendoza’s report made me wonder if he was drunk or stoned when he sent it, Tom,” she said softly, “but the sensor data isn’t lying.  There is a bloody damned big Calderon-class Battleship sitting at Gateway Point—Ethan dispatched a courier to us immediately after he met with her commander . . . Helena Vickers.”

Dozens of throats suddenly inhaled, and Brenda nodded.  “Yes, apparently it is that Helena Vickers, gentlemen and ladies.  Our best guess at the moment is that this ship—the TCS Samantha Calderon,” and an unbelieving moan passed through the room, “suffered a misjump that sent her to the here and now.”

Thomas blinked and he just stared at his relative.  “Pop,” a quiet voice spoke up, and Thomas shook himself out of the shock.  The Protector turned his head to face his twenty-three year old son—and heir—Edward Calderon.

“Yes, Edward,” Thomas finally said.  “How this happened no longer matters.  We must concentrate our attention on what this means for the Concordat of today—for our people, today.”

“This is an opportunity, Tom,” a middle-aged man began to hurriedly speak.  “The FedRats have nothing that can stop this ship—this is our opportunity to retake the Pleiades!”

Brenda winced—as did most of the serving military officers at the table, and more than few of the civilian advisors.  But before she could answer, young Edward spoke up.

“This is one ship, Governor Shraplen,” he said firmly.  “A single ship.  A ship that Mendoza reports has obvious unrepaired damage—we don’t even know if she is capable of conducting offensive operations . . . and even if she were, one ship does not change the balance of our ground-based military capabilities.”  Edward paused.  “Hanse Davion has close to one hundred Regiments of ‘Mech at his disposal, including mercenaries—we have just twelve.  Twelve, Governor.”

“Hanse Davion cannot afford to pull regiments away from the borders of the Combine or Confederation,” Grover snapped, “and he won’t dare attack our troops with a WarShip overhead!”

“The Fox will dare much,” Thomas intervened, holding up one hand.  “If he deems it is in his interest.  And make no mistake, the Fox will be extremely interested in this vessel and her crew.  No, Grover,” he sighed, “it would folly for us to invade the Federated Suns—at this time,” his voice grew louder as his old friend began to turn red and draw in breath for another exclamation. 

The Protector sighed and he closed his one remaining organic eye.  And then he opened it.  “However, all of that is moot if this vessel cannot leave Gateway and Taurus; I believe that you said their Kearny-Fuchida Drive is currently inoperative, Marshal Calderon?”

“I did, Protector,” Brenda answered.

“We already know how difficult it is to repair a capital WarShip, ladies and gentlemen—the New Vandenberg is a prime example of just how little we know,” and Thomas scowled.  “When we should bloody well know considering that we built better ships than that boondoggle without Terran aid in the past.”

He frowned and while his cybernetic eye clicked and whirred, he sat motionless and then Thomas nodded again.  “Commodore Perez,” he firmly said to the commander of the Taurian Aerospace Command, “I want that ship moved away from Gateway—can we clear all civilian traffic from Station Three?”

The grey haired former pilot—a gunship pilot—considered and then he nodded.  While not a full yard, Station Three was tasked with supporting the DropShips and small craft of the TAC and the Taurian Concordat Navy; of course, with the limited numbers of DropShips and auxiliary craft at hand, it also had a decent amount of civilian traffic.  And while Station Three in its orbit over Taurus lacked any ability to work on K/F Drive Cores, it did possess a number of very capable machinery and electronics shops.

“We can divert all traffic and have the civilians clear in twenty-four hours, Sire,” he answered after a moment.

“Good.  Brenda, invite Admiral Vickers to dock her vessel at Station Three—get with Mendoza and Hamish here to find out what sort of supplies that they might need and get them up to the station at once.  And do not lie to yourself, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to need to redeploy as much of the Fleet and air-defense assets as we can afford to.  I want Station Three isolated—no unauthorized traffic is to close within any possible weapons range.  Is that understood?”

One by one, the men and women at the table nodded their agreement.

Edward cleared his throat, and Thomas waved at his son to go ahead.

