StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Merry Christmas everyone, figured I'd drop this Christmas gift for the fans of "Emergence". The story continues!

Also, as before, Captain Orsai from SB has contributed, quite heavily in this case, as the prologue is primarily his, as is the first 60% or so of Chapter 1. I did make a few editing passes and changed bits here and there for his stuff, though (and he in turn modified some of my bits."


Prologue - Salvation

Zenith Recharge Station
Imbros System, Prefecture X
Fortress Republic
21 May 3143




It had been a long time since Darren Huyten was this close to home.

Granted, waiting here at Imbros’ zenith jump point meant he was more than thirty lightyears away from Sol, but it still felt reassuring. So did being back in the dark grey and blue uniform of the Republic Armed Forces, and wearing the gold-on-gold starburst insignia of his actual rank.

It was almost enough to banish the implications of what he could see. Hanging around the station, visible through the viewing bubble he’d been sent to wait for his contact, was a significant chunk of the Republic Navy. They were too far away to identify specifically, but Darren had counted at least six Castrum-class DropShips, each with its own escort group, manoeuvring around the station. Backstopping them was the grey and blue enormity of the Essex-class destroyer Abundantia.Taken together it was enough firepower to match almost any WarShip remaining in the Inner Sphere. And that this kind of force was here, instead of at the Navy's home ports of Sol or New Earth, said that the Fortress was not as inviolate as it seemed.

Or at least that someone high up thinks there's weak spots, Darren corrected himself, thinking of the stomach-churning jump from Lyons. If it were possible to copy however that had been done…

The hiss of the dome's access door sliding open arrested his thoughts, and Darren shifted to face the hatch.

A pair of infanteers in void-adapted Purifier suits were first through, taking up guard positions that would give one of them a clear angle of fire no matter what. The insignia of Special Forces Command visible on their shoulder panels. Then two more figures entered, unarmoured but somehow with more presence than the battlesuited troopers, He'd have recognised them instantly even without their Paladin's uniforms. Tall, muscular and even in minimal gravity moving with an easy, leonine grace that belied the years marked in his precisely regulation-cut silver hair and the lines riven deep by stress in craggy features, Paladin-Exemplar David McKinnon looked every inch exactly what he was; Stone’s wrath personified. By contrast, Lady Janella Lakewood looked like a harassed bureaucrat; smaller and softer-built than the Paladin-Exemplar's hard, angular features, her uniform rumpled by travel where McKinnon's was pristine, dark circles under her eyes standing out against pale skin and streaks of grey in her long, tightly bound-up black hair.

“Authentication Blue Star Three-Oh-Three,” Lakewood spoke first, calm and steady.

“Vertex seven-two, nine-six aleph,” Darren replied; the final countersign needed to confirm that he was, in fact, who he said he was, and was not acting under duress. The confirmation wiped at least a little of the strain from Lakewood’s features, and she actually smiled a little as she gestured for him to take a seat.

“Welcome back, Brigadier.” Lakewood relaxed in her seat. “I do wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Better ones than you might think, Lady Lakewood,” Darren chose his words carefully. “I came back personally because we’ve encountered something that might, just might, mean the salvation of the Republic. With your permission,” he gestured to the holoprojector unit at the centre of the table, “my staff have prepared a short briefing.”

“By all means,” Lakewood nodded. “Some good news would be welcome, I admit.”

From days of raw footage, the Lucky Stars’ intelligence team had managed to distill much of the relevant information down to only half an hour; pulled together from gun camera footage, news reports, sensor readouts and half a dozen other sources. McKinnon leaned forward at the combat footage, studying closely the Arcadian BattleMechs — alike and yet alien to the designs they all knew well — and how they moved and fought; Lakewood concentrating on the technical information. The finisher was High King Nathaniel’s coronation address, a last-minute addition; the footage had only just arrived on Timkovichi before Darren had needed to burn out-system.

“What’s your assessment of these Arcadians?” McKinnon broke the silence first; focusing on practical matters, as ever. “As fighting troops, I mean.”

“They’re good,” Darren said, putting together everything he’d learned about them. “Very well equipped on average; more, and more varied types, of Clan-grade gear than I’ve seen outside of the Davion Guards or Stone’s Brigade. They’re tough, disciplined and well-trained, as well.” He paused, considering further. “That said, they’re not that experienced; I got the impression that their Inner Sphere’s been a lot more peaceful than ours, and most of the AFRF’s units just haven’t seen serious combat for a long time.”

“And if you had to engage these Second Cuirassiers, at their peak strength, using your old command?”

“In a straight up open field battle, we’d lose.” Darren had had time to think about that fairly extensively. “The Cuirassiers had almost twice as many BattleMechs, and more heavy equipment in general, than the Principes do, at least in the pre-Fortress configuration. In a sustained planetary campaign, supporting Standing Guard units, the Principes' edges — more experienced personnel, better low level combined arms integration, and a larger support and repair echelon in both absolute and relative terms — would count for more, but I'd still put it at no more than one chance in three for them to win."

"This speech,” Lakewood indicated the footage of Nathaniel. “Does he mean it, or are we looking at someone else with ambitions that might include what remains of the Republic?”

“Bearing in mind that I haven’t met Nathaniel personally, I think he’s sincere, yes,” Darren replied. “Very definitely, he represents a serious public feeling; more than one of the Arcadian officers I heard comment on that speech expressed quite a bit of satisfaction that they were going to, I quote,” he checked his noteputer, “here it is, ‘kick the Clans’ genetically superior asses up one side and down the other’.”

“I’d say that’s fairly conclusive,” McKinnon agreed, and Lakewood nodded at her fellow Paladin’s assessment.

“Beyond that, they haven’t given any sign of wanting territory on this side of the Anomaly. I was given the impression in conversation with General Singh’s staff that the Combine on their side and this ‘Oriento-Capellan Empire’ would just love it if the Arcadians got bogged down in serious occupation duties here. So,” Darren shrugged, “I can’t say for certain, but the evidence I’ve seen is that they just want to kick in the Clans and go home. The full data downloads and analysis are on my ship; I'll make sure they’re transferred over soonest.”

That caused more silent conversation, looks flicking between McKinnon and Lakewood before the Paladin-Exemplar gave a quick nod.

“So,” McKinnon said, calm gravitas in his voice “What do you need from us, Brigadier?”

“Equipment; spare parts, mainly,” Darren brought up his support section’s shopping list. “We were lucky on Timkovichi; more casualties in machines than people, but a lot of the damage needs parts to fix that weren’t ever common outside the Republic. And, well,” another shrug, “I’ve got teams on Galatea — where I’ll be going after we’re finished — and Kandersteg who can handle manpower.”

“I think we can do better than just spare parts,” McKinnon smiled. “Come with me.”

Leaving Lakewood to continue studying the data, they moved through the recharge station’s corridors, heading deeper inside, towards one of the cargo bays if Darren remembered the Olympus-class’s layout right. That guess proved right when they arrived in one of the vast, cavernous spaces. Most of the bay was filled with standard cargo containers, the usual swarms of personnel in zero-gravity exoskeletons moving around and among them, but drawn up in formation magclamped to the “floor” were half a dozen BattleMechs, several times that many battlesuits locked into their maintenance/storage racks, and -

Darren blinked for a moment as the Mangonel next to the pair of tripedal leviathans made their scale clear. “So,” he finally remarked, “the stories are true.”

“They are,” McKinnon agreed. “Castor and Pollux,” he indicated each of the giants, “the Dioscuri; what their crews’ve named them. Ares class superheavy OmniMechs, and as of now, assigned to you with full complements of Omni pods, spare parts and techs to keep them going. So are the ‘Mechs and battlesuits with them. And a DropShip to transport them; new model, but it’ll look like an Overlord unless someone gets a very close look at its thrust-mass ratio.”

“There’s no way I can explain those with ‘I found them in a supply cache’,” Darren temporised, mind working overtime at the possible tactical uses for the beasts. Kicking DropShips apart, for one.

“If you’ve got to use them, you won’t have to,” McKinnon replied. “You’ll get formal orders later, but the gist of it is, don’t use them unless you have to — but if you do have to, then don’t hesitate. In that situation, we’ve got verigraphed orders from the Exarch confirming your unit as Republic auxiliaries, and Martin Kell at least is going to read them before ripping your head off.”

Darren nodded at that, feeling at least a little reassured at having some diplomatic top cover. Although, given the likely circumstances for revealing who, and what, he and the Lucky Stars really were, that was probably the least of potential worries …

“Come on down and meet the crews,” McKinnon pushed off the floor with easy grace. “They can tell you an awful lot more about what their machines can do than I can.”




Nearly fourteen hours later, David McKinnon watched the blue-white star of the Duat-class Hope's Dagger — wearing the splendidly official identifiers of Miriya's Light, a cargo converted Overlord — burning out for its JumpShip. It was far less time than any of them had wanted, but the next viable window through the Fortress to Lyons was less than a day from opening; and after that, there wouldn't be a clear shot for months.

“Do you think the Lyrans can hold Tharkad?” Janella Lakewood commented from beside him.

“If they can’t, then we’d damn well all better learn to speak Clanner,” David snapped, before a lifetime’s self-mastery reasserted itself. Calmer, he went on; “I think they can, yes. They’ve got some of the best units in the LCAF there, plus the First Davion Guards; and a set of commanders that their troops believe can win. That counts for a lot.”

“And the Arcadian contribution.”

“And them, yes,” David nodded. “Even beyond the fighting strength of them, having an ally committed does no end of good.” Their thoughts turned, both, to the Davion Guards; to what their unexpected intervention had done in the battle against the Senate Alliance on Terra. Unexpected to everyone but Jonah Levin, that is; David still didn’t know just how he’d managed to avoid letting even any of the Paladins know about that until well after they’d landed.

“I’ll be heading back to Terra myself, soon,” Lakewood said after a moment. “This information needs to get back into Levin’s hands, and we can’t trust it to the HPG. If we missed even one of Buhl’s people…” An involuntary shiver struck her at that thought. “Think you can manage the rest of this inspection tour alone, old man?”

“I’m not too old to thrash you, Lady Lakewood, in or out of a ‘Mech,” David shot back, to mutual smiles. Though that turned his thoughts inward; am I too old for field command, should I have taken retirement when Levin offered it to me? Then, no. I’m in as good shape physically as it’s possible to be. His recent medical eval had proven that; with the doctor telling him that he was in good shape for a man a third of his age. "If all my patients were as obnoxiously healthy as you, Sir McKinnon, I’d be out of a job.” That left the non-physical to consider. There’s no defects of mind or will I can detect.

“I can carry it on myself, Janella,” he continued after completing his considerations. “Your staff are good people, and between us, we can put the fear of Stone into our awkward world governors.”

Besides, once the information on the Arcadians got into Levin’s hands, there was going to be a lot more work to do. Real work, not just drills, inspections, and chivvying recalcitrant world governors into doing their jobs.

The salvation of the Republic.

Chapter 1 - Storm Warning


Tharkad City Municipal Railyards
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
24 May 3143

Hauptmann Talia Yuen forced herself to remain calm. You are not allowed to shoot this idiot.

“Herr Bachmeier,” she settled on, fixing Landgrave Michael Bachmeier with a sharp look, summoning her own reserve of haughty disdain to remind him they shared the same noble rank. With the scar seaming her face from brow to jawline, the legacy of a Marik Neanderthal’s hatchet, she hoped it would make the necessary impression. “I have heard your objections. Since — as you well know — they are deficient in both fact and legal backing, I will tell you one last time: stop bothering me and start emptying out your warehouses while my engineers rig them for demolition, if you want to salvage anything of their contents.”

“You can’t do this!” Bachmeier snapped, leaning forward across her desk as though to use his advantages of height and build — he was a big man, and most of it was muscle rather than fat — to intimidate her. “I have friends in the city council, and when they -”

That did it.

"Your 'friends', Herr Bachmeier, not only will not help you, they cannot," Talia snapped in reply, rising to her own full height. She gave up eight inches on the burly nobleman's six-foot-four, but made up for it in quiet fury. Her amber features flushed with anger, bringing out her scar in stark contrast.. “My orders to put the railyards in a fit state for defence come from the commander of Donegal Province," the extremely newly appointed Jasek Kelswa-Steiner, but a Hauptmann-General of impeccable lineage and combat record still impressed, "and are specifically to be executed with due expedition. Your warehouses, sir, were not supposed to be sited where they are." She let that sentence hang for a moment. A litany of complaints and fines from the city planning office testified to that, and he knew it. "I will demolish them to clear fire lanes. I am offering you a courtesy in delaying to allow you to empty them. If you feel this is unsatisfactory, then I will be happy to get in my Regent and level them instanter."

The naked threat of her ‘Mech — visible out of the window, kneeling with the rest of her command's ready lance before their hangar — seemed to finally get the point across, and Bachmeier slumped in defeat.

“I understand,” he said, quietly. He’s finally grasping that this is real; that the Wolves are coming, and we may not be able to stop them. Good. “Who should I inform when.. when it’s done?”

“Leutnant Sandoval-Steiner.” A twitch in Bachmeier’s left eye showed that he did recall his earlier, rather bruising encounters with her aide and friend, and a small impulse of mercy led Talia to give an out. “Or, as the engineers are mainly his cadets, Instructor-Hauptmann Stanson would probably be a better choice.”

After Bachmeier left, Talia sat, slumping in on herself in frustration. There was going to be a cost for that; Bachmeier did have friends at court — even if their support of Vedet Brewer had put most of them out of favour for now — and letting her temper get the better of her never worked out well. Sighing, she decided to personally survey the defences; at least it’d get her out of the office.

She pulled on her greatcoat and left the office as well. In her outer office she passed her quiet, unobtrusive young secretary, telling him to route any calls to her personal comm. The civilian secretary, who'd come with the office, audibly acknowledged the command. Talia stepped out onto the balcony. Taking a deep breath of her adopted homeworld’s cold, clear air, she set to work.

In some ways, she thought, it was a good thing that the original railyards had been levelled during the Jihad. After Tharkad had been liberated, Adam Steiner’s reconstruction programs had involved laying the railyards out for defence. Most obvious were the low, carefully angled walls of ferroconcrete and armourplate, studded with turret mounts, to be filled in time of need; most had been, by now. Talia could see one of the last clearly, an autocannon turret taking shape under the hands of exosuited engineers, and a massive Kiso ConstructionMech in the bright, cheerful yellow of the Municipal Works Board lifting one of the rotary cannon into its mounting frame. The Kiso was an import from the Combine, a symbol of the happier times before the Blackout.

Below, the marshalling yard was in a state of barely controlled chaos. Sergeants, foremen and -women, and train loadmasters bellowed at each other like bull mammoths in mating season, while officers of Transport Command waved noteputers and clipboards and added their own strident demands for everyone to get back to where they ought to be to the chorus. Shuttling engines moved freight, vehicle, and troop cars back and forth. She could see the grey-mottled cream of the Hesperan Guards, Buena Guards sand and bronze, and the blue and white striped red of the First Davion on the vehicles and ‘Mechs being moved. Every few minutes, a fresh train shot off with a whine of maglev propulsion or arrived in a rumbling clatter of deceleration; units and cargo being dispatched back and forth across Bremen at the High Command's will.

The raw volume of traffic terrified her; Talia had nightmarish visions of a single collision or even just a slip of timing snarling things up so badly they wouldn’t get it sorted out until the Wolves got here. It was only knowing that this was, in fact, normal for the civilians and for the Rail Transport section, and that they knew how to handle it, that kept her from worrying herself into paralysis.

