"Crusade" - BattleTech Dark Ages/BattleTech "Concertverse" AU Crossover Book 2

[Steve]

Chapter 22 — Communal Strife


CLS Revolutionary Fortitude
Inbound, Great X System
Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
Transglass Inner Sphere
3 September 3143


It was not the first time that Evan Roberts had set foot in the tactical command center of the Revolutionary Fortitude. Since coming aboard as a war correspondent for the Antarean Press Service, he'd visited a number of times as the command ship of the Fourth Communal Guards made their way across the Glass and to this mirrored version of their own reality. Something had changed from those prior visits, something he could sense in the air. A quiet anticipation that hadn't been there before.

The reason why hung in the open air over the main holotank. A holographic representation of the planet Great X hung in the air over the holotank table. Roberts reflected on how often the world had seen conflict on his side of the Glass, as a border system of the League and its longest-surviving foe, the Kingdom of Ghastillia. It had changed hands repeatedly in the Vanguard War before the monarchists had secured it for good with the Fourth Succession War and the Peace of Buckminster. Now we're here, on this version, to help another group of capitalist monarchists drive off a bunch of fascist eugenicists. I wonder how many of the locals will take us up on the emigration offer?

Roberts did not speak on these thoughts. His attention went to the figures arrayed around the table. In contrast to his plain spacer's jacket and jumpsuit marked with press credentials, they wore primarily green CLAF service uniforms with some in dark gray, marking them as land and aerospace force personnel. A woman in burnt orange with yellow striping stood out. Roberts recalled her name from memory: Bataliono-delegito Rosa Allen-Scholtz, the Carabineer officer appointed as the Fourth's chief communal security officer. The red stripe on the outer arms and legs of her uniform marked BatDel Allen-Scholtz as a Vanguardist in her politics, with similar colors on some of the other officers and personnel.

The majority had black striping. Roberts focused his attention on one of the eldest present and nodded. "Brigadisto Selum," he said respectfully.

The CO of the Fourth nodded. Rozerin Selum hailed from Rastaban's Kurdish communities. The facts he knew of her career flashed through his mind. Fourth Succession War veteran, made her name commanding a 'Mech company during the counter-offensive that kicked the Feddies off Sudeten in '12. Elected through battalion and then column command through the rest of the war, nearly got killed in the failed attack on Irece in '19. Recognized Unionist in political leanings. "Mister Roberts," she said. "Your timing is impeccable. The advance scouts have confirmed the presence of not just the garrison the Arcadians reported but two of the line formations that escaped the butchery they committed on Arc-Royal. They are two days ahead of us and are about to make planetfall." Her Esperanto was some of the best Roberts had ever heard; the League's official language was not a difficult tongue to master but the accents were usually quite distinct. Unionists do love to get rid of their accents.

"So the battle's going to be harder? Has the unit voted to ask for reinforcements?" I know my Esperanto isn't as good. I wonder if it will ever be? Maybe if I thought more in it than English…

"Neg." Selum shook her head. Roberts recognized it as the CLAF’s regular term for “negative” or “no”, with “aff” as the opposite. Going by the vids from Arc-Royal the Clanners got the same idea. I suppose there’s only so many ways to make short, snappy versions of “affirmative” or “negative”.

His attention snapped back to Selum as she explained her answer. "We have a strong brigade of forces and superior aerospace. Better that the First Shock moves on to secure Deia."

"Yet we will undoubtedly take losses we could avoid." The male voice prompted Roberts to turn his head to face Grupodelegito Carl Litchens, one of Selum's subordinates and the highest-ranked man with a red Vanguardist stripe in the room. He was in the dark gray uniform for aerospace personnel. "The First Shock would let us crush them in the initial landing."

"Winning the battle in a fell swoop can be costly in of itself, GruDel Litchens," Selum replied. "Remember what the Ghasties did to us on our Great X in '12? The Fourth is meant for this sort of campaign, and we don't need to push recklessly. If you want to bring it to a vote of the soldiers, though…"

Litchens frowned and said nothing. There wasn't an imminent combat situation so voting wasn't out of the question, but Roberts had interviewed enough of the Fourth's people to know that while the Vanguardists were making inroads into the ranks, the Fourth was still majority Unionist. Aerospace fliers are the only Vanguardist-majority formation in the brigade. But the 'Mech pilots are starting to tilt that way too…

"Flash traffic from the Forward Watcher, Brigadisto," one of the center personnel said. "They're detecting signs of weapons fire."

Eyes around the room widened in surprise. Selum nodded. "Tell them to maintain status."

"The Clanners have to have seen us," BatDel Allen-Scholz said. "Would they have one of their combat trials just two days from facing invasion?"

"Not these Mongols, they barely follow even their own honor code," Selum noted. "Something else is going on. Not that it changes our mission."

"It does not," Litchens concurred. "It just makes this less bloody."

The conversation drifted into examination of the Fourth's readiness to fight. The unit had seen little action since the end of the war. But with the Falcons' many crimes on Arc-Royal now added to the long-viewed footage of the victims on Morges, the Fourth and their comrades in the other brigades were eager to see action and bring down the fascist warriors and their entire system. And it'll be a good day. A shame we'll be leaving these worlds to the Lyran Commonwealth and its oppressive social system, but they agreed to let us promote emigration. And maybe we'll influence the local people against the Commonwealth just by being what we are… He shook his head. That's what my folks' generation thought about the Feddies and the Ghasties too, but that didn't work out at all. Spreading the revolution by force is always going to push people against it.

Both the discussion and his thoughts were interrupted by the CommTech again. "Brigadisto, we have an incoming vidcall from the surface. It is from the Falcon garrison commander."

"Does he look to have us give one of their 'batchalls'?" Litchens pondered openly.

"Perhaps or perhaps not. Put him on, KommTek Rodriguez," Selum ordered.

The holotank shifted, to a distorted, static-laced image; a product of heavy jamming. The audio link still worked, well enough to catch a sharp, “Stabilize that transmission!”.

After a moment, the image did stabilize, resolving into the image of an older, middle-aged man. Roberts had seen those kinds of crows' feet and distant eyes before, in his father and a host of other veterans of the Vanguard War and Fourth Succession War. This man had seen a multitude of battles. His sharp, vulpine features shared a likeness with the … Trueborn, they call themselves Wolf-in-Exile warriors Roberts had met briefly, and he carried a neurohelmet, the same colour as his yellow-trimmed jade cooling suit. From his surroundings it was clear he was in some kind of forward command post; equally clearly, one preparing for battle. "Attention invaders of Great X. I am Star Colonel Teryn Roshak of the 371st Garrison Cluster. I do not call to ask for your batchall, but to inform you that battle has already been offered and accepted. My warriors prepare to engage our own bloodmaddened kin. The Eleventh Talon and the Eighth Velite Clusters are making planetfall as I speak, and they have made clear their purpose is to strip this world of every speck of grain and every piece of hardware that their DropShips will fit, and burn the rest. The harvest is in, and it was not plentiful. Without that food, thousands will starve, and many thousands more will be dehoused by the scorched earth campaign the Mongols are ordering."

Roberts' jaw clenched. He watched Selum's gaze harden. Litchens verbally fumed, "Fascist bastards."

Roshak's voice vibrated with fury and despair as he continued. "As military governor of Great X, I cannot allow that to happen, and I have bid the 371st in battle to protect the civilians under our charge. It is to be a Trial of Annihilation, for the Mongols will not accept surrender, and we will not ask for it; so we seek our deaths in battle to fulfill the purpose our Founders left to us. All I ask is that you do what is necessary to put down the Mongol-maddened, dishonored remnants of my Clan, and that if any of my warriors, or the mercenary Black Cats who stand with us, survive, you treat them with all honor for having done their duty to the utmost, and allow my warriors to serve you in honor as bondsmen. I go now to die, with only my honor left to me. What tactical data we have is being transmitted to you now. Thus shall it stand until we all fall. Seyla," he concluded, with the sonorous ring of ritual phrasing.

Selum glanced towards KommTek Rodriguez who nodded in affirmation "We are receiving data. Enemy unit information, their assigned machines, their current positions, and comm channel frequencies and codes."

"Distribute that data to all ships, I want it factored into our plans," Selum answered. "KommTek Rodriguez, begin recording a reply." She turned to the holocam receiver. When Rodriguez nodded from his station, Selum began speaking in an accented Star League English. "Star Colonel Teryn Roshak, I am Brigadisto Rozerin Selum of the Fourth Communal Guards. Thank you for that data and your actions. In recognition of your humanity and bravery, I will allow any member of the 371st who survives a place in our ranks, should they wish to serve our cause. Die well, Star Colonel, and know your names will be remembered and honored."

Roberts watched Litchens' face slightly redden, and Allen-Scholz looked slightly perturbed. Rodriguez confirmed the transmission was off before Litchens spoke. "Are you really going to let those fascists simply change their coats? How much proletarian blood is on their hands?"

"They are fighting to save Great X's people, GruDel Litchens. Besides, you read the data on the Clans. They are many things, but one thing they are not is capitalist. Their own society is organized in lines more compatible with our own, if the castes are softened into trade union organization." Selum met his glare with defiance. "This is a chance for the League to show the Clanners that they have an alternative to the Great Houses. They can be a revolutionary asset, GruDel. Why throw them away?"

"A Unionist sentiment, but not unwise," BatDel Allen-Scholz agreed.

Litchens sighed and crossed his arms. "It's your discretion, Brigadisto. But it remains to be seen if a caste raised to believe in its own superiority can ever adjust to our society."

"We won't know until we try, GruDel. Now, let's look over this data." Selum's eyes focused on the holotank display as the first TO&E chart popped up. "We have fascist butchers to kill."




Vicar's Atlar Plateau, Great X
3 September 3143


I have done my duty.