“Looking over this dispatch,” he said holding up sheet of paper that he had been reading, “I do believe that we need to take additional precautions with dealing with the information that is going to flowing off of that ship,” he shook his head in disbelief.  “A complete, unaltered, Data Core from the Reunification War—Taurus at its height, Pop.  This is . . . incredible.  It has the potential to revive the Concordat,” and then his expression fell, “and everyone will want it.”

“MIIO, SAFE, ISF, LIC, the Maskirovka, MIM, heck, even the Outworlders will have teams here trying to pry out the secrets in months,” chimed in Henri Jouett, the head of the Taurian Concordat Office of Special Intelligence and Operations, “if they do not already have intelligence teams in place.  Some of them do, ladies and gentlemen—and we do not know the identities of all of them.”

“Right,” snarled Thomas.  “Henri, you and . . .,” he paused and then nodded at the young commanding officer of the 2nd Battalion of the Taurian Guards, “Brigadier Doru coordinate with the Constabulary—I want a full-court press on keeping the lid on this for as long as we can.  Each and every one of those people—those Taurians—aboard that ship are now priceless and we will treat them accordingly.”

“Speaking of which,” the Exchequer of the Concordat said in a dry tone, “there is the small matter that we may well owe these people back-pay for four centuries.”

“WHAT!” shouted Thomas.

“I am not saying that they will ask for such a sum, but,” and Semyon Cantrell set his jaw, “under one interpretation of our laws, they might well be entitled to exactly that.  It will probably have to be decided by the Courts—but we are speaking of millions of Bulls—at the least.”

Thomas gritted his teeth, and then he sighed.  “We’ll find the funds when we have to.  We are already looking at breaking our current budget just in repair costs—if that white elephant New Vandenberg is anything to judge by.”

“And those funds will come from the Far Lookers?” sourly asked Aramis Hall, the leader of that group of explorers and colonization effort.

“Not completely, no,” Thomas answered with a chuckle.  “These . . . Exiles,” he continued in a more somber voice.  “If they are out there and they survived, I want them found.  And to that, we need to increase your exploration efforts.  We might not colonize as many new planets as you want, Aramis, but we are going to be looking out there in the Deep Black.”

Hall nodded his agreement—he wasn’t happy, but he agreed with the necessity.

“Good,” Thomas said again.  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, just how the hell are we going to tell the people—our people—about all of this without creating a panic?”

And the table got very quiet once more.

TCS Samantha Calderon
Station Three, Taurus System, Hyades Cluster
Taurian Concordat
October 5, 3025

“Fearless souls who cross’d the sky; in search of home to live and die; men who swear we will live free; far away from your tyranny.”*

Thomas looked up in surprise as he crossed over the broad yellow line painted on the deck of the boat bay.  The music was not being piped into the reception area; no, there was a line of drummers tapping out the beat, musicians blowing upon horns, and a chorus of singers—all dressed in the uniform of the Taurian Concordat Navy.  But that was the lesser shock; this song had been detested by the Star League—not a single complete copy had survived their occupation.

“Our lady that we follow; deep inside Hell’s Hearts Hollow; bound in clouds of reddish dust; our new home, to find we must.”

One lady, an old lady dressed in the uniform of a Taurian Admiral—equivalent in rank to a Marshal—strode forward and she saluted sharply; a salute that the Protector returned just as solemnly.

“Taurus home, from now to end; a land that we shall ‘ere defend; with hoof and horn, blade and gun; we will fight until the day is won.”

“Protector Calderon,” the woman said, “I beg leave to report that TCS Samantha Calderon, bearing aboard her eleven hundred and twenty-four souls, has returned home.”

“None today shall ever know; the pain we felt, as our children go; but for our pride in their brave; we vow t’send our foes their grave.”

“Welcome home, Admiral Vickers,” Thomas said warmly, and he extended her his hand.  Helena took it and the two shook.


*Set to the tune of The Ballad of the Green Berets with my apologies to SSGT Sadler.  You can rest assured that there are other verses, but for now that’s all I’ve got.

TCS Samantha Calderon
Station Three, Taurus System, Hyades Cluster
Taurian Concordat
October 5, 3025

“Our drive damage aside, Protector Thomas,” Helena briefed the Protector, his heir, and their staffs—along with the senior members of the TDF military, “our problem is that no one here has produced NAC shells or Capital Missiles in centuries.  I’ve got twenty-seven Class 25 Naval Autocannon on the Samantha Calderon—with a total of one thousand, three hundred and fifty units of fire.  Fifty salvoes, gentlemen.  My missile magazines are even shallower—three hundred and sixty missiles, just thirty salvoes all told for my twelve launchers; forty of those missiles are nuclear tipped.”