That, and thank God keeping everything moving isn't my responsibility, she added to herself, climbing down from the observation walkway and making for the hangar. I've just got to defend the place.

Her ready 'Mech lance showed the mixed bag she'd been handed to do that with; and in her less cynical moments Talia was willing to accept Berry's argument that it was a sign their superiors trusted her skill. Other times, like now, Talia was inclined to think her short battalion of Royal Guards, Nagelring cadets and Exiled Wolves was karmic punishment for some grievous sin in a past life.

Techs swarmed over her Regent, a Gauntlet — both in the gold-edged blue of the First Royals — the steel-grey Mad Cat of Star Commander Kezia Wolf, and a low-slung Barghest painted in Nagelring check-pattern grey and blue; checking coolant levels, adjusting myomer tension, making sure weapons and sensors were properly calibrated and bedded in, any of the hundred-and-one tasks that needed doing to keep a BattleMech operational in the field. She smiled on noticing provisional-leutnant Katie Rayne working alongside the techs to machine armour plates into place; the cadets had, at least, proven perfectly willing to help the techs.

Within the hangar, a pair of Davion-built Saviors, and two smaller Feldmechaniker models from StarCorps’ Loburg factory — their allotment of MFBs — were opened out as impromptu machine shops, the air thick with heat, and the smells of sweat, hot metal, live electronics, lubricants and hydraulic fluid. Tanks, ‘Mechs and battlesuits were in various states of disassembly. They ranged from minor, such as the Black Wolf battlesuit with its lower arm removed while techs swapped the laser out, to major. Someone briefly raised their voice in a faintly familiar song — Firebrand? And not very good at it! — before being shouted down by a chorus of insults. She turned briefly to see the singer and his critics on the deck of one of the Savior vehicles, where a Schmitt assault tank had most of its engine block spread out. Stripping off her greatcoat, Talia took a moment to frame the scene in her mind, considering it as a subject for painting. At least, assuming she lived long enough to make a try at it.

“Hey there, Tals.” Berry Sandoval-Steiner wore her usual insouciant grin, and khaki field dress half-unzipped to show the cooling vest worn beneath. What made Talia frown was the bruises purpling one side of her olive features, and the stiffness in Berry's stance that told of an injured knee.

"What happened," she asked, taking the noteputer full of status reports Berry offered her.

“Eh, one of the Wolf Elementals was being difficult about helping out with maintenance,” Berry explained, shrugging casually — and failing to hide a wince from probably bruised ribs, “so I had to explain things to him.”

“Berry, I need you on your feet,” Talia admonished, “not in a field hospital.”

“I’ve taken worse injuries riding and kept going, you know that,” Berry returned, “and you need to speak to people in a language they understand. You know how Clanners are, even the Exiles; if I’d just tried to talk it out, he’d never have taken me — or you — seriously. Having his bell rung’ll make the lesson sink in. And, please, Tals, I am begging you,” Berry’s voice took on a tone of mock horror, “please, do not send me back to a field hospital. Anything but that. My grandmothers are back on Tharkad, and they’re in a matchmaking mood.”

The shiver at that wasn’t feigned, and Talia shared it. She’d only met them briefly, but that had been enough to tell her that Eloise and Naomi Sandoval-Steiner were, even at nearly into their second century, forces of nature — who would, did, rule the lives of anyone in their orbit with an elegantly gloved fist of iron. All for those people's own good, of course, and they’d been dropping hints about eligible suitors in letters to Berry for a while now. What they must have been like during their days with the anti-Blakist resistance on Tharkad, she feared to speculate.

"Speaking of unwanted persons," Berry added, "Killian inbound, your six."

I shouldn‘t have sent him to inventory our ammunition reserves, Talia decided, plastering an even smile on her face as she turned to face her biggest headache. Most of the cadets were perfectly well-behaved, but Josiah Killian — sixteen years old, newly commissioned as a provisional second leutnant of engineers, and who would probably require a razor sometime in the next few months — wasn’t. And, from his puppy-dog cheerful expression and rapid annotations to the noteputer in his hand, he was about to regale her with his latest plan to defeat the Crusader Wolves by burning down Tharkad City.

“Hauptman.” Killian braced to attention so stiffly she half-expected his spine to snap, only relaxing fractionally at her gesture for at ease. He launched right into his latest idea. “I’ve been checking our inventory of Long Tom rounds, ma’am, and I think, if we empty the stockpiles we have,” Killian held forth the noteputer, showing marked out schematics of the local road system and nearby road and rail bridges, “we can rig the bridges for demolition, and wire the roads with enough IEDs to block any Wolf attack cold -”

“Josiah,” Talia cut him off in mid-outpouring. “I think the artillery unit those shells belong to might object to us making free with their ammunition without even asking them. And,” her voice turned waspish, “since we, and the people of Tharkad City, need those roads and bridges right now, I’m ordering you not to attempt any such rigging for demolition, especially as I know for a fact you don’t have the training or experience to do it safely. We do have an enemy to blow up our infrastructure, Josiah, but apparently you’ve decided that they don’t merit that privilege?” Not to mention the distinct possibility of blowing yourself up, but she suspected that wouldn’t bother Killian much — or, more likely, wasn’t real to him. "Now, have you finished the munitions inventory?" A guilty look confirmed what she'd suspected. "Then get it done, and, once you've finished, report back to me instanter."

“Y’know, if that kid’d just learn a bit of patience, he’d be a real asset,” Berry commented as Killian scurried off.

“Were we any better, at his age?” Talia replied, smiling with the confidence in her own maturity that eight years’ extra living over Killian gave her.

The clumping footfalls of a battlesuit broke her train of thought. Talia turned in that direction; it was one of the cadets, she could tell that easily. They were probably the only people on Tharkad operating Fa Shih battlesuits.

“Ma’am.” They braced to attention in front of her, raising their suit’s visor to reveal another painfully young face. “Leutnant Price's compliments, and he needs you; issues with one of the rail staffers.”

“Lead the way, then, cadet," Talia replied. No rest for the wicked.


Throne Room, The Triad


The last of the mutilated young soldiers filed in respectable formation from the Throne Room. From her seat at the Throne Melissa Steiner watched them depart with an expression she carefully kept from turning into a frown. Only once they were gone did the tips of her mouth and lips curl downward. They were the fortunate ones who lived. All because of my error. My failures. She glanced about the room and up towards the towering Fafnir and Atlas II that stood guard over her. Within were two MechWarriors who, like the battle armor-clad infantry of the First Royal Guard around her, would fight and die to preserve her life. She recalled these colossal BattleMechs had once been smaller (though no less gigantic to a regular human being) Griffin machines. That was long the tradition, but that tradition changed with our need; would have, I think, even without the work of Julian and Callandre. She’d been furious about that fiasco at the time, but now, almost two decades hence, it drew a soft, almost imperceptible smile from Melissa. Everything, and everyone, changes over time. Even me. Would that I could warn the Melissa of ten years ago from my mistakes. My realm might be far better off today!

General Maurer strolled in from one of the doors to the side of the throne room. "They are ready, Highness." He bowed politely and did not protest at the way the infantry soldiers crowded him, as if he might yet pull a gun and shoot her. While the public still did not know the details, it was an open secret to many in the First Royal Guards that Maurer and the rest of the High Command had overthrown Melissa, the rightful Archon, to install Vedet Brewer, who most certainly had no claim to the title beyond his personal power, his family's ownership of the colossal factories of Hesperus, and that he was a venomous son of a Blakist who easily won trust he should never have enjoyed.

No. Melissa shook herself out of those thoughts. He is a competent soldier, and the Hesperan Guards’ loyalty wouldn’t still be in doubt if Vedet lacked any virtues at all. You underestimated him once before; it would be foolish to do so again.

Wordlessly she gestured for the soldiers to part, which they did. Maurer said nothing at the display, nor at the way they still kept a protective formation with Melissa that made clear their continued distrust of Maurer. I may have to speak with Hauptmann Franken about this. Maurer is still commander of the LCAF High Command, and we do not need division. Especially not now.

A stark reminder of why was the centerpiece of the War Room. The central holotank showed the dire straits her realm was in. Savage orange and verdant green reflected the worlds known to have fallen to the Hell's Horses and Jade Falcon Clans, only recently halted from their rampage towards Tharkad and Coventry. But worse was the ever-growing amber tumor in the Commonwealth's belly, the stomach cancer she herself had allowed to come into being with her disastrous dealing with the Wolf Clan. Now their new Wolf Empire was within two jumps of Tharkad. Thuban and Smolnik were fallen and Tetersen and Gibbs were likewise under threat. But we are the prize. I am the prize. The Wolves would want her dead for revenge, and by capturing Tharkad they could break the Commonwealth politically.

The war council assembled to thwart that inevitable effort awaited her and Maurer. Jasek Kelswa-Steiner and Roderick Steiner were dressed in LCAF duty uniforms while Julian Davion wore the fatigues of the Federated Suns. Seeing him today, older and more seasoned than he was when he'd pulled that prank as an exchange cadet, was a kinder reminder of the changes that time brought. He might have been a good match for Trillian, she thought, allowing herself a moment of whimsy, under other circumstances. But, duty calls "Gentlemen," she said at their salutes. "You have more to report?"

"Our defenses are still being established, Highness," Jasek said. As the senior of the three, by Lyran reckoning anyway, he was taking the lead. "Right now, we’re concentrating the bulk of our defences here on Bremen. The First Royal and Combat Commands Baker and Charlie of the First Davion Guards are deployed to defend Tharkad City. I’ve ordered the Buena Guards to…"

Melissa gave her attention to the defensive arrangements as Jasek explained them. Her own military education, such as it had been, had been a very long time ago, but it was enough for her to see that the defences were as well-laid as possible. But, with the damage so many of those units have taken, I don’t know if it will be enough. If any planning, however skilled, will be enough. What intelligence they did have was that the Wolves were coming with far more troops than they'd been expected to have. They are pressing Leaguers into the warrior caste ranks, perhaps, or those of their civilians who finally got to their lines. And now they have the Leaguer factories and some of our own to produce new 'Mechs with. "I am no expert in military affairs, Hauptmann-General, but it does seem some of these defensive positions are spread very thinly."

"Unfortunately they are,” Jasek acknowledged, “but until further reinforcements arrive, they’re the best we can do. We’ve concentrated most of our immediately available forces on the critical targets, Highness; and he who defends everything, defends nothing."

"And by reinforcements you mean the Arcadians," Melissa had yet to meet any of her new allies, from that other Inner Sphere now accessible across the break in reality now orbiting Timkovichi. She noted the glowing crowned hawk marker over Westerstede. So now they are just one jump away. They have almost made it. "You hope to employ their incoming forces for defenses."

"We do," Julian said. "But therein lies the rub. We think we need some of them elsewhere as well."

"Oh?"

Roderick nodded and manipulated a control. The holomap shifted, zooming in on the nearby Gibbs system. "The Wolves have raided Gibbs a few times these last few months. Mostly probing attacks with aerospace forces, but they've sent Trinaries to hit targets on the planet itself. The Sixteenth Lyran Regulars are still intact and held off these strikes, but they're hurt in a big way. They're particularly down on aerospace assets with just a wing and a spare squadron or two by their last report; the Navy wings and pocket warship squadrons have taken similar damage. I'm worried the Wolves might decide to cripple our fleet whether or not they get Tharkad."

Melissa nodded in understanding. Thanks to the Blakists' genocide of the people of Alarion during the Jihad and Skye's transfer to the Republic, Gibbs was the only remaining JumpShip yard in the Lyran Commonwealth. Its loss would be almost as great a blow as losing Tharkad. Trillian's reports are that the Arcadians have at least half a dozen JumpShip yards of their own, but even if we use them, the need to move ships through the Glass for even routine yard maintenance will drastically undermine our economy and our transport ability. "You want to ask High King Nathaniel to dispatch some of his relief forces to Gibbs and not Tharkad?"

"Not all, just enough to protect the yards from whatever Seth Ward or Alaric Wolf might throw at them," Jasek replied. He tapped a key himself and a list of units popped up beside the marker at Westerstede. "The Arcadians are bringing a lot of metal in that first wave. Two full-sized regimental combat teams — they call them divisions — and two brigades centered around 'Mech regiments, plus at least one, maybe two extra aerospace groups with their naval forces. And that's not counting his Lifeguards, a combined arms regiment of some of the best troops they've got. If they divert just one of those brigades, with their attendant aerospace support, Gibbs will be a lot more secure."

"Be that as it may, even one extra brigade may prove vital to the defense of Tharkad," Maurer warned. "A diversion of troops to a secondary objective while we fight for the capital is not to be taken lightly."

"We're not," Roderick said. "We've discussed it a lot. For any target other than Gibbs, I'd be all for telling the Sixteenth to dig in and do what they can. But if we lose those yards, that’s all of our remaining construction capacity and almost all of our JumpShip repair slips gone." He shot Maurer a look that suggested this was a well-worn argument. “If you know a way to wage war without reliable transport, General, I’d like to hear it.”

Maurer nodded in acceptance of the point, if not agreement. "The choice is yours, Highness. The military judgment of either choice is sound."

"And yet, dangerous in either direction," she noted. After a few moments of quiet contemplation she nodded. "Draw up the message and I shall have it verigraphed and transmitted by fax. We will ask Nathaniel to divert troops to Gibbs' defense."

"It will be done," Maurer replied.

Her eyes went back to the holotank. Wolf heads were now blinking over Tetersen. The Wolves have struck there, whether to conquer or raid is not obvious yet. But that means we don't have long before they get here. I hope I have made the right choice…

Chapter 2 - Difficult Questions


AFS Lady Noelle Hampton
Zenith Recharge Station
Westerstede, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
2 June 3143


The one unavoidable rule about interstellar travel was that it demanded patience. The limitations of materials and technology kept JumpShips from safely jumping as many times as needed. Recharge of a Kearny-Fuchida Drive Core, to be done safely, required either a fully-charged lithium-fusion battery or dozens of hours of careful charging from a ship's charge sails or the banks of fusion reactors on recharge stations. The general average was about a week per system, though some could require even longer if there were no recharge stations and the available input of a system's star was lower than the average. Those weeks could be long weeks, as they meant life in zero-G for the crews of attached DropShips, and all the challenges zero-G meant for those who lacked life-long spacers' affinity for that condition.

The only reprieve came if a DropShip crew had leave to travel to the JumpShips themselves. Virtually all JumpShips had at least one, usually two, grav decks, spinning toruses built into their main hulls that when at full speed produced the feel of gravity through centrifugal force.

The Lady Noelle was no exception. The Voidstrider-class JumpShip, a product of the Artemis Shipyards facility at Zvolen, came with a pair of two hundred meter grav-decks. One was made specifically for giving ground troops on long transfers a chance to experience gravity and keep their land legs. Among the facilities on the deck were a pair of conference rooms for staff meetings, officer seminars, and all the other sorts of gatherings that were a part of military life.

In the largest of those rooms, at the main stern-side table, High King Nathaniel Proctor-Steiner let out a sign and tried to keep his frustration and embarrassment from showing. Well over two dozen personnel were already seated and more coming every second. Like him they were in basic "duty reds" with MechWarrior insignia. While he wore no unit patch they all bore the insignia of the Third Proctor Guards. It was a mocking adaptation of the Draconis Combine's black dragon with a hawk-winged sword piercing the dragon's chest. The perfect insignia for a unit with the proud nickname of "Dragonslayers".