Teryn Roshak fixed that thought uppermost in his mind as incoming fire lacerating his BattleMech’s armor plate, and his own weapons lashed back with headache-purple particle bolts. The thought didn't provide the comfort it once had, for though I have done my duty, to the final extremity, it has not been enough.

Still, there were worst places, and far worse company, to die in, at least. The open ground, a long, and long-abandoned – long enough that its sides and floor were thick with new growth – valley quarry was good defensive ground, and made better by the efforts of ForestryMech-piloting local volunteers and his own battlesuited infantry, directed by the Black Cats’ engineers. That thought did elicit a fractional smile; so, we can work together, in the spirit of the Star League. It just takes imminent destruction to achieve it.

Bright, snapping autocannon fire rattled off his Banshee’s torso plating, and Teryn sent twinned particle beams and one of his precious Gauss slugs back in response. The Gyrfalcon — in the colours of the Eighth Velites — staggered at the impacts. Smoke billowed from the torn armor on the Gyrfalcon's flank, shards of refractory plating spalling from the impacts as it leapt backwards. Teryn took a moment to assess the field, with no other targets in sight.

“Star Captain Helen, report,” he ordered. The flash and thunder of weapons fire was still visible at Beta Trinary’s positions, but jamming made the tactical display less than useful.

“Falling back on our tertiary positions,” Helen replied, the rippling shriek of her Tundra Wolf’s missile launchers just audible beneath her words. “The Talon are pressing us, but not too hard.” There was a smile in her voice at the next words. “I believe I have taught them better than that.”

Teryn nodded at that. Beta Trinary had all of his remaining heavy and assault armour, and Helen knew exactly how to use it, wielding the tanks’ thick armor and massive firepower to dominate sections of the battlefield. Freeing space for the lighter units to manoeuvre. “Understood,” he said, refocusing on his own section of the battlefield. “Continue as you must.”

“Enemy infantry, advancing,” one of the Black Cat platoon leaders called in, the valley floor lighting with fire. Light OmniMechs dropped battlesuit Points, missiles, laserfire and the lightning of support PPCs and plasma rifles crisscrossing back and forth. Teryn caught a Mongol Elemental, struck in midleap by a burst of Magshot fire, seeming to trip and come apart in midair, before the heavier BattleMechs of the Eleventh Talon began a renewed push.

Too many to stop.

“All forces, initiate withdrawal. Command and Beta Stars will remain and hold the rearguard,” Teryn ordered. That was not, he told himself firmly, suicide but clear military logic. Command and Beta Stars were his heaviest units, the least able to break contact and the best armed.

“Acknowledge that, Star Colonel,” the Black Cats’ Colonel Lambert responded, as personnel carriers began the practiced dance of recovery and retreat. “Good luck, ‘till we meet again at God's right hand.”

“Bargained well, and done, Colonel,” Teryn said, counting the warriors left to him. Seven; an auspicious number in such affairs. “Warriors, the eyes of the Great Father and Elizabeth Hazen are upon us. Into them; to the death!”

“To the death!”

And forward they went, a fighting wedge that scattered the Mongol battlesuit screen like giants wading through a mob of children. Crushing them underfoot, shattering them with high-explosive shellfire and lasers as the Mongol BattleMechs, night-black, moved forward; responding to the challenge, the goad to their pride, in the only way they could.

He had time for a brief look to either side as both sides clashed. Star Commander Asilia’s Thunderbolt IIC crashing into the midst of a formation of light and medium machines behind a blitz of laserfire. The Axman of Warrior Carlsen driving a Grand Summoner back, the great blade splintering midnight plate from the heavier OmniMech's raised weapon armatures with the metronomic rhythm of a man chopping wood. Interlacing missile contrails as the last survivor of Gamma Trinary — whose name Teryn was ashamed to realise that, in that moment, he couldn't remember — locked her Hel's tactical missile racks onto an equally missile-laden Bane. Then the world's focus narrowed down to the centre of his own gunsights, and there was nothing to do but fight.

Teryn sent a light Omni — some new type his warbook couldn’t identify; a prototype from Alyina’s weapons labs — crumpling to the ground in broken pieces. He looked around for another target, before one came crashing out of the forests, shouldering trees aside with murderous intent. Marauder IIC, huge, untouched, and every bit his Banshee’s match in firepower.

Triple streamers of charged particles lashed out, pulverising armour, ripping away the Banshee’s shoulder SRM mount and shattering one of Teryn’s own particle cannon before he could fire. Follow-up laserfire gored the torso wounds wider, bursting heat sinks and cracking engine shielding. The gyros stuttered out of sync for a moment, scattering Teryn’s retaliatory laser barrage, forced him to concentrate on staying upright. Unable to evade as the Marauder readied for another salvo.

Twin barrages of heavy laser fire, bright as new-polished jade, tore into the Marauder’s arm and flank as Asilia turned from her own battle to his aid. Her Thunderbolt glowed white on thermal, intensified as another barrage of laserfire blew the Marauder's arm away at the shoulder, flayed open its hip and punched deep inside the Mongol BattleMech's torso, rupturing heat sinks and leaving coolant dripping from the wound like blood. But the immense heat burden sent Asilia stumbling, and before Teryn could call a warning, a Mongol Nova — itself lamed by laserfire — put the combined fury of its laser array into her back at nearly point-blank.

Asilia’s Thunderbolt simply vanished, consumed in a globe of argent fire. The Mongol warrior didn't live to celebrate; the explosion's staggering force reached out, stripped away their machine's frontal plating. It tore the forward-thrust cockpit apart like a used ration pack. Nearby battlesuit troops were plucked from the ground, cast away to land the Founders only knew where.

The blast staggered Teryn and his opponent; the Marauder went down, hip actuator buckling. With cool, glassy focus — a bulwark against emotions he couldn't allow himself at this moment — Teryn stepped forward, placed his remaining particle cannon against the downed machine's cockpit module, and blew it, and the warrior within, to molten ruin. Then he took a moment to survey field and tactical display.

Asilia’s spectacular demise had left only a single friendly icon nearby, and that one soon became none as an Onager and a pair of Hel Betas brought down the Gamma Trinary mechwarrior — Akiko, Teryn finally recalled. A Hel joined her in death, but now, Teryn stood alone, against most of a Binary of Mongols.

Bright sparks in the sky drew his focus. Descent flares; from DropShips and single-BattleMech assault pods both. And below, the contrails of aerospace fighters shedding speed from orbital velocities. A practiced blink brought them into full magnification; the types, Teryn didn't recognise, but their colours told him all that he needed. Night black, striped with pristine white. Their insignia a white-within-black roundel with paired overlapping stars; one three-pointed in red, the other five-pointed in green.

The invaders have arrived. Victory is mine, and at the least, I can look my dead in the eye.

He turned to face the encircling Mongols, began to advance. Lightning bolts and gem-bright laser beams and his few remaining Gauss slugs blazed from the Banshee’s weapons, the great fist outstretched to rend and crush.

And, in the end, Teryn Roshak found the death in battle he sought.



Albertburg, Great X
4 September 3143


The town of Albertburg was not a significant urban center, but as it contained the granary for an entire agricultural district of the planet's main settled region, it had been targeted by the Eleventh Talon. When it first came onto Delegito Joachim Lieb's holotank, a terrible feeling came to the pit of his stomach. He remembered what his own hometown of Rothberg had looked like after the Arcadians were expelled in the fighting in 3112. Subconsciously he pushed his throttle further, pressing his Guillotine OmniMech past the regular run speed into a sprint.

"Don't leave us behind!" a voice called out on his comm. To his right, the Guillotine of Kaporalo Luz Nogales kept pace. While his machine had the primary favored configuration for the machine, mixing a Streak SRM-6 launcher and twin pairs of ER medium lasers on the torso with large ER lasers on the arms, her machine's arms carried deadly Terran-grade ER PPCs and one less torso laser. Contained within the armored hide of her machine was a dedicated targeting computer, which would allow advanced firing solutions and delicate fine control of her weapons. "You're getting too far out ahead, Del."

He eased on the throttle a bit, giving him better control. Right. Maintain element cohesion, or KompDel Reynolds will blow their top at me.

Another Guillotine bounded up to his left, and then advanced further at a continued sprint. "For just a moment I regretted not voting for you, Del," said Kaporalo Quan Khanh. His Guillotine was rather different; he had the same right arm mounting as Lieb's, but the left arm carried a heavy bore Gauss Rifle. Twin SRM launchers and medium laser mounts on the torso signified Khanh's machine as the close-range brawler of the element, as the heavy bore rifle could fire a heavy slug with enough force to penetrate armor even a heavy autocannon wouldn't break. "But just a moment."

The sight of the black-painted Guillotine included the one major difference in its appearance. While Lieb and Nogales sported the white flash stripes of Unionists, Khanh's Guillotine used Vanguardist red.

"Leave it to a Vanguardist to be overeager to get shot at," Nogales ribbed.

"Leave it to a Unionist to dally while fascists burn down another town," Khanh retorted.

A fourth voice ranged in. "Delegito Lieb, do we need to have a discussion about comms discipline?"

Lieb swallowed. Behind them, the rest of the heavy company was moving to join in their slower heavy and assault weight machines, including the hundred ton Standardbearer that Kompanio-delegito Jules Reynolds employed. "Neg, KompDel, we do not. My pilots will behave themselves, or they'll get a disciplinary meeting."

"Acknowledged," echoed through the line from each of his pilots, though Khanh had grumbled his. The young Vanguardist eased up as well, though remaining ahead of Lieb and Nogales. His Guillotine's left arm leveled. Lieb's attention went to his holotank and the red-outlined machines that his sensors were getting an outline on.

There was a flash from Khanh's machine, and in the distance, one of the Falcon 'Mechs, labeled a Summoner on Lieb's readout, staggered from an impact. Lieb directed his targeting crosshairs over the black-painted machine and fired his arm lasers. Twin sapphire beams lashed across the distance to slice away at the Summoner, though neither beam touched the damaged plate left by Khanh's shot. Khanh's own laser made a glancing hit on the Summoner's arm that failed to damage anything.