She paused and then she nodded.  “Of course, given our probable opponents and the decline of technology, that is sufficient to wipe out any invading force—provided that the attackers are considerate enough to come to Taurus since I can’t go after them.  Now, I do have eighteen Naval Lasers—a mix of 45cm and 55cm—and a dozen Naval PPCs, neither of which require munitions, but compared to my main guns those are small fry.  The flak-belt,” and she smiled slightly, “won’t do more than kiss a capital ship, but serves well against fighters, small craft, and DropShips.  I’d imagine they’d do just as well as JumpShips . . . if you revoke that silly rule that Commodore Mendoza told me of, the one where Jumpers are out of bounds and safe from attack.”

She waited until she was certain that everyone present understood, and then Helena sighed.  “But the single largest problem that we are facing is a simple one . . . my people are tired,” and as she spoke, Helena Vickers looked every day of her sixty-seven years.  “We have—most of us—fought for the past two decades,” and she smiled slightly, “to us at least, in the most brutal war ever fought by humanity.  We knew we were leaving our loved ones behind, but Protector, we are bone-weary and in serious need of some time to unwind our levels of stress.”

“And you will have it, Admiral Vickers,” Thomas answered her.  “Despite what some of my advisors might think, I have no intention of starting a war—but your presence here cannot be concealed . . . and I fear that soon enough others may start one with us.  A war that will come about because they fear us possessing your ship while they have none of their own.”

Thomas cocked his head, and he considered, and then he nodded.  “But that is months down the road, and this vessel is going nowhere until her drive is repaired—if we can make those parts you so desperately need.  They may have to be hand-made, until we can get a factory up and running, Admiral.”

And Helena winced at that.  Thomas chuckled grimly.  “Don’t worry, we will be inspecting every part with a micro-meter—you won’t get sub-standard parts from Taurus, Admiral.  In the meantime, I think that you—and your crew—could use some rest.  Marshals Grenadine and Calderon,” he continued, nodding at the two senior officers, “have advised me that just granting liberty to your people is a bad idea—something about being able to de-stress in a controlled environment before being released into civilian society.”

“They are right, Sire,’ Helena answered.  “Some of my people are so wound up that they are ticking time bombs . . . they also need counseling, many of them.”

“They will receive it,” Thomas decreed.  “As it just so happens, there is a medical delegation from the Canopians on Taurus—a psychological delegation.  The Canopians have the finest healers—physical and mental—known, Admiral.  They will make certain your people get taken care of,” and Thomas frowned, “and we have also taken measures to ensure that none of your folks are abducted and spirited off world.”

“Is that a credible threat?” Helena asked.

“It is a possibility,” replied Henri Jouett.  “One that we cannot dismiss lightly.  Admiral, you must understand that your knowledge of technological systems—your crew’s knowledge—is something that any of the Successor Lords would kill for.  None of them are above abducting one or two of you and interrogating them for everything they know.”

“That is later, Henri,” Thomas said sadly.  “For now, I would like to invite the Admiral and her senior officers to dinner this evening—at the Protector’s Palace.  We have much, much more to discuss, Admiral Vickers.”

“Indeed we do, Sire.  Starting with the issue of . . . pay,” and she smiled as Thomas winced.  “Don’t worry, Sire.  We aren’t going to clean out the Treasury, but my people deserve to be taken care of.”

“You have my word on that, Admiral,” Thomas snapped, and then he waved his hand in apology.  “They are loyal Taurian citizens, and we take care of our own.  Always.”

“Good enough for me, Sire.  Now,” she said as she stood.  “I believe that you and your staff wanted a full tour of Saucy Sam here.”

“Saucy Sam?” asked Thomas.

Helena laughed.  “It is a long story, Sire, and rest assured.  The boys and girls could have named her a LOT worse.”

Why do you always time these for my busy periods? Dam YOU!

Why do you always time these for my busy periods? Dam YOU!

Shall I take a Sabbatical until you slow down?   

MA

Only if you don't feel like writing for six months.