He'd seen it often enough. This would be the third presentation today, appropriately to be given to the Third Battalion of the unit's core BattleMech regiment. Unfortunately, the way things were going, it would prove the most frustrating.

The holotank image beside him flickered, only faintly depicting the Royal Federation's crowned hawk in full three-dimensional color and light before the entire thing dissolved into wavering light with bursts of patchy gray. Beside him, one of the JumpShip's warrant officers struggled with something in the guts of the holotank itself. "Wait, Majesty, I have it, almost… no!" That final despairing cry was joined by the image going out entirely. The young warrant, Shrestha, lifted their head. The dark-colored hair with blue and pink highlights was not particularly accepted in the AFRF but entirely in fitting with the eccentricities credited to JumpShip crews. Finding personnel willing to spend four year tours did not allow the typical pickiness that other service branches had. While their BDUs were mostly the same color as the uniforms of the ground personnel and Nathaniel, Shrestha's branch pin was the golden solar sail of JumpShip crew. "Sorry, Majesty, but it's dead. I can't figure it out, all I can do is guess it needs a new projector core. I don't know if I have any in stock. I'll have to go see."

Nathaniel kept the groan of frustration from leaving his throat, but couldn't keep the annoyance off his face. He regretted the slip at seeing the flicker of worry that appeared on Shrestha's young face. "Sorry, Warrant Officer, that's not aimed at you." He added, mentally, And please stop looking like I'm about to have you thrown out the airlock. The holotank, maybe, but not you.

"Ah. Sorry, Majesty," Shrestha said. "I'll go check on that core. We topped off supplies before leaving Timkovichi so we should have one or two."

"Thank you." Nathaniel nodded once, then again when the spacer threw a quick yet sloppy salute. Oh dear God, if I'd saluted like that as a cadet Colonel MacLeod would've slapped me. Yet he said nothing as the warrant rushed out to chuckles from the assembled.

Among the chuckling figures were the other high-ranking officers seated with Nathaniel. General Sir DeMarcus Bridger was the senior commander present even if Nathaniel outranked him as the High King. Seated beside him was the Third Proctor Guards' CO, Major General Keyshawn Bridger, and their proximity did more than their similar names to speak to their relation. The Bridger brothers, eldest and youngest of three, were natives of Gienah's Borealis continent, sharing the same ebony shade to their complexion with the younger brother having a wider face. Beyond their seats, Colonel Momi Carvalho, a native of Jardine and the regimental CO of the Third Guards' BattleMech regiment, had a bemused grin on her face much like those her Third Battalion were now showing.

A man at least ten years older than Nathaniel spoke up from the crowd. The name "Klausoff" and the silver hawk insignia of a lieutenant colonel stood out from the assembled. "Third Battalion reporting as ordered, sir."

Nathaniel had already counted. Forty-four pilots. Battalion reserve included. He stood. "Everyone, thank you for your prompt arrival. I am sure I need no introductions, but for the purposes of brevity, I ask you only refer to me as 'sir'. 'King' if you must." He gestured towards the lifeless holotank. "I've worked with General Bridger's staff to prepare a briefing but I am afraid we are experiencing technical difficulties."

"I'll say," one wit among the assembled muttered, just loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to be utterly disrespectful. Klausoff and another pilot, with a captain's hawk and three bars, glared at the offender but said nothing.

Nathaniel's lips curled into a voluntary but meaningful little smile. "Malfunctioning holotanks are, unfortunately, another part of life in the AFRF. But I imagine the lot of you are pleased to be spared a point-by-point presentation. So, let's get to it. While we've been waiting for our JumpShips to finish their charges I wanted to see all of you. In another twelve days, we will be landing on Tharkad. It is the capital of our ally and we expect it to come under invasion by time we get there. Perhaps even before. God willing, we will land first and have a chance to establish defenses. I know that some of you, indeed many of you, have not seen combat. Nor have I. That's about to change. And I want you to know I have faith that we will all live up to what our people expect of us. We're going to save Tharkad and we're going to drive the Clans back. We're going to rescue each and every one of their bondsmen and return them to their homes."

The speech was one he'd planned to give anyway, but without the holotank to provide projections he had no means to give the visual imagery he wanted to drive home his position. It turned the speech into a monologue and by the end, Nathaniel could see he'd lost most of them. He glanced uncomfortably towards the Bridger brothers, who had enough discipline to not issue the faintest snicker, while Colonel Carvalho beamed with quiet amusement.

"Oh bollocks," Nathaniel sighed. He turned to address the Third Battalion again. "Alright, that was a crap speech, this is why I should have brought my speechwriters." That brought him a titter of laughter. "I know that some of the shine from my coronation's faded. It's one thing for me to be there, decked out and fresh from the ceremony, holding the Sword of Liberation into the sun and shouting a call to arms. But here we are, a cosmos away from home, and the reality of the fight's sinking in, isn't it?"

They answered with nods.

"Right. Same here. But we're here. These people are counting us. Our people back home are counting on us. Because even if the shine's gone, what I said is still true." Nathaniel swept his head over the room, trying to meet the eyes of these people, many of them his age or younger, several older. "The Clans have to be pushed back and their victims rescued. It'll make both sides of the Glass safer and uphold everything that we stand for. And I'm ready to put my life on the line to do it." He drew in a breath and pushed back the pain welling up at the words forming on his lips. "Just like my father did on Sirius."

Some jaws set. There were quiet nods. Nathaniel wondered if any of them had lost parents or other family in the war too.

"So, without our holoprojector, I've got nothing else to present." Nathaniel settled into his seat. "We've got time, and I'd like to hear your thoughts. I'm the Commander of the whole bloody AFRF and I want, I need, to know what you're thinking about this. Feel free to introduce yourselves too, we nobles have a talent for remembering names. Allegedly." He gave them another slight grin that prompted a fresh series of chuckles and amused grins. "Anyone?"

A young woman of Afro-Asian ancestry raised a hand. "Second Lieutenant Keiko Gregson, Bravo Company. I've got no questions, I just want to say I'm eager to get into this fight. You're right about the Clans and right about what they represent."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Gregson. Anyone else?"

"Captain Malcolm Havelock, Bravo Company CO." A tan-skinned man speaking with an old English accent from Ford stood. "I admit I was hoping to take us up against the Dracs again. I'm new to the unit but some of my people aren't and I wanted to see them get satisfaction. The way I see it, this is the best we're going to manage for now. I want you to rest assured we're ready for the fight."

"I've no doubt, Captain," Nathaniel replied. Good to see them opening up.

A light-skinned man's hand went up. He had the bars of a First Lieutenant and his nametag read "Wolfe". But where Gregson appeared eager and Havelock determined, his expression was somber and even frustrated. "Lieutenant Frederick Wolfe, Charlie Company. I've got a question, sir. Back at the coronation, and now, you're talking about how this is our fight, that it's a fight for humanity and all. But you weren't up for doing that back home." A number of eyes drifted towards Wolfe. Nathaniel said nothing, even if he could guess to the content of Wolfe's complaint. "Back on our side, the Dracs have been slaughtering innocent people on New Wessex, Vega, Cebalrai. They sacked Freedom and they've been raiding up and down the border ever since we pinched Musashi Honda in '34. If we're supposed to be fighting for humanity and putting down war criminals, why aren't we out to take Butcher Ballymont's head?"

With every word, Nathaniel felt a tinge of shame. Wolfe's quiet fury was evident and some of the other pilots were nodding and muttering agreement. He left Wolfe's question to hang in the air for several seconds, struggling with it. Before the Glass I was against military buildup. I wanted peace. Even as the reports from "Vega Prefecture" kept coming in of the latest atrocities by the Combine. Why didn't I act? Why didn't I think I could act? Was it fear of those who'd divert us to fighting the Empire? Or moral cowardice?

"Lieutenant, that's enough," Colonel Carvalho barked. Her stern voice broke Nathaniel from his train of thought.

Nathaniel shook his head. "No. He's alright." He drew in a breath and focused on Lieutenant Wolfe. "I've wrestled with what to do about Ballymont since coming to the throne, Lieutenant. There are times I thought about it, thought about sending the Household Guards in force to take back Vega and bring Ballymont to justice."

"You didn't, though," Wolfe said. "Now we're here instead. Why do these Lyrans' lives count for more? Why should the crimes they suffered be avenged before we punish the Dracs for what they did to Freedom?"

"They don't, Lieutenant. But the circumstances are different." Nathaniel sighed. "Every time I thought about it and every time I held back, it was due to one unavoidable truth. The Peace of Dieron cannot survive a new all-out war between Successor States. If we assaulted the Dracs that hard, enough to take the world back, they would retaliate, and the conflict would spiral. It'd be like the invasion of Andurien in '10. We'd have a Fifth Succession War on our hands, and all the evils that entails."

Wolfe shook his head, but said nothing. Nathaniel could see the point was accepted in the man's mind, but not his heart.

"We can't stop every evil, but that doesn't mean we can't stop any," Nathaniel continued. "We can stop this one. We can save the Lyran Commonwealth and free all these worlds from the Clans. And that's the truth of it." He smacked his hand on the table for emphasis.

The holotank flashed back to life. All eyes turned towards it.

Despite the tension in the room, Nathaniel couldn't stop himself from chuckling. "They have minds of their own, I swear," he muttered. Even Wolfe chuckled and a number of his compatriots laughed. Nathaniel picked up the holoprojector control and tapped a key on it, changing the image to one depicting the image of a Savage Wolf BattleMech. "Well, I suppose we shall have the briefing after all. Going by our intelligence this is one of many machines these Clans use. As you have heard they employ Royal-scale technology of a wide variety…"




The last of the day's presentations were finally over, in defiance of the holoprojector's repeated unreliability. The last of the Fourth Battalion's pilots filtered out, leaving Nathaniel the Bridgers and Col. Carvalho. "It seems to have gone well," Nathaniel said.

"I'm sure his Company CO will be having a word with Lieutenant Wolfe," Carvalho said apologetically. "I'll make sure if she doesn't."

"No. I'd rather you didn't."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, my unit, my rules, and Wolfe was being impertinent." The Jardine woman's words had an edge to them, though she maintained a proper tone. "Though I'll admit the thought has crossed my mind from time to time."

Nathaniel noted the way the elder Bridger brother glanced at the younger, whose jaw clenched. "You were there, then."

Carvalho nodded. "I commanded Second Battalion during the retreat from Harlow's Wood. The Ninth Galedon flanked us after the Second Sword of Light engaged us along the front. If not for Third Battalion they'd have rolled half the division up. We lost a lot of good pilots that day, and given what the Dracs did to the prisoners they took." She clenched her fists. "Majesty, I understand why we're here. But God help me, this is the third May in a row where all I can think about is killing Butcher Ballymont and liberating New Wessex and Vega. I know what happened isn't your fault but you kept talking peace with the likes of the Dracs, and now that you're all for a noble cause, it's for an entirely different enemy. I can understand this is a fight we can't avoid, and I'm in it to win, but impertinence aside Wolfe was just saying what I and a lot of my people feel. Given what the Dracs did to Freedom, given what they're doing in the Outworlds, what damn good is the Peace of Dieron?"

It was a sentiment Nathaniel had heard his whole life. The bitter words of his angry grandmother, the frustration of generals and admirals across the AFRF, once more in his ears. "The Peace of Dieron is what keeps more Freedoms and New Wessexes from happening, as imperfect as it is," he answered. "Though maybe that will change when this is over." He glanced towards the Bridger brothers. "General. I've seen the notes you've sent to Command Staff. I understand you're in full agreement with Colonen Carvalho. And I understand why. What the Dracs did, what they're still doing, I want to stop. I just need time to find a way without breaking the Inner Sphere."

"Understood, Majesty," the younger Bridger rumbled.

Nathaniel's link sounded a slight trilling noise. An incoming message was being relayed through the Lady Noelle's internal comm systems. He picked it up. "Yes?"

"Majesty, a JumpShip just arrived from Tharkad. They had a broadcast verigraphed message from Archon Melissa Steiner intended for you."

Nathaniel felt a spike of worry. Have we taken too long? Have the Wolves arrived at Tharkad already? "I'm on my way back," he said.




The High King's words continued to echo through Wolfe's mind after he departed the meeting. A plan to head to the rec room and enjoy some time in gravity remained still-born. He wandered the central walkway of the grav-deck instead. The bitter feelings swirled about, mingling with Nathaniel's words, making them sour in his heart.

"Fred!"

Here we go. Wolfe turned to face the oncoming fiery ginger wrath of his CO. Captain Siobhan McGruder, all hundred and seventy centimeters of fire straight from McAffe, stomped up to him with a frustrated expression on her freckle-spocked face. Military decorum demanded he stand to attention and the training kicked in, drawing his spine up. "Captain," he said formally.

"Ye know why I'm here," she said. "And if I don't do it now, I'll be doing it later when Colonel Klausoff and Colonel Carvalho order me to, so let's get it over with. Just what the hell was that back there?"

Playing dumb would have required more mirth and more patience than Wolfe felt. "He asked us for questions."

"Ye mouthed off at the bloody High King of the Federation, Fred! I wouldn't take that sort of disrespect from ye, and ye just gave it to our ruler. To the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces of the Royal Federation! If ye'd done it to General Bridger ye'd be on your way to the brig now!"

"He wanted honest questions, and I gave one," Wolfe insisted. "And I wasn't being disrespectful."

"Ye were being damned cheeky because ye got an opening." She crossed her arms. "And this isn't the first time ye've gotten moody like this. Now I get it's the anniversary and all and I know ye'd rather be shooting Dracs, but this unit's not going to function if ye're hung up on this. This is where the fight is, this is where we've been ordered to go, and ye've got three pilots who are about to risk their lives, and they don't need ye questioning it!"

"When the fight starts I'll have their back, don't you worry, Captain." Just like Lance Lieutenant Miller had mine. "I'll have a word with 'em, make sure they know my concerns don't change what our duty is. But I'm not apologizing for putting His Majesty on the spot for fighting the wrong enemy."

McGruder rolled her eyes. "So we're supposed to start the next Succession War so ye can have yer revenge, is that it?"

The words shot from his lips before any rational thought could hold them back. "This isn't about revenge!" Wolfe shook his head while images flashed through his head. Burning towns, slaughtered families, and the ruined war machines of brave soldiers who stood against a superior foe and died upholding their oaths. "You weren't on Freedom. You didn't see what they did on Accrington either. Or Phalan. Shionoha. Ever since I've gotten out of Raquel Memorial and got assigned to the Third, I've seen all that. Then when we had the bastards dead to rights we get sent into a trap and we lose good people." The bitterness swelled up on his tongue. Involuntary tears formed as his mind flashed back to Harlow's Wood and being twelve against thirty. "We had to give up the war criminals we took on Freedom to get our dead and prisoners back, and what the Dracs did to them… not a one of them is with the Third any more. That's how you got the billet, Captain, because the last woman to lead Charlie Company lost her life trying to save the last of us. This whole unit had to be rebuilt because the Dracs murdered and tortured a bunch of us and the Army needed fresh bodies to replace their victims. Revenge? I want justice. And I want it to end. I want to hit the Dracs so hard they never dare cross the border again. And that's not going to ****** happen while we're out here fighting these neo-barbs in animal costumes!" At that point the words stopped.

McGruder's expression softened. "Feel better, Fred?"

"No," he said. "But I'm glad I got it out anyway."