Nogales joined their attack. Twin cerulean bolts crashed into the enemy machine, both striking the damage Khanh's initial shot caused. The space below the enemy machine's shoulder-mounted missile launcher was engulfed in a violent plume of flame and metal, the adjacent arm torn free by the blast. Thick chemical smoke billowed from the machine's wrecked side.

Lieb refocused his crosshairs and fired once more, catching the machine just before the pilot could twist away to protect his damaged side. His laser shots, and Khanh's, cut into the interior armored spaces of the machine. A burst of fusion plasma accompanied the 'Mech collapsing onto its side.

Ten seconds, and they had their first kill. From the ruins of the town, more of the red icons were turning their way. Half a dozen enemy 'Mechs and as many combat vehicles started to track Lieb and his people. "Evasive!" he shouted, giving up on taking another shot and focusing on keeping his machine mobile.

The storm of fire that came sent Lieb's machine rocking. His maneuvering had let him miss the heaviest hits, but every section of his 'Mech showed armor damage from incoming missiles, and part of an autocannon burst had torn a gash across his Guillotine's hip. He glanced toward his fellow pilots and ensured both were mobile, though enough enemy fire had landed to cripple Nogales' left arm. Still, all according to plan, Lieb thought. As the advance element they'd done their job, attracting enemy attention, and most importantly, provoking them into revealing their positions.

Kompanio-delegito Reynolds and the other six 'Mechs of their company took brutal advantage of this. Another storm of fire filled the air, this time in the opposite direction. Lieb directed his attention on one of the enemy Savage Wolf 'Mechs just in time to see its upper missile launcher smashed by a direct slug hit by a gauss rifle. He spit his crosshairs on the enemy machine and contributed to the fascist warrior's misery with sapphire death, sending his lasers to cut away at armor. The molten material left by his weapon flowed free, weakening the Savage Wolf's armoring. Still out of SRM range, he thought. But just close enough… He triggered his medium lasers in sequence, letting his cooling suit protect him from the surge of heat that filled the machine as emerald light cut more angry wounds in the enemy 'Mech's black hide.

He half-expected particles to strike the enemy, but Nogales had seemingly found other prey for her surviving PPC. Khanh, on the other hand, had sprinted closer, letting him fire the heavy bore cannon on his left arm within its best range. He first fired with lasers, though only one landed a direct hit. Bad shot… oh, clever, Lieb thought, seeing that Khanh had been testing his own aim as he moved into optimal position. His 'Mech slowed, steadied, and a ripple of air and caviation briefly formed at the muzzle of his left arm mount. A heavy slug crashed into the enemy machine and smashed right through the damaged armor below the destroyed missile pod. Lieb's IR scanners verified a heat spike as oily smoke billowed from the wound. Engine hit. Now let's bring it down!

Forward movement had brought him to the very furthest range of his missiles. When he stroked the trigger for them he expected to get a "lock failure" and no shot, and was quite pleased to instead see six missiles erupt from his 'Mech. He triggered his large lasers on the arms. One beam was slightly off, scoring intact armor just below the Savage Wolf's cockpit, but the other played over the wrecked armor left by the earlier shots. The heat spike intensified. Missile after missile struck home, and Lieb waited to see the machine collapse

It did not. His missiles had blasted yet more armor from it, and the Savage Wolf was clearly on the verge of tottering, but the Clanner kept their machine upright and directed their attention to Lieb. Twin ER PPC shots struck out from the machine's arms. Particle backwash briefly distorted Lieb's HUD and other displays, and when they stabilized, he saw the black indicators of armor failures, with one of his medium lasers dimmed out on the weapon display. Lucky shot! Lieb turned his crosshairs towards the enemy 'Mech as missiles erupted from the surviving missile pod. He twisted, presenting his stronger left side to a series of impacts from LRMs. Armor indicators went yellow and orange, but no further interior damage was visible.

The Clanner was clearly angling for another shot. An explosion of metal stopped it in its tracks, as another gauss slug slammed home through its wound. The Clanner 'Mech tipped over as fusion plasma crackled briefly from within, super-heating the surrounding air and creating an explosive blast that finished destroying an adjacent structure and left the Clan machine a blasted ruin.

"You're welcome, Del," Khanh said. His Guillotine was already tracking another Falcon 'Mech that was occupied with a barrage from Reynolds' imposing Standardbearer. "If I land more confirmed kills than you, maybe you should vote for me to be our element delegito?"

"Focus on the job, Khanh," Nogales immediately snapped. Lieb noted that her machine was sporting superficial damage aside from the burnt stump of her 'Mech's severed left arm, and a decapitated Falcon Gyrfalcon showed what she'd been up to.

"Cut the chatter, we have a battle to finish," Lieb reminded them, just in case KompDel Reynolds was paying attention. If this keeps up I'll never get the votes to succeed Reynolds if they win the next battalion election…

"Aff, Delegito," Nogales replied.

"Aff," Khanh echoed.




371st Field Base
Outside Crifton, Great X
Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
6 September 3143



The CUV — Common Use Vehicle — bore Brigadisto Selum through the shattered perimeter wall of the 371st's main base. Burnt 'Mechs not yet claimed by salvage crews had fallen beside shattered tanks. The 371's last surviving forces had waged their final stand here, it was plain to see, and the fact the base's structures were only half-gutted reflected that it had not been in vain.

Armored infantry from Bet Column's assault battalion were ready at arrival. Bet's commander, Kolumno-Delegito Oscar Lupo, was waiting with a bodyguard element of soldiers in battle armor suits. "Brigadisto." He saluted, as did his soldiers. They all bore the white Unionist stripe on their black-colored armor suits. "They're waiting."

Selum nodded and let Lupo lead her into the facility. Dried bloodstains showed where people had died in vicious close-quarters fights as the final storming and relief had come. Had I come but an hour earlier it would not be dried, she imagined. "The bodies are removed?"

"Aff. We threw the Mongol Falcons into a pile for burning, the 371st's dead are set to the side for the moment."

"The Clans would only keep the remains for claiming genetic material, and that is not our way. Still, do not cremate them until it is cleared," Selum ordered.

Only the final halls saw the reduction in signs of violence. In the heart of the facility, an active holotank and other displays reflected this was a command center, though nothing was manned for the moment. A collection of people in emerald and yellow jumpsuits were gathered under the careful watch of Lupo's infantry troopers. A number were wounded, and as their eyes focused on Selum, only one stood and stepped forward. She was one of the genetically-engineered "Elemental" phenotype, a massive woman of at least two meters height, by Selum's reckoning. Her left arm was nothing but a bandaged stub about ten centimeters below her thick muscled shoulder. "You are Brigadisto Selum, quiaff?"

"Aff, I am."

"I am Star Commander Martina," the hulking woman said. "I was adjutant to Star Colonel Roshak, and the senior surviving warrior of the 371st."

Selum nodded quietly. "I have seen the battlefields. Colonel Roshak died?"

"Aff, three days ago, in the fighting at the Vicar's Altar Plateau."

"So we imagined. He made our advance forces' landing much easier." Selum held her hands behind her back. "You have upheld your pledge to defend the people of Great X from butchery, so I will uphold mine. Any of you who wish to serve in the CLAF may do so. For a time you will undergo ideological education, to understand our society and the CLAF's role within it. Think of it as the same education your Clans would give a bonded warrior. Once this is done, and you have recovered from your wounds, you will be offered assignments in the Fourth or with other formations as are available."

Martina nodded. Selum could see the pain in her eyes, not from her lost limb, but from all she'd lost psychologically, mentally. She and the other survivors had seen their own Clan turn against that which they believed was right, and many of their comrades had died resisting that treachery. "I…" Martina's voice softened. "I wish… I wish I had died too."

Selum said nothing. She simply nodded in understanding.

"My Clan was all. We were the Jade Falcons, Children of Kerensky, the inheritors of his word and vision. The future for Humanity. We were meant to restore the Star League, the greatest accomplishment of Human history. But now… we are reduced to bandits, to Blakists, in this dezgra savagery." Martina's eyes filled with quiet tears, and she used her remaining hand to wipe them off. "What do my warriors and I have left?"

"Your lives. Another chance to serve a higher cause." Selum took a step forward. "The Star League was not without flaws, but in its vision of a peaceful humanity, there was a chance for better. We, the Communal League of Sudeten, have that vision as well. A humanity where the gluttonous nobles of the Houses and all those who selfishly hoard the wealth of society for their own pleasure are stripped of their ill-gotten power, where all have everything they might ever need in a society of equals. We of the CLAF are the defenders of that vision, the armed might of the revolution that will one day sweep away the Great Houses on both sides of the Glass. For devoted warriors like you, we will always have a place in our ranks."

It was clear not all of those present were ready for what she said. Not after what they had gone through. But Martina… Selum could see that glint in her eye. She was cast into a sea of doubt, of uncertainty, and this was a lifeline. A cause she, in this hour, desperately needed.

"I will accept. My warriors will decide on their own," Martina said.

Selum nodded. "I look forward to the day you serve in my unit, Fusisto Martina. KolDel Lupo will see that you and your people are billeted while they make their choices." If more Falcons like Martina live, then we may yet find fertile ground for communitarianism among the Clans. And that will only advance our cause towards completion.

[Steve]

With contributions from Orsai.


Chapter 23 — By Right of Blood


Trial Grounds, Beta Galaxy Bivouac
Chukchi
Wolf Empire
Transglass Inner Sphere
14 September 3143



The knife flashed across Alaric's vision as he pulled away from his foe, taking only a cut to his bare chest instead of a stab into his lung. The Wolf Elemental warrior, Thomas, was like all those bred in his phenotype: large, immensely muscular, and quick for his colossal size. Both men were stripped down to the waist, and all those warriors watching could see the contrast. Alaric was quite fit himself, and took pride in his physical training regimen, but he was a MechWarrior and bred closer to human baseline, unlike the two meter tall mountain of muscle and sinew he faced.

He knew all eyes were on him. This was a fight for a Bloodname, and he had done something no MechWarrior in his right mind would have done. He'd been the hunter, his coin had chased Thomas', and he could've made this a fully augmented fight and faced Thomas in a 'Mech-versus-battle armor suit fight. That he'd chosen knives for augmentation was foolish in the eyes of his peers.

But it was the kind of foolishness that forged legends. After retreating from Tharkad, with Liam Ward's hostility known to all, he needed the legend. He needed the prestige of winning boldly and not by exploiting an advantage over his foe. Victory in this fashion would secure the loyalty of more warriors, which he needed to keep his ambitions alive.

Thomas advanced again. There was impatience in the move, and Alaric gladly exploited it. He went low, allowing a knife strike to graze and cut his neck and shoulder as he went into a half roll and drove his knife into Thomas' heel. The giant howled in surprise more than pain as his ankle abruptly stopped working and refused to support his gargantuan size. He lunged in his fall and missed by a millimeter.

Alaric gained some distance. With his leg useless Thomas was effectively crippled. "It is over, yield."

A smile crossed the crippled man's face. "Come and make me."

Yes. You would like that. Alaric carefully studied Thomas, judging his chances if he let himself get within arm's reach of hands that could snap his bones with enough time.

"I smell your fear," Thomas taunted, his smile turned into a sneer. "If you will no longer fight me, yield, Alaric Wolf."

Alaric smiled back. He brought his right arm up and thrust it forward, letting go of his knife almost by muscle memory, given how long he'd practiced this throw.

Thomas' arms weren't in the right place to stop the thrown knife. It slammed into the giant's chest, just below the heart. Flesh and bone sundered from the force and sharpness of the blade. The surprised gurgle from Thomas' throat, and the bubbling spray of blood from the impact, made the extent of the wound clear. He toppled.

Alaric stepped up to his fallen foe. "I need only wait until you bleed out, Thomas. Do you yield?"

He didn't need the reply. The mortal fear in the giant's eyes told him he'd won.




WIthin hours of his triumph, Alaric was stepping into the Clan Council's current meeting space. The injuries he'd suffered were still stinging, added by the entirely-too-deep cut Liam Ward had made on Alaric's hand during the Bloodnaming ceremony. We will have a reckoning yet, Loremaster. But there are greater issues to deal with, like my ascension.

The Clan Council was now fully assembled. It had already been in motion towards Chukchi, allowing for a more rapid assembly than the Wolves' strained communications would have otherwise allowed, though the plan was originally to hold a triumphant gathering in the Triad after its fall. Now a more somber task was at hand.

Garner Kerensky, saKhan of the Wolves, took a seat on the podium near the lectern. Liam Ward was standing there, pale with anger and frustration. He had been hoping for Thomas' victory and my death. Alaric considered yet again when and how he should challenge his slain nemesis' old ally, but the Clan's survival, and the survival of his ambitions, was the greater concern by far. Alaric joined the other senior commanders of the Clan on the outer side of the podium, letting him look out at the assembled Wolf Bloodnamed. They were an assemblage that ran the entire gamut of the rank structure, with the handful of Bloodnamed who had yet to Trial past the basic rank of warrior, a bit more who had managed to reach star and point commander rank, and the more numerous collection of star captains and star colonels that represent the great bulk of the Bloodnamed.

The moment the clock displayed 19:00, Liam called the Council to order. "My trothkin, our Clan faces its gravest crisis since the Blakists unleashed their dezgra forces upon the whole of the Inner Sphere," Liam said. "The forces beyond the rift, the 'Looking Glass', have taken Thuban, Gallery, and our other conquests around Tharkad. Chukchi is likely their next target, and here, we must face and defeat them before their strength grows. The Clan must fight as a pack to survive the Arcadians who vow to destroy us. As such, we must replace our fallen Khan, and I now call for a vote for a new Khan to join saKhan Kerensky. Let us begin the nominations."

Alaric smiled at seeing Chance Vickers beat the others in standing. "Loremaster, I nominate Alaric Ward, who has won many victories against the Spheroids and other Clans." Mumbles of asset came from assembled warriors, including many who held posts in Alpha and Beta Galaxies.

Liam silenced the mumbles with a rapping of his gavel. "I cannot concur with that, but as it is clearly seconded, Alaric's name is on the table. I personally nominate Elise Ward for equal consideration. Of all our forces on Tharkad's, hers is the only one to have not known failure." He said those words with a glance towards Alaric, who contemptuously ignored the barb.

One of the older warriors among the Bloodnamed echoed the nomination.

Elise stood. "Loremaster, I am honored by your consideration, but it is quite clear this could be a divisive election if it is hotly debated, and delay consideration of other important matters. To maintain the unity the Clan needs to face the Arcadian threat, this vote must be swift. As such, if I do not attain a majority on the the first ballot, I will withdraw my name."

"Such is your choice, Galaxy Commander. Any further nominations?"

One of the oldest warriors nominated Liam, which drew a derisive snort from Alaric, and one of the younger star colonels got a small group to nominate her. With four candidates Liam called the vote. None got a majority, though Alaric had a two vote lead on Elise.

Liam sighed deeply. "No Khan is elected."

Elise stood. "I consider my name withdrawn, and I give my vote to Alaric Ward."

It was clear Liam was opposed, but when no other nominations came, and the fourth candidate likewise endorsed Alaric, there was nothing left for him to do. He called the second vote, and this time Alaric won a comfortable majority.

Alaric stood and approached the lectern. "My Wolves, I give you your new Khan," Liam said through clenched teeth. Alaric smiled at him and took the lectern. "Try to remember our Clan before your own ambitions, chalcas," Liam mumbled once he was away from the mic.
"I can say the same for you," Alaric whispered back. "Call me that again and I'll call a Trial of Grievance against you, and I will kill you."

Liam said nothing else but headed to his seat.

Alaric gripped the sides of the lectern. "Wolves, it is not the time for words but actions. The enemy is coming and our defenses must be ready. If we let the foe take Chukchi, not only do we lose vital materials for our aerospace industries, we risk a wider attack into the heart of our hard-won Empire. I call for the Council to adjourn so that the senior commanders, saKhan Kerensky, and I can see to our defensive plans. We will need every warrior to survive what is coming. But we can beat them. I felled the Arcadian ruler Nathaniel after he killed Khan Ward, and I defeated Julian of the Davions when he saved Nathaniel from my claws. Alpha and Beta Galaxies claimed many individual victories in the battle for the Triad, and only the weight of the enemy's numbers kept us from claiming our conquest. For those warriors who have yet to fight this foe, know this. The Arcadians have weapons equal to ours but their warriors are no better than any other spheroid. We are their superior, now and always. And by fighting with unity, we will win."

Howls of agreement came from some of the youngest of the Blooded, and expanded until all but the oldest warriors joined in. Alaric added his own. We will need this spirit. And now… I must find what price Elise expects of me.



The strategy session went well enough. The naval and aerospace assets knew the plan and were moving their ships into position. Scouts were out towards the jump points, ready to relay the enemy's arrival point when they came. The defensive fortifications were the thorniest issue. Clan warriors weren't trench rats by preference, as there was no glory or honor in such fighting. But their Clan faced death if it did not prevail.

Once the session was over, Alaric waited until everyone filled out save Elise and Garner Kerensky. "You have made me Khan," he said. "I expect you will want a consideration."

"Gamma Galaxy will enjoy your full support in providing us the output of the Empire's factories, and leave to purchase the best machines the Foxes will sell us," Elise replied. "After all, Gamma was not defeated at Tharkad. We took our objectives, ruined the Lyrans who resisted us, and held them until hegira was granted."

"Aff. And so you will be rewarded." It will displease Alpha to not gain first pick. But they cannot argue against this logic. "And our attack plan. You do not have objections?"

"Neg, we do not," Garner said. "But we must fight wisely. We cannot replace our WarShips if they are lost, and the Arcadians can."

"Not easily," Alaric pointed out. "The Sea Foxes' intelligence makes clear their fleet would be overstretched if it drew more reinforcements."

"Yet the Foxes have also revealed they can divert ships from Timkovichi, if needed," Elisa added. "The Rasalhaguans and these Communal Leaguers from Sudeten are hunting the Falcons, and the Glass will no longer need to be tightly defended. We will not win this war if we lose all our WarShips in the first bid battle."

"Aff. We will also not win this war if our best troops are ground down and destroyed by their forces," Alaric pointed out. "We must defeat them in the void, and reduce their numbers so our warriors can bleed them dry once they land. Otherwise our defenses will not be enough. We must press the naval attack once the ambush is launched."

"It will be pressed," Garner guaranteed. "But we must preserve them, not just to keep our ships, but to ensure we can withdraw our warriors if the enemy attack is too heavy. Otherwise the Wolf Clan dies on Chukchi."

Alaric nodded. Inwardly he feared the naval commanders would have similar sentiments to Elise and Garner, and the attack would be insufficient. Yet if I try to contradict them… Khans can be removed by vote and even if I kill them in trials, there will be more to come. And the Clan would be too divided to resist. I must accept this caution. I can only hope it does not ruin us.




AFS Sara Proctor
Nadir Jump Point
Gallery, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
Transglass Inner Sphere
15 September 3143


While not as large as the full CIC, the wardrooms of the Sara Proctor had the added benefit of being on the largest of the armored cruiser's gravdecks, so they provided gravity for Nathaniel and his re-assembled war council while the ship remained at station recharging its jump engine. The war council was rather larger now. His cousin Lord Matthew and General Bridger, Rear Admiral Abdul-Jabbar, Captain Winters, and Colonel Laughlin had been joined by Jasek Kelswa-Steiner and Roderick Steiner to represent the Lyrans, Julian Davion, and two of the mercenary commanders from the Cisglass; Roland Carlyle of the Gray Death Legion, and Group Captain Janice Prohaska of the Blackhawks Aerospace Group.