"Good. Now I'm going to let Colonels Klausoff and Carvalho know I left teeth marks all over yer arse, so back me up on that. I want ye to go spend some time with your lancemates, Fred. Two weeks from now we'll be freezing on Tharkad with these Wolves bearing down on us. Get 'em ready for that, will ye?"

Wolfe nodded. "Yes, Captain. I will."

"Good. As you were." McGruder continued on.

Wolfe watched her disappeared down the curve of the grav deck before drawing in a sigh. Yeah, gotta be the good Lance Loo. Just like you were, Miller. He went off to find his MechWarriors and follow his orders.




The shuttle ride back gave Nathaniel time to consider the message from Melissa. By the time he and DeMarcus Bridger emerged into the small craft bay of the Sara Proctor, he'd had a chance to form some ideas on how to approach it.

For comfort's sake, he assembled his war council in a wardroom on the Sara Proctor herself. The grav-decks here were little different save the thicker armoring on their exteriors and some of the facilities found within. Captain Samantha Winters and Rear Admiral Hamid Abdul-Jabbar, the CO of the cruiser and the commander of the naval squadron, were waiting in their black and gold naval jumpsuits. Colonel Laughlin, commander of the Lifeguards Regiment, had duty reds instead of battle reds. The final figure was the impromptu commander of the expedition by dint of his entire Corps being assigned to it. General Matthew Proctor-Steiner-Davion's red hair was over halfway gray now, but it was a distinctive difference that marked his Davion heritage just as his Steiner blue eyes and round Proctor face marked the other sides of the family. Like Bridger he was a freshly-minded four-star general, elevated to command of the Household Guards Corps (over Lord Arnold's heated objections), and held seniority over Bridger. The two were amicable fellow veterans of the worst conflict in the past eighty years and had, to Nathaniel's thanks, already decided on a division of their responsibilities between Matthew commanding the Household Guards and Bridger being the official OpGroup Vice-Commander beside Nathaniel as effective leader of the expedition. Rare exceptions aside, twenty-seven year old men do not lead armies well, and I am no Napoleon or Kerensky.

Each of them had a chance to go over the request from Tharkad. Matthew shook his head. "Dividing our forces isn't the smart thing. It risks defeat in detail."

"It does, but not having a yard to repair battle damage would risk defeat too," Abdul-Jabbar replied. "The importance of the yards at Gibbs cannot be overlooked."

"Still don't like it." Matthew tapped at his control, allowing him to manipulate a portion of the holotank. A list of unit designations came up. Given their names and that they were identified as "Clusters", Nathaniel took them to be Wolf forces. "If this force hits Tharkad we need everything to hold. Everything."

"We're just as well-equipped as they are," Laughlin said.

"That's not enough, Colonel." Bridger gave his head a quick back-and-forth shake. "I've seen the Clans in action. They're great pilots, even their rookies, and they've got an edge in experience too. We've not had a fight like this since Vega, hell, since Procyon and Sirius in '23. Our guys need every edge we can manage."

Nathaniel nodded. I am untried myself. He felt an icy grip on his gut that he banished with a moment of concentration. But it is what must be done. "I imagine the Archon's advisors have had similar arguments. That they make this suggestion with the battle for Tharkad itself looming is, I think, a statement in of itself."

"Statement of how desperate things are," Matthew observed. "Alright. I'd wanted them for the defensive fight, but if we've got to send a unit, I say let's make it the Second BMR." The older man smiled. Nathaniel translated the abbreviation in his head. Second Royal BattleMech Regiment. Matthew spoke up again. "They may not have as much of the best kit, but the Iron Wall Brigade have always trained for holding their ground. I've seen their war game figures of late, they've even given the Second Royal Guards some tough fights on defense."

"Do you concur, General Bridger?"

Bridger nodded at Nathaniel's question. "I do, Majesty. With the Sixteenth Lyran Regulars you've got a potent force that should throw back the Wolf raids launched so far. I doubt the Wolves will divert more if they're intent on taking Tharkad."

"Agreed." Nathaniel turned to al-Jabbar and Winters. "I want the Sara Proctor at Tharkad, just in case the Wolves bring heavy naval arms. What can we spare?"

"The Cuchulainn," al-Jabbar suggested. "They've got their usual short flotilla for anti-fighter work and the Second's aerospace wing should be enough reinforcement against raiding groups."

"Alright. I'll leave the orders to you." I am fortunate to have skilled commanders such as these advising me, he thought. "The rest of us make for Tharkad."

"Five days until we can make the jump," Winters said. "Local recharge station and our engineers can't do better."

"I trust in their skill," Nathaniel assured her. "It's more important that we get there at all, even if it is to drive the enemy from the Triad." Though I pray we will be there well beforehand….

Chapter 3 - The Way of the Clans


Beta Galaxy Command Ship CWS Blood Fang
Nadir Recharge Station
Tetersen, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
Transglass Inner Sphere
5 June 3143


The view from the exterior cameras of the Blood Fang played over the screen in Alaric Ward's office. It showed him an Olympus-class recharge station just close enough to the Tetersen star to bask in a faint moonglow light. Massive gossamer-winged solar collectors drew in the power emanated from the distant star that remained invisible to his eyes. The camera did not show the cables running from the station to the JumpShip Amberlight, one of a number of captured Lyran and Marik JumpShips commandeered by the Wolf Empire for use by its expanded touman. The Watch from his own command were on the JumpShip, observing its bonded crew and the status of the charge to ensure that the Wolf Clan's newest batch of technician and laborer-caste members did not try any sabotage. The Lyran Commonwealth dies around us, but some may have the embers of loyalty to its flickering flames.

Assuming that the news of their allies from another reality has not fanned such flames with hope, that is.

His eyes drifted back to the main holotank. It displayed him and those at his side for the benefit of the other attendees of the impromptu War Council. Just as he saw Khan Seth Ward, Loremaster Liam Ward, and the commanders of the other Galaxies beside his Beta and Khan Ward's Alpha, they saw him. They also saw his adjutant Star Captain Verena and, more importantly, his bondswoman, the notorious Anastasia Kerensky. A reminder of my accomplishments and that why I, without a Bloodname, sit among them.

"Star Commodore Fariq confirmed a multitude of contacts at Westerstede's zenith point," Liam Ward said, drawing Alaric's focus back to a meeting that was sorely trying his patience. At least they discuss a real issue, not the best way to divide spoils they have not even glimpsed yet. "Their jump in was recorded from long range before the Pack Star jumped back to us. Though a direct count of their ships was not possible from the range, analysis of long range magscan and thermal scan confirm a significant number of DropShips attached to their ships. Few separations were noted."

"Could it be a full Aimag of the Foxes?" asked Galaxy Commander Elise Ward of Gamma Galaxy. Alaric snorted at the slight hope in her voice.

"Star Commodore Fariq did not detect the usual transmissions from a Fox fleet." Liam snorted as well, if for an entirely different reason. Mocking the degraded merchant Clan is such a wasted effort, as if any of you would dare say such things to a Merchant Factor's face. "No, our analysts are in full agreement. These must be the allies the Lyrans have so desperately sought from the other side of the anomaly at Timkovichi."

"So we will get to face the vanquishers of Malvina Hazen in battle," Alaric mused aloud. "I wonder if the warrior who landed the final blow on her 'Mech is amongst them."

"Better, for the Lyrans themselves have boasted that the Arcadians' ruler leads their army to Tharkad," Liam replied. For all their mutual disgust and hatred, Alaric had to admit the man pulled off a proper wolf's grin when he set his mind to it. "We will have the chance to slay a Successor Lord of another Inner Sphere, or claim him as a bondsman."

Thoughts of the broken 'Mech of Thaddeus Marik played through Alaric's mind. That will be my victory, Loremaster Ward, not anyone else's. "Two Successor Lords in a single battle, all to topple a Great House and claim their capital as isorla. It will be a victory the Remembrance will need whole pages to praise."

"Aff, Galaxy Commander, the Remembrance will speak well of the warriors who win the battle ahead," Seth agreed. After all, the Khan would get his name listed first.

Movement came from another portion of the holotank. Alaric recognized Galaxy Commander Tyler Cooper of Zeta Galaxy. Aggressive, useful. But likely too eager, he judged. "Perhaps we should consider a new strategy with this information. We can ambush the Arcadians at Westerstede with our fleet and take their entire army as isorla!"

A glint showed in Seth Ward's eye. "An intriguing proposition. We have the Dire Wolf and our two remaining frigates."

A daring strike, yes… if not for our most critical weakness. "A bold and dangerous plan," Alaric said. "The Sea Foxes warned us the Spheroids of the other side possess significant naval power. What sort of forces did they send to escort their troops? The behemoth WarShip that led the annihilation of the Red Talon would be a match for all our WarShips and our squadrons of Isegrims put together."

Cooper recoiled from the screen slightly. He hadn't considered that at all, Alaric realized. When he spoke it was with renewed conviction. "If we kept a full charge in our L-F batteries we could ambush and return if they prove too strong. But we have a chance to crush what little hope the Lyrans have regained since the Glass formed! Our victory would be assured!"

"And if our fleet is ravaged by their fleet, our defeat is assured." Epsilon Galaxy's CO, Galaxy Commander Niels Carns, frowned at the prospect. "Our work at Chukchi is only just begun. Significant damage would mean we have to divert our ships to the distant Fox-run yards and pay their rates. It would remove our aerospace cover from the campaign."

Carns was no friend of Alaric, but he'd taken the bait Alaric laid quite well. Ward nodded in agreement, as did Galaxy Commander Yvonne Vickers of Kappa, a new Galaxy of recruited and freshly-raised Clusters to give them needed manpower. Seeing his Khan was weighing the two options, Alaric made his next move. "There is an alternative to risking a battle with naval forces, my Khan. Let us strike at Gibbs as well."

Khan Ward's appraising look was laced with thinly-veiled suspicion. "What would be the point of dividing our forces further?"

"A minor diversion, we send the rest of Epsilon Galaxy," Alaric replied. "We have already dispatched half of their Clusters to claim Tetersen for the Wolf Clan. The remaining Clusters are not a significant force but include three aerospace Trinaries and a DropShip Binary, do they not? Send them to raid the shipyards and harass the Lyran Regulars on-world once more. Given the importance of Gibbs, I would imagine the Lyrans have a JumpShip ready to ferry warning to Tharkad at all times. Make them believe we come in sufficient force to threaten their yards, it will provoke them into begging for Arcadian aid. Assuming they have not already."

Carns snarled. "You would deny my warriors their rightful place in the conquest of Tharkad!"

"They would share in the glory by contributing to our victory," Seth Ward countered. A good sign. He is agreeing with the idea, Alaric thought. "Galaxy Commander, you will lead your remaining warriors to Gibbs. Feint towards the yards and strike them if you have the opening, then return to your DropShips and join us at Tharkad. If the battle still rages, you may yet play a decisive role there as well."

Carns glanced as the others, as if pleading for them to step in and call this a terrible idea, but none did. The Way of the Clans proclaims the entire Clan shares the glory of every warrior's victory. It is a very useful aphorism, even if rarely so true. Alaric remained silent and uncaring. Carns finally relented. "Aff, my Khan. I will level a batchall suitable to panic the Lyrans and await the reaction."

"This is a dangerous choice, my Khan," Ward warned. "Losing two Clusters of troops, even aerospace ones, may see our enemies too numerous."

"There is no enemy too numerous for Beta Galaxy," Alaric boasted. "Our clusters can break whole Spheroid regiments. Surely Gamma's warriors can match us?"

That won him a hateful glare. The glare itself was admission the insult had struck home. "Do not let your need for a Bloodname drive you to foolish ends, Galaxy Commander Alaric," she said with acid figuratively dripping from every word. "The Inner Sphere's warriors may be inferior, but they are great in number, and now they have a strong reserve of support from the other side of the Anomaly. We will be a fine blade ground to nothing if we are not mindful of this fact."

"And we will be a knife unused in the scabbard if we do not strike boldly," he countered.

"Enough!" Seth's voice bellowed over the line. "The decision is made. Epsilon will jump early for Gibbs using ships with charged L-F batteries. The rest of us will continue to Tharkad when recharging is complete. Maintain your readiness, my Wolves. We shall claim the Lyran den for our own, and stick Melissa Steiner's dezgra corpse on a pole outside the Triad."

And then, Terra, Alaric added in his thoughts.

"Seyla!" Seth said as a finishing touch, and the others echoed, including Alaric himself. He ignored Liam Ward's ritual closing of the war council and glanced towards the others. "Thoughts?"

"Well played, Alaric," Verena said. "You continue to prove yourself superior."

"You maneuvered Carns pretty well there," Anastasia agreed. Her finger fiddled with the bondcord on her wrist, as if she longed to pull it off. Maybe soon, you will, once I am sure of you. "Though you may have made him a foe."

"He already was one, Anastasia." The age-worn voice came from the corner of the office, where the unseen observer of the meeting had sat out of view of the Khan and Alaric's peers. Katherine Steiner-Davion's age had long robbed her of the youthful beauty that entranced the Lyran people and made them love her. It had not stripped her capacity for ruthlessness and her raw unfiltered ambition, traits that eventually turned those same Lyrans against her.

And yet the same was what drew my genefather Vlad's infatuation with her. He was a warrior enough for the both of them. Yet I could never care for a woman like her. He glanced towards Verena. The stirrings of his desire for her were provoked as much by her ferocity on the battlefield as her physical attractiveness. She was, temperamentally, the exact opposite of Katherine.

Oblivious, or at least uncaring, about Alaric's thoughts, Katherine pressed on. "The important part was preventing Cooper's foolish notion. It was too great a risk. You did well to deflect it without losing his support, Alaric. And Melissa or whomever is ruling the Commonwealth can't afford to lose Gibbs, so they'll panic and beg the Arcadians to divert."

"They will, but I do not anticipate them to divert fully," replied Alaric. "The Lyrans may panic, but the Arcadians lack their desperation. They will be sending the majority of their forces to Tharkad. It will be a fight worthy of our conquest." He smiled. "And I will make sure I am the one to kill their High King."



Clan Jade Falcon Provisional Council Building
New Hamarr, Sudeten
Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
Transglass Inner Sphere


Khan Isaac Roshak was a simple man for his station. His place of work reflected this. The office of the Khan of the Jade Falcon Clan was more austere than it had been in decades. Aside from the Clan's flag and monitors nothing was visible on the walls around the office. The table was a fine hand-carved wooden work of art, and the only reason it remained was that the labor to move it would be more wasteful than the desk itself. Simple chairs were placed on both sides, with none of the couches that had once marred the room.

His eyes were fixed outside the window. The light in his office was just the right angle to create a reflection across the glass, showing Isaac in his black Mongol jumpsuit with the Khan insignia proudly affixed, sharp eyes of jade and the faint mocha skin tone common among his Bloodhouse. Yet his eyes were on the scene past his faint visage, to the proceedings in the courtyard below.

Under the Sudeten sun, rows of a final term sibko stood at attention along the center of the Government Building's courtyard. Armed Watch soldiers in Mongol black stood among them, rifles at standby, while another group pushed and prodded a half-dozen old Falconers into position. Isaac sneered at seeing the doddering old fossils, warriors who had been decanted during and after the Jihad when the Clan was desperately replacing its many losses. For all he knew, the eldest might have even been among the last sibkos to see Ironhold or Strana Mechty, they might have even fought on Terra against the Blakists. To survive that and yet fail to win a Bloodname, not even able to die as solahma. Pathetic.

The Falconers were forced to their knees with punches and shoves. Once they were down, a Watchman brought up a laser pistol and started firing. Six shots, all through the back of the head, within ten seconds. With the executions over, one of the Watch turned and began haranguing the sibkos.