The wardroom holotank displayed Chukchi system with a side profile of the full known count of Wolf forces. It was a larger assemblage than had assaulted Tharkad. Nathaniel poured over the list and felt a sickness in his gut. This is going to be like one of the big fights in the war. They're too numerous to outnumber and outmaneuver. The bloodshed is going to be…

"No two ways about it, the Wolves mean to make us fight for this planet," Jasek said. "From our pre-existing intelligence and what the Foxes were willing to sell, as much as eighty percent of the Wolf touman is now on or near Chukchi, including most of their aerospace assets."

"Their WarShips are what concern me," said Admiral Abdul-Jabbar. "Our combined picket forces are going to be the deciding factor if they bring their cruisers together for this fight. My available force is only equal at best, given the tonnages of their Star League ships, and it would take us until the end of the year to get any reinforcement."

"And until our COMINTERSTEL friends have the Falcons well and truly in hand, I'd not want to take Donegal and her fleet off of their Glass overwatch duty," Bridger added.

"We have the means to deal with it," Captain Prohaska declared. She cut a fine figure in her dark blue uniform overcoat. A yellow disc and black hawk's head was embroidered over the heart, along with a round double-winged rank insignia. "The Blackhawks train for anti-WarShip fighting as much as we do anything. We took down the Yukikaze over Morthac two years ago, left her a near-crippled ruin."

"We may need that skill, Group Captain, especially if the enemy does as I suspect." Abdul-Jabbar manipulated the holotank controls to zoom in on Chukchi and its moons. "The lunar system of Chukchi will create deep sensor shadows from the jump points, an enemy fleet could hide during our entire burn inward and we wouldn't know it until their drive flares lit off to begin the intercept. Three moons also greatly reduces our margin of error on pirate point jumps, we could never bring enough ships to make the risk worth it."

"We could send our blackwater elements ahead and try to act as a tripwire," Roderick suggested. "Even without using the pirate points."

"You don't want to send them too far ahead, especially if we need your divisions' aerospace fighters to support us. And there's always the risk they've found other ambush points…"

Nathaniel kept listening. It was, as with most issues in war, a question of what risks to take and how to keep them from becoming a defeat. The worst was that, either way, he knew he was about to bring good people to their deaths. If only you'd accepted, Alaric, he pondered. If only you'd agreed to go to our Pentagon worlds, and rebuild your Clan anew. This bloodshed wouldn't be coming.

Around him the talk had shifted to the ground operation plans. The Wolves' concentration of force required an equal commitment, and that need had been met. Nathaniel shivered reflexively at the array of might set to be hurled against Chukchi; in his history, there hadn't been a force like this assembled since the days of the Fourth Succession War, perhaps not since Scipio O'Reilly's invasion of Arcadia in 3099. The entire strength of the Expeditionary Force was represented in those glittering insignia, ones he knew like his own skin; the full Household Guard Corps, the First and Second (Federation) Royal Guards, the Arcadian Rangers, the Bolan Heavy Guards, the Second Strikers and Second Royal BattleMech Brigade, and the two mercenary commands, two of the Gray Death Legion's regiments and the elite hundred-plus fliers of the Blackhawks. Alongside them were other insignia Nathaniel had gotten to know well over the last few months — the Corinthian helmet of Julian Davion's First Guards, the skeletal warrior and charging Zeus of the reborn Tenth Lyran and Fourteenth Donegal Guards, the Lyran First Royal Guards' lion's-head and the gauntlet-and-starburst of the First Buena Guards — and others that were still new; those of the Eighth and Ninth Lyran Regulars, and, surprisingly, a mixed regiment from the Eleventh Lyran Guards down from Lancaster.

The longer the discussion continued, the more Nathaniel felt like an imposter. These were experienced leaders, men and women who had faced far more violence than he, and were far more qualified to lay out the plan. He could see no issues with it. Press, draw enemy elements out to be hit by firepower, break the lines where they buckle and sweep in to encircle and destroy. Yet it would be bloody. The Wolves had proven that to him directly, on Tharkad and on Thuban. This was a slugfest and even victory would see the deaths of good people.

"A shame we can't just leave them to wither," he finally said. It was more a thought he gave out loud than a serious proposition, but it drew attention. Might as well. "Could we not leave them to wither on Chukchi, locked down under a blockade, or perhaps give them a chance to withdraw so we can break them up in smaller chunks elsewhere?"

Matthew shook his head. "I get your thought, my Lord. But we have to take out their army at some point. This means it's not a dozen bloody battles on a dozen worlds. And at least they've set up outside Chukchi's main cities, by our intel. Better to deal with them here."

"And here, with so many of their Bloodnamed elite concentrated, we might be able to convince the Crusaders that they've lost if we beat them," Roderick Steiner weighed in. "A lesson as old as war, Highness; defeat occurs first in the mind of the enemy. Of course, it might not matter, even with that," he added grimly. "They're stubborn."

"Cannae," Julian said, quietly, getting nods from Roderick, Matthew, and a scattering of other officers. Nathaniel frowned. He'd never heard of a world by that name; here or back home. Yet the name sounded familiar.

"Cannae was a battle on Terra between two city-states, Rome and Carthage, my Lord," Matthew explained. "A very long time ago, but it looks like Lord Markesan's tutors shared the interests of my own. Looked at one way, it was an absolute jewel of a battle," he smiled. "As decisive as any commander could want. Utterly shattered the Roman army, killed most of their senior commanders and a third of their damn government, and cheaply at that. But, unfortunately for Hannibal, the Carthaginian commander, he needed them to quit afterwards and they didn't. Just raised new armies and kept fighting; won that war and sacked Carthage, eventually, as I recall."

"I've no desire to be Hannibal," Bridger said. "But I concur. This is the best place to hit."

"At least it won't be Andurien." Roland Carlyle had a distant look in his eyes. "We can win this fast with this much talent on hand. We just have to be decisive."

Nathaniel nodded. "Your point is taken. I apologize for the interruption."

They returned to the discussion. The tactical planning was sound. The heavy elements — led by the Proctor Assault Guards, the Lyran First Royal, and the Bolan Heavy Guards' assault battalions — would launch direct assaults on the enemy's main line, identify their strong points, and set up air and artillery attacks to diminish them, while the Proctor Light Horse, the Second Strikers, and Gray Death Legion pressed any visible flanks or breakthroughs backed by the Tenth Lyran Guards as heavy support. The secondline and reserve forces were allotted, the aerospace assets distributed, and the final decisions made without a further word from Nathaniel. Bridger called the conference to an end and the war council made their way from the room.

"You all right, cousin?"

Nathaniel glanced up at Matthew, the only person left in the room. He drew in a small sigh. "I'm an ornament," he said. "My crown is the only reason I can sit in a room with the likes of Carlyle and Prohaska, yourself, Lord Julian and Lord Jasek. You're the veterans, I'm a lance lieutenant who inherited an interstellar empire. My blood is the only reason I'm here."

Matthew nodded. "I know. You're the youngest Proctor to assume the throne in over a century. I can't imagine how I'd have handled it, so the way I see it, you're doing this the right way."

"Oh?"

"You don't know these things. But you don't pretend you do, and you listen to those who do know. You're here by right of blood and you understand that, you're heeding advice. The real danger would be if you tried to use your right to force us to do stupid things."

"Hrm." Nathaniel nodded. "I see."

"History's full of young or overmatched rulers who didn't. They didn't last long." Matthew folded his hands. "It's also full of good young rulers who died on battlefields well before their time."

Nathaniel turned his head. Their eyes met. "Go ahead, say your peace."

"You've done your part, Nathaniel. You killed the Wolf Khan and held the Narrows, you oversaw the liberation of Thuban. You don't need to be here, and the Federation needs you back in Roslyn, getting married and keeping the Peace of Dieron so that bull mammoth Arnold doesn't break it. Would you please consider going back? DeMarcus and I can finish this."

Nathaniel drew in a breath. It's a temptation. But he kept flashing to the hospitals, to all those dead and dying and wounded soldiers who had followed his orders swho had joined his crusade. "What does it say if I go back home while this war, this crusade I declared, is still being waged?" He shook his head. "I owe it to the soldiers to be here, as they fight and die by my command."

"Dammit all." Matthew sighed and shook his head. "Your great-grandfather used to say the same damn thing. Ethan always pulled that line, right up until the Dowager's knights killed him." His eyes met Nathaniel's again, and Nathaniel didn't flinch. "Well, it's your call."

Nathaniel accepted the concession with a small smile and nod. "Thank you, cousin. You've been everything a ruler can ask for, even if it's not your job."

Matthew chuckled. "Well, I'd better get going, the other Household Guard COs are going to want to hear their assignments. I'll see you later."

"Dinner, I hope? I'd be a poor crusader king to not dine with my generals."

That drew a chuckle before Matthew left.





Matthew went further down the gravdeck, heading for the connection leading to the lateral decks that would take him to the shuttle bay. The rotation of the deck meant he'd have to wait when he got to the door. When he stepped up to the hatch, he found Julian waiting as well, scribbling something on his noteputer with a stencil. "Lord Julian. Didn't make it on the turn?"

"I did not," he replied. He leveled a knowing look at Matthew. "He said no."

"He's too damn much like Ethan," Matthew grumbled. "Proctor stubbornness is worse than Davion, I swear to God."

"You know, it's not altogether a bad thing that he's going to stick it out, at least for now," Julian commented, smiling slightly at Matthew's remark. "Shows he wants to take, to own, responsibility for his decisions at least, and that's a solid foundation for a ruler. Same reason that the First Prince has to serve; to show willingness and ability to take on responsibility for the people of the Suns, and defend those people with their life if they have to." He chuckled, mirthlessly. "I think the idea's supposed to be that they grow out of doing it personally, rather than using the Army and Navy, while they're still young."

"It won't do us any damn good if he gets himself killed when we hit Chukchi."

"True, but that's a risk of him seeing combat at all, and he's pretty clear on being there." Julian shrugged. "At least you and Bridger managed to argue him into keeping the Lifeguards back as our last-ditch reserves."

"Yeah. I just have to pray we don't have to use them. The Federation needs Nathaniel as a living ruler, not a dead martyr." Seeing Julian's curiosity, he sighed. "You've probably read up on the mess twenty years ago. MORNING STAR."

Recognition showed on Julian's face. Matthew had mentioned it on prior occasions, but only in passing compared to Trillian's report. "I've read Lady Trillian's report, yes, and I know enough to figure out what it doesn't say. One quick, overwhelming strike to liberate Sirius and Procyon while the Liaos' attention was elsewhere, fast enough to present a fait accompli to everyone else. Only the intelligence data was wrong, or got misread, and the Liaos were ready for you. What should have been a brief and decisive strike turned into an indecisive bloodbath, and before you could secure either world, the rest of the Sphere intervened to preserve the Dieron peace. They forced things back to status quo ante, and imposed reparations on the Federation."

"Like you were there. You been following me to veterans' association meetings?" Matthew smiled to take any sting out of his words.

"No, but I've heard that kind of thing before." Julian sighed. "Back when I was first commissioned, in the Sixth Syrtis, there were a lot of veterans of the Victoria War still around — my first Sergeant-major for one. We technically won that one, but nobody felt like it, and everyone had their theory as to who was to blame on our side, from Prince Harrison on down."

"Yeah, that figures. Parliament were … less than happy, to put it mildly, about how MORNING STAR fell out," Matthew noted, with what he felt was commendable understatement. "It's one reason we've lagged behind in rearmament compared to some of our neighbors; Parliament got a lot more serious about our military budgets. They cut everything and kept us from rebuilding to the pre-war level. Honestly, I can't blame them; Jackie did the right thing in the end, but she spent too damn long listening to the idiots in the General Staff who thought we could face down the whole Sphere! They're all gone now, thank God; most resigned after MORNING STAR collapsed, and Parliament and the Privy Council forced others into early retirement by threat of being court-martialed. But they left behind plenty of subordinates who saw things the same as they did. People like Lord Arnold. I'm sure you've heard the name, but you've never met the man. I've no doubt he was prepping Jacqueline for another go at the Capellans when she died."

"What I've been hearing is that Lord Arnold gave Trillian no end of hell in the alliance negotiations," Julian said. "Might even have killed the whole thing if he hadn't overplayed his hand, gotten Nathaniel angry enough with him to personally intervene."

"No doubt about it. The man's arrogant enough."

"And you think he'll, what? Try to put himself on the throne?" Julian frowned. "I haven't memorised your line of succession, but I didn't think Arnold was on it."

"Oh, he's on there. So am I; Arnold's higher than me, but we're both pretty near to the bottom. And the law on succession's been pretty well baked-in by now, so he'd need to be willing to start a civil war to jump the queue, or pull a mass kinslaying that even a Kurita would balk at. I don't think he's the type. Though," Matthew let his guard fall, a little. Julian Davion was about the only person he could safely discuss this with. "God knows I'm worried I've never known him as well as I thought. Thing is, he doesn't need to actually take the throne; until Nathaniel and Sophia produce an heir, the next in line is Nathaniel's aunt Melissa. She's about your age, was part of Arnold's military family in MORNING STAR and they've been close ever since, even after she retired from the Army. I don't know her politics as such — Melissa's always kept them quiet — but many of the people and groups she's tight with are in our War faction. And the Maskirovka know it as well as I do, unless they're much dumber than advertised. Nathaniel trusts her, but I don't think he realises how much her associates worry our neighbours."

"I can see that; trusting the wrong people's just as bad as trusting no-one. But, it doesn't seem like there's a lot to do about it, right now at least?"

That merited a nod. "I guess, in the end, I'm just worried Jackie cursed the family with her recklessness," Matthew sighed. Noting the hint of a wan smile on Julian's face, he asked, "Guessing you have a similar issue back home? First Prince Caleb's a bit of a character, I hear."

"Ah, yes. 'Bold' is the term most of his instructors used." Julian's expression shifted, to an uncomfortable mix of amusement and worry. "We were friends, once, but — not for a long time, now. And I wasn't officially read into it, but yes, he's been planning a major attack on the Liaos; Aunt Amanda kept me informed. SUNSHOWER should be jumping off soon; for all I know," and that expression Mathew knew well; the helpless worries of a commander, unable to exert any influence on a battle far away, "it already has."

[Steve]

Orsai wrote this chapter, I did some editing.


Chapter 24 — Echoes Of The Past

First Royal Cavaliers HQ, Cretaceous Basin
Orbisonia, Kathil Operational Area
Capellan March
Federated Suns
Transglass Inner Sphere
18 August, 3143


Thunder rolled across the early morning calm, drowning out for a moment the sounds of nearly seventeen thousand people — a full Regimental Combat Team of the AFFS — awakening to the tasks of the day. Few of them paused at the thunder, for this was Orbisonia, a war-world, and the emptiness of the iridescent blue skies overhead confirmed that it was simply one more in the constant parade of Federated Suns DropShips coming and going.

Standing on a ledge jutting from one of the Basin's coral formations, Caleb Hasek-Sandoval-Davion smiled as he took a deep breath of clean, crisp air. Most people wouldn't think it, given the repair facilities, parts foundries, munitions works and armour rolling plants that sprawled across its surface, but Orbisonia was a clean world; stringently enforced environmental regulations saw to that, ensured the air, water and soil remained clean and safe for future generations. It wasn't that alone that drew one of the Prince's rare smiles, though; the main cause was that he knew the identity of the arriving DropShip. It was the armour transport Ribald Song, carrying the lead elements of the Seventh Avalon Hussars. The final pieces of SUNSHOWER were falling into place, and in a few weeks, they'd be on the move.

Smiling still, Caleb made his way back inside. Corridors bored by long-extinct creatures and high-tech machinery threaded their way through the coral mountain; strung with lights and interrupted at key points by heavy blast doors and security checkpoints, they led deep into the heart of it. There, in a cluster of chambers buried deeply enough that even WarShip bombardment couldn't affect them, the Royal Cavaliers' headquarters had been established.

Accepting a mug of strong coffee from one of the staffers moving around the console- and screen-crowded command centre, Caleb sipped at the hot, bitter liquid as he joined General Justin Sortek at the main holotank.

"Good morning, Highness," Sortek smiled, his boyish good humour reminding Caleb for a bittersweet moment of Julian, of how they'd been before … before. He shied away from that thought like a skittish horse; nobody seemed to notice. "We were just waiting for you; now we can start."

Caleb nodded, taking in the five holographic projections arrayed around the map image; the commanders of the units of Taskforce SHOCKWAVE present. Demosthenes McCarron, the ebon-skinned Heavy Guards Marshal built to the same broad solidity in limbs and chest as his Battlemaster. The Second Guards' Stephanie Krupskaya, a slender, elegant pale blonde in armour crew battledress with cold sniper's eyes. Admiral Min Seung-hyun, the CIC of the Lucien Davion visible behind her. Sebastian Hasek-Cole, the Syrtis Avengers commander flexing his bionic arm, legacy of the Victoria War. And Colonel Vixen Sinclair, commanding the Orbisonia planetary guard; young for her rank and uncomfortable at her inclusion in this meeting, but Caleb had been impressed by the readiness and willing of the Orbisonian guard units.

"So, what's the form for today?" Caleb said. They'd gone over it already, of course, but it never hurt to make sure.

"Able and Delta of the Heavies and the Orbisonia PG as Gold Team defending, Avengers and Baker and Charlie of the Second attacking as Green Team, Cavaliers as umpires," Sortek read off his noteputer. "Attackers, Capellan form; goal's to keep testing how well their augmented battalion setup works against our defensive tactics. Defenders, since we want to account for the Liao penchant for commando ops," he offered an apologetic smile, "I'm afraid your people have to count out any aerospace support, Demosthenes."

"About what I figured," the Heavy Guardsman replied in his deep, grinding rumble. "We'll just have to keep our aerodromes well protected for real."

"Any restrictions?" Krupskaya asked.

"Try to keep close combat to a minimum," Caleb answered. "We want this as real as it can get without mass casualties, but melee fighting is further than I think we want to take it." There were nods at that; BattleMech melee drill was close behind jump infantry training for the number of serious injuries it caused each year, and that was under controlled conditions. Trying it in field exercises was a recipe for lengthy casualty lists and more fatalities than were remotely worth it.

"Maybe we could add a little sporting proposition?" Hasek-Cole suggested. "Troops've been drilling for long enough they're starting to lose their edge. Carrot and stick might get them back on the ball some."

"I like that," McCarron put in. "Grading by companies in each unit; highest performing gets excused duties and a forty-eight-hour pass to Lancaster, double duty for the lowest-scoring?"

There was general agreement to that, and the discussion shifted to details, outlining exercise areas and precise goals. Caleb stood aside from that; he didn't have the experience to interfere there, and it was instructive to watch. As the discussion wound down, Admiral Min spoke up.

"I'm reinforcing the picket groups we have monitoring the Lagrange, Zenith and Nadir points," she said without preamble. "Something doesn't feel right here, and I have no intention of being caught with our shorts down."

"I thought our screening units had reported all clear?" Krupskaya frowned. "That's what their latest status updates said, anyway."

"They did," Min agreed. "That's exactly what's worrying me. The Capellans pulling their horns in from raiding entirely says to me that they're up to something."

"Do it," Caleb ordered softly. "And pass the word to the screening forces at the border, I don't want them caught napping either."