Isaac couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to. He'd provided the broad points personally. The sibkos would be instructed in how their Falconers had failed them by teaching them outdated old ways that should have been left behind with REVIVAL. The teachings of the Chinghis Khan were to be their guide as warriors. The Jade Falcon Clan was supreme. The penalty for resistance was death, not just death, but complete and utter extermination. They would all learn the fate of worlds like Apostica, and how through such uncompromising tactics, the Spheroids would finally be broken, and the Clan's destiny achieved.

The sound of his door opening prompted Isaac to turn. The entrants wore the same Mongol black with green highlights, and their insignia marked them as Galaxy Commanders. Wanda Helmer and Uther Mattlov were still fresh to command of the Vau and Delta Galaxies, just out of their Trials of Position. They gave him their respect if not their admiration. He suspected both intended to challenge him for the Khanship at some point, and they would be welcome to try. "I will not keep you for long," he said. "Delta Galaxy is ready, quiaff?"

"Aff, my Khan," Helmer replied in her clipped formal tone. She did not like Isaac, but she respected his superiority as a warrior. It was why he trusted her with Delta Galaxy, now his strongest Galaxy with the purges of the "Second Rending" afflicting Alpha and Gamma Galaxies' leadership. "I will be bringing two Clusters formerly of Iota Galaxy with me, their warriors are in need of blooding and learning the Mongol ways."

"See to it. And you, Mattlov?"

"Peregrine's re-organization continues." Mattlov spoke with more disgust in his voice than Helmer had. He still blamed Isaac for Timkovichi, undoubtedly, and more to the point, blamed him for why his voice sounded hollow. The medical technicians could only do so much in repairing his vocal cords, Isaac thought with satisfaction. It was his bullet that had robbed Mattlov's high-pitched voice of its strength. He should feel thankful the angle of the shot only took his larynx instead of splitting his carotid as I'd hoped. "The Second Rending has weakened some of our Clusters. Those who followed the coward Hazen were plentiful."

Isaac narrowed his eyes. Star Colonel Lisa Hazen, formerly of Delta Galaxy's Fifty-Third Falcon Talon Cluster, had been one of the leading Traditionalists under Stephanie Chistu. She'd been on the liquidation lists Isaac drew up with the Watch, but she and many of her warriors had slipped free in the immediate chaos of the Mongol coup, ultimately escaping on DropShips during Isaac's consolidation of the fleet. She either made for Skye to join that doddering old fool, Noritomo Helmer, or has gone to ground among the Clan's conquests. Either way, she and the desant will have to be dealt with eventually. But first I must finish the final stroke of consolidating my power.

"Finish your work soon. It is almost time for our strike."

"Have you decided on the scope of our attack, my Khan?" Helmer asked. "Will we repudiate Chistu's wretched truce and lay waste to the Kell Hounds' lair?"

"Would that we had the strength to, but no, Chistu's truce remains useful," he replied. "We need time to graduate more sibkos and rebuild our forces, and to secure the loyalty of the desant for when the Fortress falls and Terra can be won. It is my intention that we will finish our quarrel with the Arcadians once we are ilClan." Isaac walked over and activated the most expensive piece in the office, the main holotank. An image of Arc-Royal's surface hovered in mid-air, marking Old Connaught and Wolf City. "We will honor our truce by staying only in the territory assigned the dezgra Wolves. We will land with three objectives. Galaxy Commander Helmer, Delta Galaxy will be focused on crushing the Wolves' Alpha Galaxy protecting Wolf City. Galaxy Commander Mattlov, I am making Peregrine responsible for the isorla. Your warriors will support the Watch and infantry cluster I deploy to seize technician, scientist, and skilled laborers from the Wolf factories, as well as every industrial machine and tool that can be taken. Have them ready to strike hard, hold, and ensure the extraction, for our Clan's greatness may depend upon it. I will bring the rebuilt Golden Ordun with Alpha Galaxy to act as your reserve and engage in our final task." Roshak grinned with anticipation. "I will ensure the extermination of the traitor Wolves through the destruction of their sibkos and genetic repositories. There will be no more generations for this pack of Lyran hounds. Any who survive will become Spheroids in fact as well as name."

"This is wasteful," Mattlov protested. "The Horses and Bears bite at our wings, we should strike them with these units."

"I will personally deal with the Horse Khans," Roshak said. "But the Wolves come first."




After the meeting Isaac waited patiently for his next appointment. She arrived in an emerald and black suit, well-crafted, as if she were of any importance compared to even a fresh warrior from the sibko with a single kill in their inaugural Trial of Position. Her dark hair and skin nearly matched the secondary color of her suit. She was older than Roshak, as senior merchants tended to be, though not much older. The one insignia she bore marked her the Merchant Factor, the senior-most merchant in the entire Jade Falcon Clan.

Isaac found her posture an insult. He expected her to behave like a subordinate warrior. That Wenceslas Bulhallin and Beckett Malthus had not expected it spoke much to the enfeebling nature of the old Clan ways. "Merchant Factor Marena," he said. "You have troubled my subordinates considerably these past ten weeks."

"Given your elevation, my Khan, I was simply seeking an audience to go over our Clan's economic position," she replied. It was a diplomatic one, but Isaac didn't feel mollified by it. She was being courteous because the Clan ways demanded it, not out of loyalty to the warrior caste.

"Our economic position." Isaac held out a noteputer for her to take. "This is what my warriors require. That is our position."

Marena took the noteputer. Her ice blue eyes scanned the listing on the screen. Isaac watched with amusement as some of the color left her face. "My Khan, these figures are… difficult," she said. "Even before Gray Monday they would be, and with damages from the Rending, attaining these production goals may not be possible for several years."

Impressive. She did not cease once. The records claim she was Trueborn, so she must have learned something from her time before testing down to merchant. Though she is clearly too weak to be a warrior. Isaac's voice lowered to a growl. "Merchant Factor, I am Khan, and I speak with the authority of my caste. We require those weapons in the time specified. It is your duty to provide them, or you and your caste have failed the Clan."

"But we do not have the production facilities or manpower," Marena protested.

"We have conquered many new star systems these past few years. With worlds like Arcturus under our control you expect me to believe our needs cannot be met?"

"Many of our conquests have not been acclimated fully yet," she replied. "Caste testing, material re-allocation, it all takes time."

"Then do not test. All of the untested are hereby laborers. Send them to work. Let those with greater talents prove it through their efforts."

"You are talking about taking many millions of Spheroids and turning them into base laborers, including some who have never done laborer caste tasks. The economic damage to the worlds will leave them worse than useless, my Khan!"

"I do not care. I want the weapons. Deliver them, or admit your inability and I will find a Merchant Factor who will. Additionally, about these VaultShips you have sent about the corners of Clan space. Recall them. I am requisitioning them for warrior caste service."

"My Khan, those ships are what has kept our economy functioning without the HPG network," Marena replied. "They trade for the weapons and materials you are requesting I expand our supply of. Without them our connection to the rest of the Clans' economy will break apart and our ability to maintain the value of the kerensky will falter."

"I do not care, Merchant Factor. The economy of the Clan exists for one purpose, and that is to provide us with weapons. The other castes can make do."

For a moment Marena seemed struck dumb. Then he saw it. The fire in her icy eyes. The rage. The contempt. It only appeared for a moment before control asserted, but it was too late. He'd seen it, and he knew without a doubt the lack of respect this merchant had for him.

"If you drive the lower castes to starvation they may—"

"I do not care, Factor Marena!" Isaac shouted the words and slammed a fist on his desk. "You and the other caste exist to support us. If a laborer starves so that a warrior is fed, so be it. One laborer, or a hundred, or a thousand, it does not matter! That is the true Way of the Clans as it has always been! The warrior commands, you obey. The warrior needs, you give. Your existence is for nothing but our needs!"

"My Khan, I will obey, but it is my duty to the Clan to warn—"

Isaac's hand went to his holster. Two seconds later his sidearm was pointed directly at Marena's forehead. "If I hear any other words than 'Yes, my Khan' come from your mouth, merchant, I will shoot you. Am I clear?"

She pursed her lips. Her eyes hardened. The fear showed, as he'd expected and hoped for. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "Yes, my Khan."

He kept the pistol level and spoke his words slowly and methodically. "The VaultShips will be recalled to Sudeten for military purposes."

After a moment she nodded. "Yes, my Khan."

"You will implement my decrees on production immediately. If a factory producing a civilian good must be taken over and converted for military goods, it will be done. If transportation must be diverted, divert it. If a merchant or scientist administrator protests, they will be turned over to the Watch for malingering. Understood?"

"Yes, my Khan." The words were ice.

"All caste assignment testing is suspended. All remaining unassigned civilians from our conquests are laborers and will be assigned the appropriate stipend for basic grade laborers. Let them prove themselves if they wish a better assignment. Implement this immediately."

Seconds of silence caused Isaac's finger to tense over the trigger. Finally, he was rewarded with another "Yes, my Khan."

"Good. Now leave before I shoot you anyway." At that command Marena turned to go. As she reached the door, Isaac called out. "When we see each other again, Factor, the same will apply. Any words, any communication, will be the words 'Yes, my Khan', or I will have you executed."

The disgust showed again, briefly, and her words came out slowly and methodically. "Yes, my Khan." She stepped through the door.

The Watch will have to keep an eye on her. Isaac considered killing her, perhaps even a general reaving of the merchants, and decided he would do so when his power was settled. For now, he would see how well she obeyed his orders. He had other concerns to deal with if he was to uphold the Chinghis Khan's vision for the Clan.




Palace of Justice, Laughlin Capital District
Roslyn, Eastern Islay
Arcadia, Arcadia Royal March
Royal Federation
Cisglass Inner Sphere


"All rise for the Justices of His Majesty's Special Tribunal!"

With those words Doctor Jonathan Albright, Lieutenant Commander in the Royal Federation Navy and licensed psychiatric counselor, stood. Habit and instinct drew him to full military attention in the process, marking him and a few other attendees out from among the others. From his place in the gallery he could see all the other standing figures as the five forms in black judiciary robes with red and blue stoles filed out into the courtroom. They took their place at the bench before the Royal Seal of the Special Tribunal, depicting a crowned hawk perched on top of the balanced scales of Justice.

Through the entire display, only one figure could not stand, and that was the figure strapped into a special chair placed in the dock for her lack of legs or arms. For a woman on trial for her life, Malvina Hazen of the Jade Falcons looked utterly unconcerned with the proceedings, as she had for every other session so far. I doubt she will change. Even if it would be for her benefit.

"Be seated," the clerk called out once the tribunal judges were in their own seats. Everyone took to their seats save the court bailiffs, who stood at the walls and monitored the entry through the bar separating the well from the gallery. Two armed AFRF soldiers sat to either side of Malvina, as if at any moment she might attack. Albright thought it ludicrous but the security protocols were not being waived. The same had denied the provision of prosthetic limbs that might have eased his patient's agonizing crippling. The only thing the AFRF had allowed Malvina, and that at the order of the Tribunal itself, was having a tailor made Jade Falcon uniform using the specifications provided by the Lyrans' data on the Clans. Malvina wore it grudgingly since she was not allowed the all-black "Mongol" variant nor any marking Mongol symbols, only what the Jade Falcon Clan's own uniform codes specified. A gold square with a green star and a vertical green bar on the right side was the rank insignia provided.

The judge in the central chair was an Arabic man with a well-groomed gray beard and mustache, wearing a patterned white and red keffiyeh on his head that wrapped down to his shoulders. Albright took a moment to remember his name, Sir Zayid al-Mansouri. Al-Mansouri pounded the gavel. "His Majesty's Special Tribunal is in session. Today it is our wish to settle this affair of the competency question. Are the Crown and the Defense prepared to proceed?"

Two men stood, one among the attorneys at each table. Sir Jacob Cohen of Gienah and Sir Stanley MacMurray of McAffe represented the prosecution and the defense respectively, though each had a team of attorneys and paralegals advising them. Cohen was a man of modest built, not too thin but not even approaching stocky, with wiry dark hair turning gray at the fringes and a kippah over the top of his head. MacMurray had a thick mustache and beard of dark red hair along with the combed hair on his head. Cohen stood first. "The Crown is ready to proceed."

Next came MacMurray. "As is the Defense." Albright noted the way the attorney glanced towards the dock. "I would ask the Tribunal to record my continued personal objection to these proceedings. Khan Hazen continues to show an inability to conceive of the purpose of these proceedings and cannot act in her own legal defense. Doctor Albright of the Royal Navy has made his notes available to this Tribunal and stands by to testify as to the fact." As Cohen stood MacMurray cast his glance towards him. "Before the Crown protests the use of Doctor Albright's testimony again, I will specify that I am following my client's explicit instructions under strenuous protests. She insists on standing trial. I am ethically obligated as counselor to say the following. The Defense withdraws all motions to rule Khan Hazen incapable or incompetent of standing trial. We are ready to proceed."

One of the other jurists, a man of tan complexion, leaned forward and spoke with a German accent. "Counselor, is Khan Hazen aware of the scope of this trial? She may be hung if this tribunal rules it."

"I have impressed it upon her repeatedly, Justice Hoffner," MacMurray said. He all but sighed the words. "She is adamant that she wishes to face trial."

The jurist nearest the dock, a woman of East Asian features, turned to face Malvina. She spoke with an accent Albright pegged as New Kyotoan. "Khan Hazen, do you understand the nature of this tribunal, and the charges laid against you?"

Malvina smiled cruelly. "I am aware of how you Arcadians feel about my actions before and during my Khanship." She turned her head briefly. Albright sighed as her eyes passed over him. The smile grew. "You have such strange notions of reality. It is those notions that bring this trial, and this concept of 'crime' in war." The questioning jurist — Justice Ishikawa, Albright recalled — was not satisfied. Before she could speak, Malvina continued. "You consider my actions to subdue my foes to be crimes. In this trial, one set of debaters will present evidence that my actions were my own and were crimes, and my 'defense' will claim otherwise and attempt to persuade you it is so. When it is done, you will decide my fate, quiaff?"

The Clanner term was clearly understood by context. Ishikawa turned her head to al-Mansouri. He nodded, as did two others. "Very well. We will proceed with pleading. Khan Malvina Hazen of the Jade Falcons, you stand indicted for crimes against the peoples of the Republic of the Sphere and the Lyran Commonwealth. These crimes are listed in four charges." Al-Mansouri held up a printout. "One, conspiracy to commit crimes against planetary populations, defined in short, but not limited to, as intentional cultural destruction of a population's identity, mass enslavement and forced relocation, mass executions, and the commission of genocide. Two: the commission of crimes against planetary populations, as already laid out in the first charge. Three: crimes committed during the conduct of warfare. Four: crimes against humanity committed in furtherance of the prior charges." He raised his head and, with his four peers, directed his eyes at Malvina. "How do you plead?"

Malvina lifted her chin. "None of my actions were criminal."

For a moment Albright wondered if the reply would be accepted. Al-Mansouri and his peers conferred in hushed whispers. Finally al-Mansouri switched his microphone back on and spoke. "Recorder, note upon the record that the defendant's response is considered a plea of 'Not Guilty'." The Recorder answered with a nod. "The defendant's plea is hereby recorded. We will begin pre-trial proceedings in two weeks time, on June the Twenty-First. The Tribunal is adjourned." Al-Mansouri slammed the gavel to end the session.