Despite his words, part of Caleb thought that Min was simply being an old woman about the whole thing. He'd spoken with Colonel Kline on Lee and General Dietrich on Cammal less than a week ago, via Black Box, and their reports had been that everything was quiet.

How something could have blown up from nowhere in just a few days, he couldn't imagine …




Great Rift Valley
Cammal, Kathil Operational Area
Capellan March
Federated Suns
Transglass Inner Sphere
21 August, 3143


Colonel Riley O'Kane stamped down hard on his Enforcer III's pedals, spitting vicious curses as its jump jets carried him back into the shelter of the jungle just ahead of a massive volley of long-range missiles. The Capellan salvo tore up the supply road, shredding vegetation and asphalt, reducing trees taller than the Avalon Hussars' BattleMechs to matchwood and demonstrating conclusively that this route was a no-go as well.

On the cameras covering his machine's lower angles, Riley could see jungle critters running, crawling and flying past the 'Mech's ankles, determined to get deeper into the jungles and away from that unknown, unnatural thunder. At that, they're probably showing more good sense than I am.

"Sky-Eye, this is Sugar-lead," Riley ground out, forcing his voice to stay level as his command lance fell back with him. "Tell me you got a fix on those damn launchers this time."

"Negative on that, Sugar-lead." The Cutlass pilot high overhead sounded as frustrated as Riley felt. "The jungle canopy's too thick. Even with the active probe I can't spot those Catapults before they fire, and by then they're displacing." The painfully young pilot's voice took on a somber edge. "ESM's picking up targetware emissions from one Rifleman at least, maybe two, down there. I go down low enough to pick them out for sure, I'm not coming back up."

"Roger that, thanks for trying," Riley replied. If he'd thought it'd achieve anything, he would have ordered them down. But it wouldn't, and he wouldn't expend a life simply to salve his pride. "Stay on station until relieved, Sky-Eye. Let us know if they start pushing."

"Roger that."

Riley shot a wistful look at the mist-shrouded valley walls as he set out ground-bound pickets. If they could just break out into the open spaces of the Great Rift Valley proper … ! But that wasn't an option. The brittle black rock wouldn't take the weight of any of the Shooting Stars' jump-mobile machines, and they just didn't have anything heavy enough to bull through on the ground.

"Command," he called in on HQ frequency, "another no-go. ASR Seventh Veil is covered by hostile fire."

"Acknowledged, Colonel." Frustration edged General Dietrich's voice. "Set out pickets and then get back here. We'll just have to see about coming up with another option."




The air-conditioned coolness of the ground ops centre aboard Joyous Gard was a welcome contrast to the close, oppressive mugginess outside. But it wasn't doing anything to lift the moods of anyone present.

"You're sure there's no viable ground route out?" General Dietrich asked, tone sour as he studied the holomap, displaying a sixty-kilometre circle around the Hussars' field base. The wirey, jockey-like man stalked around the main holotank, glaring angrily at the jade icons.

"Positive," Riley said. He highlighted a series of roads. "They've got heavy demi-companies covering these routes. Those are the only viable ones for us to break out along, and the terrain means we'd effectively have to come at the Cappies one at a time."

He exchanged worried looks with Colonel Lee Tae-yeon, head of the local guard regiment, and nicknamed 'Tiny' for the obvious reason of being nearly seven feet tall and built like she could bench press a Destrier. Ordinarily Dietrich's pugnacious, bull-at-a-gate style was useful — a cavalry officer without aggression was a sorry thing indeed — but if he decided to try straight charges down the roads…

"My people can start work on blinding their spotter network, at least," Tae-yeon said, to a reluctant nod from Dietrich and a rather more enthusiastic one from Riley. He'd watched the Cammal Mounted Infantry at work; their teradons could climb like nothing else he'd ever seen, the big hexapedal reptilians taking nearly sheer cliff walls without breaking stride. And the local wildlife got big, and bad-tempered, enough that sensible gear for excursions into the jungles meant weapons which were a serious threat to battlesuited infantry; as witness, the chunky malevolence of the heavy-gauge blazer rifle sling across Tae-yeon's back.

"Even with that, sir, I think the suborbital hop plan's the option we've got to go for. I know you don't like it," Riley noted, seeing the sour look on Dietrich's face, "but despite the risks, we need to get into open ground somehow, and it's—"

They were interrupted by a naval officer, from Joyous Gard's comms section.

"General, Colonels," the sublieutenant saluted. "We've gotten a signal through to one of our JumpShips."

As it turned out, that was overstating things, a little. The signal link was bounced through two comms satellites to the JumpShip Airavata, in a high polar orbit over Cammal II, with almost seven minutes of transmission lag to the rocky inner planet. But it was something.

Even with bearing little but bad news.

"I'm Sublieutenant Tran, sirs, assistant engineer," the youthful naval officer on the main comms board said. Despite the poor transmission quality, they could see her amber skin was pale with shock, one arm cased in a gel-filled support cast and bound tightly to her chest, and a bloodstained bandage wrapped around her forehead. "I… I think I'm in charge."

Riley shared a look with Dietrich; communicating mutual horror. Airavata was a fully crewed military Star Lord, and assistant engineer meant Tran was ninth in her chain of command. Unfinished Book, how heavy had her casualties been?

"It's alright, sublieutenant. Just tell us what happened." Dietrich layered his voice with calmness and paternal charm, which Riley thoroughly approved of. Shouting would just fray Tran's already badly worn nerves even further.

"Yes, I… yes, sir." Tran took a deep, steadying breath. "When the Cappies jumped in, most of the flotilla was able to jump clear. We got caught in the middle of refuelling and recovery ops, and they sent a couple of fighter squadrons after us. Our escorts got them, but not before they strafed the daylights out of the Command and Comms modules, and tore up our sail pretty badly. After that …"

The story came out over an hour, the harrowing emergency jump into the inner system and a litany of systems failures and hasty repairs that left Riley feeling profound respect for sublieutenant Tran, as much as she downplayed her own role.

"…And that covers it up until we got main comms back online about two hours ago." Tran's expression shifted, looking worried. "No sign of the Black Box, though. I think it must have been lost when the Comms module went. I'll get our logs downloading to you."

"Good work, Leftenant," Dietrich nodded. "Get some rest; you look like you need it. My staff'll get with your second officer if we need anything." Tran nodded, saluting before the screen blinked out. Dietrich turned to face Riley and Tae-yeon. "I'm writing Tran up for the Star, at least; Medal of Honour if I can swing it."

There was nothing to do but nod at that, and before Riley could shift topic, one of the sensor techs spoke up.

"Sirs," he said as the senior officers clustered around his screen, "Airavata got a good look at the Cappie flotilla before she jumped in-system." The sensor readings came up on the display, and Riley felt his heart drop into his boots at the scale of it. This was no raid, but the vanguard of an all-out invasion.

"At least four 'Mech regiments," Dietrich commented after a moment's study. "I'd say four and a Warrior House, plus the battalions they've got bottling us up and fleet regiments; looks like enough collars for a bit over three RCTs, but the Cappies run much lighter conventional elements than we do."

"That what I think it is?" Tae-yeon asked, indicating the largest contact.

"Feng Huang class cruiser, ma'am," the sensor tech nodded. "The sensor picture's not good enough to tell which, but…"

Nothing else really needed saying. Whichever of their cruisers it was, the Capellans would only commit one to a major offensive; showing up here, that meant one aimed for Kathil — and, more importantly right now, for Orbisonia, where the regiments of Taskforce SHOCKWAVE were mustering.

And without the Black Box, we can't warn them.




Orbisonia, Kathil Operational Area
Capellan March
Federated Suns
Transglass Inner Sphere
26 August, 3143


Late into the evening watch cycle, FSS Centurion's bridge was a place of calm, quiet peace.

Commander Francine Trevayne smiled. Centurion was as good as new; an Arondight fresh out of refit in the Federated-Boeing yards over Delavan. Over a hundred Navy personnel and Marines, more firepower than a 'Mech battalion — in conjunction with her squadron mates, visible on the main holotank making their long circuits through Orbisonia's primary near-orbit jump point, enough to end a small war in minutes — and it was all hers to command.

Or it will be, she noted, her expression souring at the persistent orange indicator on the weapons status board, if we ever get the damn Kraken launcher working right.

As if on cue, a comms request lit on her board.

"Captain, ma'am." Midshipwoman Colmer, exhausted and with her shipsuit half-off, tied around her waist to reveal a sweat-stained t-shirt, snapped off a quick salute. "I'm pretty sure we've found the problem with the Kraken. It's in the software, not the hardware; looks like the newest update broke something. It keeps locking the autoloader into maintenance mode. I should be able to fix it in an hour or so; less if we need it, but I'll have to stay on-mount in that case."

"Good work, Mid," Francine nodded. "Get it fixed, and then I want you off duty and in your bunk. You're not going to do us any good if you're out of it from missed sleep."

As Colmer acknowledged and signed off, Francine brought up the latest bit of electronic bump from the Watchtower — revisions of smallcraft maintenance schedules, from the title — and was about to start skimming it when the sensor watchstander called to her.

"Ma'am," he said, an odd edge to his tone, "did we have a near-orbital arrival scheduled for today?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Francine frowned, calling up the data. No, the next scheduled arrival was the Fourth Crucis Lancers, two weeks from now, and they were going to use the nadir point. "No, nothing. Why?"

In answer, the sensor tech pushed the data to the main holotank, and Fracine felt her blood run cold. Jump precursors were flickering into existence at the close-orbital lunar point; dozens of them, far more than the Fourth Crucis. Shock froze her reactions for a moment, and then her hand slapped down on the GQ alarm.

"All personnel, set battle readiness Condition One, all compartments," she said over the intercom, voice raised to carry over the alarm's shrill atonal shriek. "Comms, send to Fleet Command and ground HQ, 'Enemy forces in-system, currently unknown but significant strength'."