All of that for barely five minutes. Albright sighed and stood. Before he could leave, he heard Malvina call out "Commander John!" to him. He turned as her security handlers prepared to strap her to the transfer wheelchair. She smirked at him. "You Spheroids are so patient. So slow. The Way of the Clans is less wasteful of time. A Clan Council would have killed me by now."

"This is how we do justice," Albright replied. "And this is the trial you asked for."

"It is. And whether I win or lose, I promise you this." Her eyes flashed with mad glee. "I will make it worthy of remembrance."

Chapter 4 - The Reward for Hard Work


Primary DropPort
Wolf City, Wolf Clan Settlement Zone, Gutheim Continent
Arc-Royal, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
Transglass Inner Sphere
7 June 3143


The last time Evangeline Rosa Penton-Vallejo stepped onto Arc-Royal's soil, she'd come with her unit, the Eighth Strikers Brigade of the Armed Forces of the Royal Federation, and it'd been to the familiar-if-different sights of Old Connaught. Few knew her face, even if they'd heard her name in passing for being one of the pilots to down the hated, dreaded Chinghis Khan of the Jade Falcons.

Now Dame Evangeline Rosa Penton-Vallejo, a Lance Lieutenant without a lance and a Knight of the Royal Federation, was known to all. She couldn't walk ten meters without awed stares or proud salutes. She was one of the saviors of Timkovichi, the slayer of Stephanie Chistu. Khan Fetladral had made good his pledge that she would be remembered as every person she met in Clan suits, from MechTechs to Star Colonels, saluted her. Liaison officer, she thought, recalling the conversation over a month ago when her assignment away from her unit was revealed. She wasn't being formally removed from the Eighth Strikers so she still wore the unit's sunhawk patch and got to wear the sky blue beret of the Strikers as part of her uniform, but for the time being she was doing staff work. A rear-echelon mother-flakker, as her father had once dismissively but tactfully called it.

At least I've still got a 'Mech. It wasn't with her but a following transport ship bearing damaged machines to the factories and repair yards on Arc-Royal, but it would be here. I own a 'Mech. How am I going to make that work?

Her thoughts turned from that at approaching the terminal window. She unconsciously shifted the weight of her duffel bag over her shoulder while getting her first glimpse of Wolf City, the capital and beating heart of the "Wolves-in-Exile" that she'd been fighting beside against the other Clanners. Instead of Old Connaught's quaint German town feel, this was a city of function, stark gray and black and silver blocks of ferro-crete and occasional glass, the only color being the snarling amber wolf's head of the Clan's fearsome logo. It reminded her somewhat of the concrete block cities of Megrez's Andamar Islands that she'd seen on a holodocumentary in school, where the colossal "hyper-canes" of the world's great ocean required the Andamari peoples to live in ferro-crete-encased communities due to the three hundred kilometer-per-hour winds the storms could theoretically produce. It was all function over form and fit what she knew of Clan utilitarian mindset.

"It is a grand sight." The carefully articulated words, in an unfamiliar Star League English, prompted Eva to turn her head. She recognized Marissa, a Wolf Clan MechWarrior, by her light bronze skin and platinum-blond hair pulled into a bushy wolf-tail. Marissa's olive camo patterned jumpsuit bore the red "daggerstar" on the collar that marked her a MechWarrior in the company of a dark bronze rank tab bearing one red star in the lower corner; the rank of a Star Commander, Eva's rough counterpart by rank in their organization. She wore a new unit patch compared to their first meeting months ago on Outreach, a pack of wolves on a mountain top with a rising half-moon behind them.

"It's different from Old Connaught," Eva said. "But you don't mean aesthetically?"

A flicker of resignation showed on Marissa's face. Eva wondered at why before remembering the Clan taboo about speaking with contractions. Yet they have no problems with military lingo, 'aff' and 'neg' and all that. "Hopefully, Eva, you will be more careful with your speech now that you are among my Clan," Marissa said, a slight half grin forming. "It would not do for the subject of a stanza in The Remembrance to sound vulgar."

Eva didn't need a mirror to know she was starting to blush. Right. I'm a Knight of the Federation, Duchess Schmitt-Levinsky implied I'm likely to get a landhold on Timkovichi, and Khan Fetladral's putting me in their holy history book. "Right, I'm…- I am sorry." I'm the guest here. No, I am the guest. Ugh. I need to stop thinking in contractions too!

"You bested the bloodfoul Falcon Khan and her preening would-be successor in battle," Marissa said. "This enemy will fall easy enough." She turned her silvery-gray eyes back towards the sight through the ferro-glass window. "Wolf City, they call it. For my Clan, it is the last bastion of the true Wolf Clan, and our calling as the Wardens of the Inner Sphere. Everything we have is here; our genetic repositories, our Clan Council Hall, everything. We would all gladly die to preserve it, especially from the bloodfoul Mongol Jade Falcons."

Eva frowned at the thought of the Falcons. They'd been the bane of her life since the Glass had formed. They make the Dracs look kind. "They are not the kind to hold a truce, I suppose."

"Neg, not unless it suits them in some way." Marissa checked the time piece on her right wrist, attached to the bracelet that bore her codex. "We should keep going. I must report to my superior soon, and I volunteered to show you to your quarters."

Eva nodded in reply and followed Marissa from the terminal. Once they were completely clear of the DropPort building they made it to a magrail tram that carried them into and through Wolf City. It was not like any city Eva could think of. The streets had mass transit trolleys and sidewalks but very little private transportation. Eateries were plainly marked by food icons but, for the most part, without the colorful names pubs and restaurants would otherwise get. Shops were labeled mostly by name and service, like "Maria's Hair Maintenance" and "Darren's Clothing Provisions". "Not big into marketing, I guess?" she asked.

Marissa chuckled. "Living as neighbors to the Lyrans has challenged our purity in more than one way, but our people have yet to succumb to such frivolity. Though I shall have to take you to the Salty Solahma later. It is like the pub in Old Connaught, founded by a warrior who tested out from age and believed he would best serve the Clan in that fashion."

"My parents had old comrades who founded their own bars and pubs," Eva said. "So you're not different from us there." She winced a moment later as her words played in her head and she spotted the contraction.

"It is preferable to other fates," Marissa said, politely ignoring the slipup. "Though I very much intend to avoid it by winning a Bloodname. And our stop is ahead."

At the next stop they disembarked. Small parks and gardens dotted the landscape around a number of ten and fifteen story apartment buildings of gray and silver coloring. Wolf insignia and logos were painted in murals on several, a new one being drawn by a collection of what Eva thought to be adolescents. "One of the sibkos," Marissa explained. "A collective action to build bonds for their training. The creativity is useful in combat, and it links us to our identity." Eva nodded and followed Marissa down the sidewalk for a block. They entered one of the shorter buildings and took a lift up to the second floor. "You have the identity bracelet, quiaff?"

Eva glanced at her left wrist. The silver bracelet over her duty uniform sleeve was nearly the same as Marissa's. "I do."

"Good. It will unlock your door, and allows for you to pay for whatever you wish to spend your stipend on. Even if it lacks a full codex, it will also serve to remind everyone who sees you that you are a warrior. Although I doubt anyone will fail to recognize you." They approached one of the doors, a light silver hard plastic slab clearly built to slide open. Eva shifted her duffel bag slightly and ran the bracelet over the panel to the right of the door. The panel lit green for a moment and slid open.

The inside reminded Eva of her Nagelring dorm. The door opened to a small hall. To one side was a kitchenette, to the other a bathroom with a shower closet and flat commode beside a sink. The main body of the room had a bed fit neatly with starched sheets set against one wall and a desk with a chair against the other. A very basic holovid display model was set into the wall over the desk. The furnishings were very functional and did not look inviting so much as sturdy. Definitely looks like my dorm. Just that I'm the only one here. That's odd. "I would have thought lieutenants got bunked with other lieutenants? This place looks like it is for me alone." She sighed quietly. Another avoided contraction.

Marissa laughed. "Oh, this is normally a billet for Star Captains, though we do give warriors private rooms in planetside living spaces. I will be two floors above in the Star Commander barracks. You have more room than I." Marissa led her further in and gestured to the one break in the pale gray interior of the wall, depicting the same insignia her uniform's shoulder patch displayed. "This building is for MechWarriors of the First Wolf Legion Cluster. It is an overflow building for the Cluster so there are empty rooms available. They are typically assigned for visiting formations or warriors in need of billets, so you were placed here for simplicity's sake." Marissa gestured towards the desk. "I believe your noteputer will be compatible with the Clan data web, if not go down and speak to the barracks support office, a technician can be called to have an adapter arranged. Whatever work your commander assigns can be accomplished here."

"Alright." I'm still not sure just what a First Lieutenant liaison officer does, I always thought that was stuff Captains and Majors did. I get the feeling I'm here for the media relations people, not the actual liaison group. She set her duffel bag down, pleased to be rid of the weight. "Anything else I should know? Other than that the MPs are short-tempered and don't, I mean, do not give them an excuse?"

Marissa laughed. "Aff! The Watch are quite ill-tempered. I imagine you will have an office at the Clan Headquarters if you are working with Alpha Galaxy and the local command warriors. I suggest taking the Ulric Kerensky Avenue tram, it is in the listing and will bring you directly to the entrance. If you wish to explore the city, just remember that you are at First Legion Barracks Alpha Building Four, and anyone can provide you directions back here."

"I am due to meet Colonel Stefanidis there later today, after he gets back from Old Connaught," Eva confirmed. "And maybe I'll, er, I will do some exploring afterward. I would like to see the Salty Solahma if anything else."

"Ah?" Marissa grinned. "Meet me at Headquarters at twenty-hundred hours local, and I shall take you there. But now I must go, Star Captain Jackson is going to be waiting." She walked briskly for the door.

After a moment to take in her new living situation, Eva started unpacking.




Kell Ducal Palace
Old Connaught, Gutheim Continent


The door to the Ducal Office closed behind Colonel Stefanidis, leaving Evan Kell and his second Nadia Allard alone with a stack of unsigned papers and security-cleared electronic tablets with secure data. He leaned back in the chair and glanced at his reflection in the window. "At least I don't have to wear the ducal uniform," he mused, considering his brother Martin's requirements of office. He was still in Kell Hound duty camo like Nadia's. The reflection showed him his scarred face on a head topped with salt-and-pepper hair of silver and black. It was an unwelcome reminder of the march of time.

At least I'm still alive, though. His mind wandered back to Timkovichi and the battle from ten months ago. It was already a fight he hadn't been sure he could win against Malvina Hazen's best and the Hell's Horses' contribution to her might. Yet he'd underestimated her savagery and nearly lost everything. He remembered the dread at hearing the confirmation the Red Talon was shifting orbit, and that certain agonizing knowledge that he was going to die and his family's prized unit, the Kell legacy to the Inner Sphere, would be destroyed. Then reality decided it was bored, or got very offended by Malvina.

"Thinking about how close we came?" Nadia asked.

Evan chuckled. "You know me too damn well, Nadia." He looked past his reflection and out the window to the courtyard and the Kell Hound barracks beyond. "We almost lost everything, then… hell, maybe it was a divine miracle, or the cosmos itself taking offense at Malvina's bloodthirst. Sometimes it feels like it's all a dream and any minute now, I'll be back in my 'Mech there on the Summer Veldt, watching fire from on high wipe us all out."

Nadia nodded in what he imagined to be understanding. "Feels like we're not supposed to be alive. But we are, so might as well make the most of it. Grand Duke Martin was pretty insistent the First Hounds were to take it easy."

At that Evan laughed. "Right. Some down time as our reward for all the fighting these past couple of years, and then some. Just like naming me his damn regent. 'A reward for your hard work', he said. Feels more like revenge for me getting to step away from all this civil leadership."

Nadia chuckled. "They say the reward for hard work is more work. Though I imagine the Grand Duke has other concerns."

"You mean what we've heard from the Free Caste traders and such about the Falcons." Evan shook his head. "The Mongols are firmly in charge now. But that Isaac Roshak isn't Malvina. She was blood crazy more than stupid, he's just power mad and stupid from his record. He's a Mongol because he likes being able to lord over people and not worry about the Clan honor code. Way I see it, he's as like to tear his own Clan apart."

"Or he'll hit us as part of trying to keep it together," Nadia warned.

"Right. Well, at least we know we've got some potential backup." Evan reached over and tapped a brief-case sized black box of metal and plastic, etched with a crowned hawk. It was one of four now on Arc-Royal, allowing interstellar fax messages to pass with the Arcadian defense forces holding down Timkovichi. Other boxes were going to be quietly distributed up and down the front to allow some form of interstellar force command that could meet any Falcon betrayal of the truce. "And more coming through the Glass soon."

"Within a couple months, by last report." Nadia checked her noteputer. "Sometimes my mind still boggles at it all. We're getting over a dozen 'Mech regiments from the Rasalhaguans and Sudeteners alone, another ten or so from Ghastillia. It feels like we're lucky to focus a dozen on the entire front from here to Skye. And that still doesn't count what the Arcadians are holding in reserve."

"A lot of troops, but their enemies have got a lot too," Evan pointed out. "They're still taking a gamble."

"Right." Nadia went back to reading the list. "Huh. I've never heard of the 'Eridani Heavy Cavalry' but if they're anything like the ELH of legend, the Falcons are going to have their hands full."

"And they damn well deserve it," Evan chuckled. He glanced at the desk and sighed. "Alright, might as well get the civic responsibility out of the way."

"You could always chuck it in the fireplace?" Nadia suggested with a grin.

Evan laughed warmly at the thought. "No, I know Martin's people, they'd just grab the reprints. Besides, I suppose folks need us signing these papers and making these calls to keep the planet running. Can't forget the reason why we're doing this. BattleMechs aren't the only important things in the Inner Sphere, as much as I tend to forget."

"Agreed."



Wolf City, Wolf Clan Settlement Zone


Given the "function over form" style of the rest of Wolf City, Eva was pleasantly surprised to see that the Salty Solahma felt more like the pubs and beer halls she'd seen so far in her service. It was little different from "The Hound" in Old Connaught in style, though the aesthetics were unmistakably Clanner. A boxing ring was prominent on the far side of the establishment, where two massive, well-muscled infantry warriors were wrestling in a manner that reminded Eva of the sumo wrestlers of New Kyoto. Other warriors, a combination of the giant "Elemental" infantry and other phenotypes, cheered encouragement to their comrades. Nearby a collection of warriors were playing a card game, and yet other tables had other groups. Everyone was in BDU jumpsuits with an assortment of unit patches matching those of the Clusters of Alpha Galaxy. Along the walls were a combination of photos, drawings, and plaques. A stuffed jade falcon hung like a prize trophy on one wall while another made a lot of space for something that looked like a 'Mech foot after it'd been torn from the machine. A tattered flag of a jade falcon hung over it.

Marissa walked in beside her. "This is more of what you would expect, quiaff?"

"Yeah," Eva replied. "Reminds me of 'Das Stahlhelm' back in Tharkad City. It was a favorite spot when we got liberty from campus. They still had a finger from a Terran Atlas II that the locals swear was downed by High Queen Johanna herself."

"The foot came from a Jade Falcon Mad Dog, or what Spheroids here call a Vulture, destroyed by Khan Phelan's troops during the Federated Commonwealth Civil War," Marissa explained. "It took a Star of solahma infantry to move it into place."

"I imagine…" Her eyes swept towards the bar. It dominated the north side of the establishment, the wall lined with bottles of various spirits. Only the simple jumpsuited garb of the two bartenders, a pair of middle-aged figures who looked on the thin side save for their large heads, set the scene apart from any other kind of establishment Eva had seen.

"Come!" Marissa gestured for her to follow. Eva did, coming up to a pair of empty stools at the bar. Another Wolf warrior, a woman with a dark mocha complexion and sandy blond hair, glanced their way and grinned. "Marissa, sibkin!"

"Rachel!" Marissa grasped the woman for a brief embrace before extending an arm towards Eva. Another warrior beside Rachel, a male of lighter complexion and the same platinum-blond hair tone Marissa had, turned to face them at this point. "This is Lieutenant Eva of the Arcadians' Eighth Strikers. I need not say more."

"Indeed you do not!" the man laughed. He stood from the stool and saluted. "The slayer of Stephanie Chistu and the bloodfoul Malvina Hazen is known to the whole Clan!"

Eva fought to keep her cheeks from turning red. "Hazen did not die, unfortunately. They have her on Arcadia, for trial."

"A Trial of Annihilation I hope," Rachel replied. "Did your unit come to refit as well?"

"Eva is here as a liaison officer with our warriors, not with her unit," Marissa explained. "The Arcadians cannot let her hog all the glory for herself, quiaff?"

"Aff!" the two laughed. The man quickly added, "I am Dominic. Rachel and I are Star Commanders of the First Strike Grenadiers." He motioned to their unit patch, showing a wolf snapping its jaws closed upon a jade falcon.

"And you are… related?"

"Genetically, only Marissa and I," Dominic replied. "We are of the Kell Bloodhouse. Though our genefathers were different warriors, our genemother was Hazel Kell, one of the first of the Kell Bloodrights."

"And I am a Carns," Rachel replied.

"Every Clan is different," Marissa said. "In some Clans a sibko are all from the same set of geneparents, or at least from the same Bloodhouse. But for a Wolf, the pack is everything, and our sibkos are mixed."

Eva nodded. Reading up on the Wolves had been a duty that helped her pass the week of zero-gee living at Atocongo's jump point. So they grew up together. Tested with one another, became warriors together.

"Bartender Yvonne!" Dominic's voice echoed over the background chatter. "A drink of choice for the warrior who brought down Malvina the Bloodfoul!"

And here we go again. Eva was ready for the attention, and smiled faintly at all the warriors who started cheering and letting out wolf howls. Well, at least the wolf howls are gestures of respect, she thought. The large-headed woman at the bar grinned and nodded. "Apple scotch," Eva said.

"A good choice, ristar," Yvonne replied. She took a shotglass and started mixing the drink. Eva slipped into the chair and was ready for it, enjoying the sweet burning flavor when it hit her lips. She forced down the urge to gag a little. Okay, the proof of this thing must be crazy. Her head wobbled slightly as she swallowed.

More howls came from around her. "Well done, Warrior Eva," Rachel said. "Clan drinks are often hard on Spheroids."

Maybe they genetically engineer themselves for booze tolerance too. "It's got a kick, yeah. The kind of thing we'd dare each other to drink back at the Nagelring." She took another drink and only after it realized no one had said a thing about her contractions. "I am sorry about the bad speech," she added.

Dominic and Rachel laughed. "Marissa has always been the best spoken of us," Dominic said. "I, for one, believe our ancestor Natasha Kerensky had a point when she dismissed complaints about her contractions. 'Slavish adherence to ritual is a sign you have nothing better to think about.'"

Different timeline. Different timeline! Eva nodded. Their Natasha was a hero, not an evil bitch who killed millions trying to make herself First Lord of the Star League on our bent backs. "Right. My protocol and military bearing instructors at the Nagelring would have loved to hear that one. Demerits for everyone." She took a fairly smaller drink this time. It brought the kick down. A little. "So you are both descended from Phelan Kell, at least?"

Marissa nodded. "Aff, and Ranna Kerensky. Hazel was from the first sibko born of their genetic material."

"Normally you only get to claim the mother's name, right? I guess it was different because that was the first generation? Quiaff, is it?"

"Aff on both, Eva," Dominic replied. "All born of his genetic material were allowed to compete for the twenty-five Kell Bloodrights."

"And as it is the only Bloodname we did not have to split with the Crusader Wolves, it is the one Bloodhouse to still have its full count of Bloodrights," Rachel added bitterly.

"That is something. The weight of it, I mean, bearing the responsibility of being the first."

"It was. It is, since the Kell Bloodhouse must honor our founder." Dominic took a swig of his own drink.

"I recall you had a family member when we first met," Marissa said. "Your Penton family serves with the Eighth Strikers by preference?"

"Mostly." Eva nursed her glass, not quite willing to risk another drink. "And yeah, my cousin Tony is one of the aerospace jocks. He comes from another side of the family, but we have the same great-grandparents. Alexander Penton and Rachel Vallejo-Galvariz-Aghliesi. He was a commoner, a military attorney who became a MechWarrior in the 3030s, and she was the granddaughter of a couple of noble families on Launum. They became war heroes in the Second Skye War and the War of Donegalian Succession as MechWarriors of the Sunhawks, that is, the Eighth Strikers. Alex Penton got knighted, Rachel was made heiress to both of her families' holdings. They'd fallen in love and got married, had kids, fought and survived the Terran War, lived long and mostly happy lives until dying just before the 4th Succession War broke out. Dad said they were the most loving people he knew." With her lips drying, Eva took another drink of the apple scotch. It didn't kick quite as hard this time. Because I am getting sloshed, ha.

"We are aware the nobles of the Inner Sphere also bear the weight of their blood legacies, though we consider them decadent and corrupted for the most part." Rachel imbibed some of her own drink. "You bear a mighty legacy, it seems."

"It can be, though I'm, I mean, I am legally a commoner. Or was. I'm a Knight of the Federation now. But it isn't likely I will ever inherit Vallejo lands or anything. My dad was the baby of the family, and his mom was a younger daughter of Sir Alex and Lady Rachel. Too many cousins are in the way, and they are welcome to it."

"And what of your genetic legacy?" Dominic asked. "Your genes will provide for more fine warriors of Arcadia, will they not?"

For a moment Eva wasn't sure how to respond to a question like that. Her first instinct was to treat it as a bad pick-up line but even through the haze her apple scotch left her mind in, she remembered the material on the Clans. Passing their genes on is the big thing for them, right. "I guess they would, I just haven't thought about having kids."

"As a Spheroid you would rather have a partner you feel affection for in coupling?" Marissa asked. "That is usually the way of it. You seek a mate who attaches to you?"

Something about the query made Eva wonder if Marissa was feeling her out. "I suppose. I haven't had many 'attachments' lately though. Mostly just back at the Nagelring, and not at all for procreation."

"Ah! Coupling!" Dominic laughed. "Spheroids have many taboos about it, quiaff?"

"And rules. Honor codes. The Nagelring has lots of honor codes. For 'discipline'."

"And you obeyed them?" Rachel asked, grinning in anticipation of an answer. Something about the grin made Eva's spine tingle and brought a warmth of anticipation, a rush of life, into her. "For you to have won assignment to an honored unit, you must have done very well in training."

"I did. Feels like another life now, but yeah." She matched Rachel's grin. "As for the honor codes, well, I always did follow the most important of those rules." She leaned in towards Marissa and Rachel, prompting Dominic to do so as well. "Nicht erwischt werden. 'Don't. Get. Caught.'"

The assembled warriors laughed.

LOL, forgot to post the new chapter here.

Captain Orsai did the writing based on my outline and general planning, I proofread and edited. It's a bit bigger than I'd have preferred but splitting it into two chapters would likely make things feel dragged out while the scenes still have thematic links to justify their combination.


Chapter 5 - The Dragon and the Sword


The Black Room
Luthien, Pesht Military District
Draconis Combine
Transglass Inner Sphere
11 June 3143

As was his custom, Matsuhari Toranaga was the last to arrive at the Black Room. In this case, however, it wasn’t the emphasis of his power and position that was the cause, but matters of duty.

It seems I am now cursed to always be wary of being late for an appointment, Matsuhari reflected as he passed through security checkpoints, waiting as the Otomo guard teams precisely verified his identity. It now seemed that every moment there was some new calamity that could only be resolved by the exercise of the Gunji-no-kanrei’s authority, or a decision that only he could make. Sometimes, in the few truly private moments he had, Matsuhari found his mind wandering to thoughts of whether this was truly worth everything he'd done — everyone he'd killed — to attain it.

He shook off those doubting thoughts angrily. That kind of philosophical rumination was for priests. His adopted father Saburo Toranaga had taught him a long time ago that a man had to know his trade and stick to it. He was the Dragon’s mailed fist, not its philosophical savant. It was best to remember that. Especially now, with all that had to be dealt with.

The guards finished their checks; all done precisely as they should be. Which was a very good thing for them as if they’d skipped even a single step, Matsuhari would have ensured that before the week was out, they and their officer would have found themselves in a frontline infantry regiment on the Davion front.

Stepping into the sepulchral heart of the Black Room, Matsuhari took quick note of those present. It was nearly a full meeting, with only the new Warlord Dieron not present. Kanbei Okamoto was busy putting his District back into order and could not be spared the voyage to Luthien. The Coordinator sat with a single aide at her shoulder and frustration and impatience still plain at her effective confinement to the Black Pearl, but less visible than it had been; our victories must be heartening her. The aide did cause him a moment’s consideration; he wasn’t the normal run of such well-bred incompetents from the Pagoda, for all he was trying hard to look like exactly that, but a real fighting man. The sort I would choose as an aide. He was a chu-sa, well-built, and a man of his hands from the sword- and control stick-calluses Matsuhari could see. Already seated were the Warlords of Benjamin, New Samarkand and Pesht. The former two men he trusted as Kyuzu was his man, through and through, and old Hayashida of Benjamin possibly the only man whose loyalties Matushari had never found any cause to doubt. The latter was one no man would trust. Saito was a survivor above all else, with no concern for anyone but himself. Still, that at least makes him predictable.

It was only a lifetime’s practice at self-mastery that kept Matsuhari’s hand from the grip of his katana as he locked eyes with the last man: Ramadeep Bhatia, director of the Internal Security Force. Outwardly, Bhatia looked like nothing more than one of the countless anonymous bureaucrats who kept the Combine running. A quiet, meticulously neat and almost obsessively private man who seemed as out of place amongst this gathering of professionals at lethal violence as a celibate priest would be at a Canopian pleasure circus. And that was a lie, for Bhatia had sent more samurai to the hells than a score of Davion regiments. Most hadn't been by his own hand, as those who annoyed the ISF Director tended to develop lethal stomach problems, step in front of speeding groundcars, or otherwise come to bad, and deniable, ends. But enough had fallen personally to the Director to give him a respectable reputation as a duelist.

Just that, taken on its own, wouldn't have unsettled Matsuhari much; it was the way of politics in the realm of the Dragon, that you won or you died if you chose to play the game, and his own reputation as a duellist was far more than merely respectable. But there were other, darker rumours - of abductions, torture and murder for no cause other than amusement - that followed Bhatia in the same way death followed war, and those did unsettle him. They were too consistent, from too many different sources, and they walked far too well with his own experience of the Director.

If it is ever within my power, Matsuhari vowed as he turned from that cold, reptilian gaze to the situation map, that one I will kill, no matter the cost. The map at least restored some of his equilibrium, and he set himself to the plans for the future.

“Tono,” Matsuhari acknowledged Yori with a bow; the full measure required of any subordinate to the Uniter of Worlds. While in fact the army, as personified in himself, ruled now, the proprieties had to be observed. Even, especially, in private.

“Warlord,” Yori replied with a bow of her own; the precise degree of that from the Coordinator to a respected subordinate. She’s learned self-mastery; and that was not altogether a good thing. Yori was willful, determined and decidedly more capable than he was happy with; keeping her as off-balance as practical was one method of control. “You bring Us word of those prefectures and worlds in unlawful rebellion against Our sovereignty?”

“Hai, tono,” Matushari bowed again, before highlighting worlds and regions on the situation maps. “Those worlds of the Dieron District that declared for the attainted Emi have been restored to lawful governance; and the traitor Nova Cats expunged. Both Emi Kurita and Jacali Nostra are dead.” He carefully did not mention how Emi Kurita had died; there was no sense making it publicly known. Not least because she’d behaved in exactly the manner a noblewoman of the Combine was expected to behave in such circumstance; for that, if nothing else, Matsuhari respected her. “Katana Tormark is missing, but she will be found, and justice delivered upon her.”

And the irony is, Matsuhari noted silently, watching each disbelieving reaction to that statement that is the entire truth. He really didn’t know where Tormark was, or if she was alive or dead. Her Battlemaster had been found on Kagoshima, a wreck with a lance of the Jade Dragon dead before it, and blood in the cockpit that matched Tormark’s, yet no body. Most would have assumed her dead, but Matsuhari had made that assumption before, and been proven wrong each time. Tormark had her life nailed tightly to her backbone and now he was not going to presume her dead until the corpse was at his feet. And even then, I will take precautions.

“Corwin Sandoval’s foolhardy Operation PELAYO has been defeated, also,” Matsuhari continued, golden sword-and-sunburst icons withdrawing from the Combine; black-on-crimson dragon symbols pursing, Raman and Cartago swallowed by these chasing icons. Despite appearances, that was a half-truth at best; but some truths you could never speak, no matter where, outside of your own thoughts. It was unacceptable to admit that an enemy striking at the worlds of the Dragon was withdrawing largely by their own choice, having achieved as much of their own objectives as they were willing to risk for. No matter how swiftly and condignly they are punished for it. As well as the damage done to his own planning. “However, before we proceed, there are matters that I would be remiss if I did not bring to your attention, tono.”

There were times when Matsuhari wished he had more commanders in Corwin Sandoval's mold. The man was a barbarian, granted, but he was also a more than able general, with admirable talent. With a dozen such under my command, the Inner Sphere would be ours. Right now, though, he had to concern himself with the havoc wrought by PELAYO and the Nova Cats on his logistical arrangements.

“While rebellion has been quelled, and the Davions’ incursion defeated, it was not without cost.” He called up unit strengths, for those that had faced the brunt of both campaigns; the Swords of Light, the Ryuken, the Amphigeans. Their casualties had been heavy; and concentrated in the well-connected, Matsuhari noted. Those units had always absorbed a high proportion of the noble scions serving in the Pillar of Steel, it was what made them reliable.ow, though it would be an exaggeration to say every tenth noble family in the Combine was in mourning, it wasn’t much of an exaggeration. “Those losses have been made good by activating the upper-class years at our academies ahead of time, but that is a solution we can only use once. And it has delayed the replacement of casualties among the district regulars and other, less critical units.”

“Why?” Saito, speaking for the first time, and unhappy; not surprising, the Pesht Regulars, his units, were the ones most affected by that decision. “Activate them all. Let them learn in the field.”

Matushari refrained from a sigh only by considerable effort. He knew Saito was an idiot, but to make it so obvious—! A rebuke was on the edge of his lips when a third voice cut in.

“Saito, do not be more of a fool than nature meant for you to be.” Hayashida’s voice had faded with age, but he adjusted his style to suit rather than force it. The resulting whisper held the attention even more effectively than a shout. “Those of the upper class years have learned the skills they need to survive the battlefield; all that remains is refining them.” Collective nods at that; they all remembered their own academy training. You learned the core in the first two years, and then how to apply it fully in the next two. “Trying to learn such skills in battle against the Davions, or the Bears, would cost us losses we cannot afford.”