Her exec arrived on the bridge in time to hear that last statement, although Leftenant Farant was experienced enough to merely raise one eyebrow as he took his station at Gunnery Control.

"I know. If that's wrong, I'll be lucky to command a two-person Periphery listening post," she said. "But I'd rather risk being a damned fool."

And besides, she added to herself as the jump precursors started solidifying into hard contacts, I know I'm not wrong.




Freshly dressed after his evening shower and thinking pleasant thoughts about his plans to get back into the field with the Avengers armour brigade, Caleb Hasek-Sandoval-Davion was busy towelling his hair dry when the alarms began. Shock froze him for a moment, and then, towel thrown aside, he was sprinting for the command centre, sealing up his uniform jacket and grabbing his armoured vest from a chair back as he moved.

Twice as he moved through the corridors, Caleb was forced to step aside and wait as squads of armoured infantry thundered past. The delays made him grind his teeth in frustration, but not even a Prince could argue with eight tons of battle armour moving at speed.

By the time Caleb reached the command centre, events were in full flow. The holomap was tuned to display the orbital zone overhead, swarms of jade and gold tactical markers interlaced, and General Sortek giving out strings of orders to a cluster of staff officers.

"…tell Commodore Brigatta that I don't give a damn if it's difficult. Her fighters and ground crews will be on their way to their dispersal fields within fifteen minutes or she will be under close arrest pending court-martial," Sortek was saying as Caleb arrived. Then, as the staffer scurried off, Sortek braced to attention. "Highness."

"General." Caleb nodded in return, freeing Sortek to relax. "What's the situation?"

"Confederation forces in system, engaging our aerospace units. Emergence was fifteen minutes ago, and they're pushing hard for the ground." Sortek indicated the holomap. Caleb set to studying it, trying to discern the complex array of course projection lines and multicoloured dots.

"I didn't think Daoshen could be this bold," he whispered, recognising the identifier code for one contact; a capital ship, one of less than a dozen such vessels left in the Inner Sphere. If the Capellans were risking it, then things truly were serious. "Do we have ID on that cruiser?" Caleb called out.

"Tracking puts it at about seventy percent confidence she's the Aleisha Kris," one of the naval staffers replied. "Another few minutes and we should have her electronic signature fixed for sure."

A burst of cheering broke Caleb's focus, and he looked across to bright gold lines spreading out from an icon tagged as C-31.

"Lucien Davion's joined the fight," Sortek explained as he saw Caleb's momentary confusion at the map coding. "This is going to be something, Highness; the first clash of capital ships for fifty years."



Centurion's deck shuddered at another impact. This one felt deeper, as though it had punched inside rather than just chewing up armour.

"We just lost one of the aft laser clusters," Farrant said, his fingers dancing over the weapons console. "Not destroyed, but out of the director circuit." He checked the boards again; and cursed. "Damn! Another hit like that, we lose that quarter's AMS cluster."

"Com-scan, backtrack," Francine said, her eyes taking in the full tactical plot. "Get me the source." She brought up near-space visual on her own secondary board. Both displays showed chaos. Fighters and Pocket WarShips clashed throughout the orbital zone, drive flares, missile tracks and the flash of energy weapons interlacing in a demented cat's cradle of light and fury centered around the Capellan troop carriers burning for the ground. Above it all, the leviathan capital vessels duelled, the thrust and parry of energy weapons and missiles crisscrossing. So far, it looked like the Lucien Davion had the edge, her heavy ship killer missiles smashing a capital laser cluster to wreckage, but—

"Got them!" The com-scan rating called out. "Cappie Vengeance conversion, two-eighty klicks vertical relative to us. Highlighting on the main tank." The holodisplay zoomed in, red circling a jade icon. "The Charybdis, Moonstar and Tracer squadrons report in position to support our attack run." Francine tracked the icons; an Overlord-A3A, a squadron of Daggers and another of Cutlasses, the fighters with NL-45s in support.

"That'll do. Helm, get ready to bring us bow-on to the Cappie, thirty-second burn right at them," Francine ordered, before flipping the intercom live. "All hands, secure for hard manoeuvring. Thirty-second burn, t-minus two minutes."

She had time to double-check her shock frame was secure, and to hope that everyone had gotten the word. Then came the familiar gut-wrenching sensation as the maneuvering thrusters flipped Centurion end-over, followed by the sustained kick in the spine as the main drives lit, shoving them on a new vector.

"Guns, engagement is yours," Francine managed to force out past the G-forces.Then it was down to simply watching the tactical plot for a need to step in, and trusting her crew.

Charybdis' missiles came screaming in from astern, full-scale capital munitions that drew the Capellan gunners' eyes and fire as the fighters slashed down from "above" the Capellan dropper. Light-calibre missiles rippled off the Cappie's topside launchers, scores — more than a hundred — reaching for the Davion fighters, but they'd trained for this. The formation shifted, bringing the gunships and Cutlasses forward, their electronic warfare suites projecting overlapping bubbles of white noise and false targets. Tightly clustered missiles scattered, seekers blinded or chasing ghosts; blitzing strings of powered flechettes from the gunships' antimissile arrays blazed a trail of fire through the few that remained on target. Gauss slugs, gem-bright laser beams, the whiplash arcs of particle cannon and storms of lethal metal from the Daggers' and gunships' autocannon struck back, wreathing the Vengeance in a cloud of shattered armour, wreckage and flash-frozen mists of air and water; a spray of defensive fire caught one of the Cutlasses across the cockpit, sent it tumbling away out of control.

But the rest flashed by, flipping to begin deceleration, just as Centurion's main drives cut out.

"Range-field clear, shooting solution locked," Farant sang out, his lilting, almost musical Sun Prairie accent thicker than she'd ever heard it. "All forward guns, follow director and prosecute to destroy!"

The whole ship seemed to shudder at the slamming force of the forward cannon array lighting off as one — Francine knew that was an illusion, caused by the bridge's proximity to the cannons' recoil spaces, but the worried looks on some of the young faces about the compartment reminded her that only she, Farant and Bosun Moore of Centurion's crew had ever fought ship-to-ship.

"Helluva way to earn our pay, isn't it, Rodriguez?" Francine remarked to the closest crewer, a radar tech who sat up a little straighter, buoyed up and nodding at her comment.

The long-range optics display was shunted to the main tank, the reality of the sterile language of track-markers and damage codes in silent blossoms of light and metal walking along the Cappie's belly from bow to stern. Armour splintered away, atmosphere gushing outwards and — though she couldn't see it — almost certainly taking bodies with it.

"Captain," Farant subvocalised over her headset, "their fire control reads as offline."

"Continue engagement, Leftenant," Francine rebuked him gently. "Remember the Endeavor." Farant didn't respond verbally, but the cannon fire kept going.

In the end, the Vengeance didn't die in the glare of nuclear annihilation or a detonating main magazine. It just … broke apart under the cannonade, one of Centurion's last shots a deftly guided Kraken that broke her keel.

"Cease engagement," Francine ordered. "Prep to launch smallcraft, let's see if we can nudge a couple of those pieces that still have atmosphere into a stable orbit. Marines to—"

"Karman line breach; Capellan troop carriers are at atmospheric interface."

Fracine wanted to swear at the truth of that, writ plain as the tank display zoomed out to general orbital display. Jade icons swarmed into the upper reaches of Orbisonia's atmosphere; some continuing down, others shedding droppods like lethal snow. AFFS interceptors rose to meet them, but the Capellan fighter screen parried all too much of their strength. Capellan icons flared and died; too few to make much difference.

And, up here in the higher orbits, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

"Coms, signal the flag and find out what we're supposed to do now." The capital ship engagement had broken off; the Lucien Davion and Aleisha Kris trading a last few desultory shots as they maneuvered into different orbits. "Helm, find me our squadron's tender; magazines need topping up. Someone get me a casualty and dam-con report."

And start praying for the ground forces, she thought, watching the Liao tide falling on Orbisonia. Because they're gonna need it.




"I'm heading outside," Caleb called to General Sortek as he began making his way out of the command centre. "I have to see this!"

To his credit, Sortek didn't waste time arguing. He just nodded, gesturing for a pair of infanteers to accompany Caleb before returning to giving out streams of orders.

A quick sprint through the corridors — almost empty now, save for the repulse squads and defence positions at critical points — brought Caleb and his escorts to one of the ledges, looking out across the Basin proper. A team from the Royal Cavaliers were just finishing setting up an observation post when he arrived, with field telephones and radios resting on empty ammo boxes; heavy laminated field service maps unfolded and pinned up on walls, covered in scrawls of marker pen; tripod-mounted long-range optics and rangefinders. And, set into sandbag firing positions, a pair of infantry-support Magshots and a heavy four-tube StarStreak ground-to-air missile launcher.

In the valley floor below, the Cavaliers' cantonment was like a kicked termite mound underscored by the deep rumble of massed engine noise, crimson and grey tanks, personnel carriers and BattleMechs moving at speed, guided by the frantic imprecations and waving lightwands of the Military Police pulling traffic control. The ready battalions were already on their way to their dispersal points; ribbons of metal and people moving out for the wide arc of defensive positions that should make the Cavaliers a harder target for orbital fire.

Overheard, contrails chased one another back and forth across the vivid dusk sky with missiles, energy fire and lethal projectiles. Some fell, trailing smoke, others breaking away from or rejoining the fight; above, a backdrop to the aerial combat, the fiery trails of Liao DropShips and droppods clawed across the heavens like the talons of some great beast. Scores of them, easily; probably more than a hundred that he could see.

Caleb shuddered at the thought of the Liao cruiser high overhead. If there hadn't been some kind of warning, if the Navy hadn't been deployed ready for battle … the first we might have known would've been orbital fire erasing half the Cavaliers.

Shuddering again at the thought of Fate being that cruel, Caleb turned and headed back inside. There was work to do now, for the Prince of the Federated Suns.

Behind him, the skies continued to burn.