Saito wasn’t a complete fool, it seemed; reading the agreement with Hayashida’s words among all others present, he silently acquiesced rather than continue the argument.

"There are also matters of logistics to consider," Matsuhari continued. He switched the holographics back to the map, key stars highlighted. "Whether by accident or design, PELAYO struck many of our key forward supply bases, and the Nova Cats struck others. As well, the ISF has not been as successful as promised in restoring the Nova Cat factories to use.” There, let Bhatia the indestructible chew on that. He called up more figures. “To summarise, we have lost, or been forced to expend, almost two-thirds of the supplies assembled for the invasion of the Federated Suns.”

That drew a collective wince, which was good. Even now, too few of the samurai class genuinely understood logistics and its import. Saburo had taught him that, and even for someone who’d learned the importance of looking after supplies in a school where to fail was to starve, it had been hard to grasp how to apply that to an army. Finally grasping that this — enough of their military nobility truly understanding how important logistics was — lay at the core of the Davions and Steiners surviving the Dragon’s might had been a moment of almost holy revelation. At least Takashi and Theodore Kurita killed enough of those who truly would not learn that.

“Then it is from the Benjamin District we must strip supplies,” Hayashida said, “though even with how quiet the Bears have been, I admit that worries me. If they strike at us, while we deal with the Davions …”

“It seems unlikely.If anything, I would expect them to be far more concerned with these Arcadians the Sea Foxes have informed us of,” Kyuzu spoke up. “From the rhetoric we’ve seen from their ruler, it seems plausible the Bears will be concerned that they are associated with the Falcons and Hell’s Horses in the minds of these otherworldly crusaders, and thus draw down their forces facing us.”

“This is true,” Matsuhari acknowledged. “However, even with drawing as much in the way of supplies from Pesht and Benjamin Districts as we can without compromising their readiness, our original plans must be curtailed in their ambitions.” Especially as Sterling McKenna has become much more reluctant in considering cooperation. The news of this new power has shaken her, badly. “So, I would suggest,” icons and lines began to move on the map, “an offensive against Le Blanc and Robinson, to cut the Draconis March in two and remove the source of arms and mercenaries hurrying our efforts to pacify the Reach. To that end, I propose…"

Once he'd finished outlining the plan, there was a notable relaxation of tensions within the Black Room. It would cost, but they were all used to paying for victory, and lives were cheaper than time. Time was the resource the Davions needed above all else right now, and the one Matsuhari had no intention of giving them.

“I don’t like the plans for New Ivaarsen,” Bhatia said, his voice a colourless monotone. “At our last reports both Chasseur regiments were there, with the First Robinson Rangers a single jump away. Surely more than the Second Vegans and Seventh Ghost could be spared, if we are to keep them from intervening in the assault on Robinson?”

Matsuhari considered that; quietly impressed by the insight, from someone with little real military experience. And he is right; it was hard to make that judgement when you disliked a man. “The Ryuken-roku could be assigned to that task, yes. Perhaps a Striker battalion of Wolf’s Dragoons, as well. That should suffice to keep the yakuza and Vegan scum at their task.” There were smiles at that; none of them had a high regard for the Ghost regiments or the few remaining Legions of Vega.

“And, to ensure this is carried out correctly, it is Our will that our chief Warlord lead the attack on Robinson,” Yori said, her voice sliding into the conversation like a blade. “And, to ensure all know of Our enduring faith in his loyalty, a battalion of the Izanagi Warriors will accompany him.”

Only Matsuhari caught the slightest hint of a smile on her face, and it shook him. He’d been planning to command that effort, yes, but at a suitable remove, only taking personal command at the death. Now … I cannot refuse. To do so would destroy any semblance of control he had over Yori, and his standing with the other Warlords. Not to mention resulting in his own ignominious death when those public watchers — or other, invisible ones — fulfilled their orders if he tried; indeed, my excessively honourable staff would do so without orders, in such a circumstance. In many ways, that didn’t matter; his sworn liege had given a command, and there was no option for a man of honour. And a man lives as long as he lives, not a moment longer.

“As the Uniter of Worlds commands,” he replied, bowing.




Yori Kurita waited until the warlords were long gone, and her guards had moved back out of earshot for anything but a shout.

“What do you think?” she said to her aide.

“I think that they will obey, for now,” Sho-sho Hisao Ikeda said calmly. “And also that the theatre lost a fine talent when you became Coordinator, tono.” He paused a moment, organising his thoughts. “Hayashida we do not need to worry about; he is loyal to the Chrysanthemum Throne alone, and an old man besides. Kyuzu, I’m not sure about.” A frown. “He is loyal, but he also owes Toranaga everything; where those obligations conflict, danger lies. And Saito is a fool.”

“True,” Yori allowed herself a smile at that, and at how closely Ikeda’s assessments matched her own. “But I do pay him very well to be a fool.”

“Toranaga and Bhatia, I cannot be sure of; they hide their feelings well.” Ikeda frowned. “I believe Toranaga suspects that I am not as I have chosen to appear. But they will obey, until they find a reason why they should not.”

“As I suspected of them, yes.” Yori considered a moment, before moving to her next need. “The Dragon’s Shadow? How do they shape?”

“Well,” Ikeda said, surety in his voice as he spoke on a matter the DEST operative was confident in. “They will be at full strength in perhaps six months to a year; depending upon how well our efforts to recruit personnel go. But, should they be needed, they can put two BattleMech battalions and a reinforced regiment of conventional support into the field now. And they are all absolutely loyal to you, tono.”

“That is better than expected.” Another smile; more than Yori usually allowed herself. And Toranaga knows nothing of them. It was old philosophy, Capellan philosophy, but true despite that; the deadliest of swords was an invisible sword, one your foe could not see. “And the… other matter I asked of you to investigate?”

“There is little information to be sure of, tono.” Ikeda selected his words with exacting care; this was a very private matter, and dangerous to be obvious about. “The primary package was delivered by the Salaryman, we have confirmed that; at risk to his own life, but that he is not afraid of. On the secondary, we have the agent the Salaryman engaged for its delivery, but it seems the Bureaucrat stepped in first, with far less discretion.”

“Thank you.” Courtesy was not often a virtue known to the Dragon, but Yori considered it worth exercising, for one as important to her plans as Ikeda. “Return to your work with the Shadow; keep me informed. And say nothing to anyone of the other matter.”

“As you command, tono.”

Yori let herself turn inward as Ikeda left. So, Bhatia was involved as well; not a surprise. At least now, she knew those who she had blood debts outstanding with. Yori had never cared for Vincent Kurita and his family. But they had been fair to her, at least; if never anything more than that. And there were ties of blood, however distant; vengeance upon those who’d killed her kin was an obligation.

We settle things with the Davions — one way or another — and then, Toranaga, if you live, you will learn that treating me as a puppet was a mistake.


The Watchtower
Ten kilometres north of Avalon City
New Avalon, Crucis March
Federated Suns
Transglass Inner Sphere
11 June 3143

"It's confirmed, sir; Cartago and Raman have both fallen."

Erik Sandoval-Groell carefully suppressed a reflexive wince at that news. That would be unfitting to the dignity of the Prince’s Champion, and not do the young officer’s clearly frayed nerves any good either.

“Details, Captain,” he settled for instead, keeping his voice as calm and level as possible. “I need details.” Both worlds were already marked in crimson on the Operations Room’s maps.

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” she replied, taking a moment to centre and organise her thoughts. “We’ve confirmed that Raman was hit by Beta Regiment of Wolf’s Dragoons and the Forty-fifth Benjamin Regulars, plus a battalion of the Ryuken-hachi. There, well, there wasn’t much left of the Raman DMM when they retreated to New Ivaarsen.”

Erik did wince at that, not that he was surprised. For the last sixty years — ever since they’d picked the losing side in the Sandoval Civil War — the Raman March Militia had been a dumping ground for the malcontents and no-hopers of the Draconis March Brigade. That they’d put up any kind of fight against better than four-to-one odds was a miracle. “And Cartago?” A cousin's demesne; a distant one, true, but you had to look out for family.

“Gamma Regiment of the Dragoons, their Wolfsbane battalion and the Ryuken-go,” the captain replied. Erik shot a discrete look at her nametag, which read “Kennedy, L.”, and considered it might be worth recruiting this one for his staff. “According to Colonel Rennie’s verbal report and dispatches, the Tenth Avalon were holding them off until they lost their command staff; freak bomb hit, the details are in the dispatches.” She held out a noteputer. “Code-locked to your thumbprint, sir.”

Erik nodded, taking the noteputer and applying his thumb to the print reader. Skimming through the dispatches told him everything; it really had been a freak hit, not sloppy air raid precautions. The Kuritan aerospace wings’ toss-bombing strikes could barely hit a city reliably; it’d been pure bad luck that guided a three-thousand-kilo armour-piercing bomb right onto the bunker where the Hussars’ command staff had been holding a planning session. Not that they’re any less dead because of it; and at least Colonel Rennie — no, she’s Major-General Rennie now, if I have anything to say about it! — had possessed the good sense and moral courage to pull back to Mallory's World and keep the Tenth intact, rather than fight it out to the death. Which, glorious, quick and easy, would have been a choice too many AFFS commanders, including a younger Erik Sandoval-Groell, would have made, and it would have been the wrong one. It was bitter to think, but a minor world lost that could be liberated later was a fair trade for an experienced LCT's survival right now. Especially since Rennie had managed to bring Countess Justine Sandoval and most of her family along with the Tenth, a good starting point for a liberation campaign.

“Right.” Erik took a moment to centre himself, looking around the Operations Room. It was far quieter than it had been earlier in the year, with most of the High Command dispersed across the long arc of the Capellan March as SUNSHOWER’s preparations shifted into high gear; the only ones staying, once he and Caleb left some time in the next week, would be the triad of Field Marshals responsible for New Avalon’s defence. The map told him enough, though; the rash of green-marked Liao incursions from New Hessen to Victoria, starting to form worrying patterns. And the Dragon’s bites into the Draconis March; only shallow, for now — if one didn’t count the lost Reach — but they would grow, aimed straight for Robinson and New Avalon herself.

At least the Taurians are quiet, some irreverent corner of his mind pointed out.

Decision crystallised. He wasn’t needed here, and someone needed to provide the authority to weld the defences of the Draconis March into a coherent whole. For a moment, Erik cursed Harrison Davion; the distrust he’d managed to sow between the March Lords and New Avalon was poisoning everything, making orders from the March Commands mere suggestions to anyone not part of their own brigades. Thankfully, nobody yet was at the nadir point of the First Succession War's command relations, referring any orders they simply didn't like all the way up whatever they imagined their personal chain of command was,but the warning signs were there, if you knew what to look for.

And I do. Erik shivered internally at the thought; one of the problems with being a serious student of history was that it undermined certain comfortable assumptions about how people behaved. If we get to that point, we'll end up with a hundred different armies in a trenchcoat, and we won't be able to stop the Dracs or Liaos this side of June.

“Wait here, and consider yourself seconded to my staff,” Erik told Kennedy, before making his way down to the lowest tier of the Operations Room.

Caleb was there, reviewing a video file on one of the tactical display consoles. Erik had expected a deployment status report, or one of MIIO’s tactical digests from the front. What he hadn't expected was the Sea Fox reports about these 'Arcadians', the new power that had appeared, somehow, out of a hole in space-time in the backend of Lyran space, and, pretty naturally, taken offence at Clan Jade Falcon's behaviour. If it'd come from anyone else, Erik would have been inclined to make some harsh comments about their sense of humour, but the Sea Foxes didn't — couldn't afford — to think like that.

"Champion," Caleb said quietly, turning to face Erik, "what do you think? Is this the truth, or some kind of elaborate deception?"

"I think it's the truth, Highness," Erik settled on. "Or, at least, as much of the truth as the Foxes want us to know." At Caleb's questioning look, he went on. "Credibility is the biggest resource information brokers have; I dealt with plenty of them when I was working for my cousin. They won't be lying. Shading the truth, maybe, but not outright lying, because when we caught them in a lie, we'd never trust them again. As well," and he silently blessed his staff for making sure to keep him up to date on everything, "they've provided samples to NAIS; Arcadian ferrofibrous armour plating and endo-steel. I don't claim to understand the technical details," a self-deprecatory smile, playing to his image as the bluff soldier with that small lie, "but their conclusion is clear enough; the forging and bonding process that produced both is alien to us. It works — might even be a little more efficient than our methods in some ways — but nobody we know of has ever done it that way. Not even the Clans."

“I see,” Caleb frowned. “Mason did say that was the most likely possibility, but I’m not sure. This anomaly, for instance,” he indicated the rippling blue-white energy field that occupied one screen.

“Doctor Banzai was kind enough to brief me on that, as well,” Erik said, smiling still. “I wasn’t able to follow her explanations in detail,” and this time, that was the truth, whole and unvarnished. Erik considered himself a reasonably well-educated man, as conversant with the sciences as any man or woman of good family was expected to be; but talk about “multilayered hyperspatial entanglement” left him as lost as an honest man at the Celestial Court. "The summary would be that something like this Anomaly has been theorised for a while, given the space-time distortions associated with the Kearny-Fuchida effect, but the mass-energy equations have so many currently undefined factors in them that she's established a high degree of confidence that the Arcadian story is true. They generated it by accident."

“And that doesn’t bother you, Champion?” Caleb asked, frowning still. “That there could be a Liao or Kuritan force ready to descend on New Avalon any moment, and we’d have no warning?”

And now I see the reason for his focus on this. “As I understood Doctor Banzai’s explanation, Highness,” Erik said, keeping his voice level, “that isn’t something we need to be concerned about. It’s quantum physics that, as I said, I don’t fully understand, but a portal like that would have to be created from somewhere within one jump of New Avalon; and it couldn't be done in this universe. Something about the minimum possible displacement in space and time makes it unviable. I can have my staff send over a summary of the Doctor’s analysis if you need it, Highness?”

“No. Not now anyway, and I do know where to ask if it turns out I do need it,” Caleb managed a smile. “Thank you for the clarifications, Erik. Although I suspect that isn’t what you came to speak with me about.”

"No, it wasn't, Highness. The fact of it is," Erik took a deep, steadying breath; best to rip this plaster off quickly. "You don't need me, here or for executing SUNSHOWER, and the situation in the Draconis March is bad and getting worse. I feel I can best be of use to you there, stabilizing matters."

"You have a plan, then?" Caleb's eyes tracked across the situation map, recognising what Erik meant.

"A tentative one Highness, yes," Erik drew everything he'd been thinking out together. "My current thinking is to strike at the Dracs' supply lines through the Draconis Reach, though I'll need to refine it once I'm there and have a clearer picture of what things are like on the ground. I will need to pull some of the reserve units for SUNSHOWER for what I have in mind; the Forty-second Avalon and Fifth Ceti Hussars, and the Third Davion Guards." He'd honestly have preferred the Second Guards, their heavy aerospace echelon more in line with his plans; but they were already most of the way to the mustering point at Orbisonia. And the Third has a better set of Colonels, that'll count for more with what I think we'll have to do.

"I'm not sure about the Guards," Caleb temporised, rubbing his chin in thought as he looked at the unit markers. "Maybe the Royal Cavaliers instead?"

That … might actually work, Erik thought, working through the jump timings in his head. Justin Sortek ran them these days, and even if he's my cousin's man, we worked together well enough when we were both with the Swordsworn. But no, too far away. It’d take too long even to get word to the Cavaliers as they moved along the border, never mind get them here.

“Highness, there’s no time,” Erik finally replied, working to keep his voice calm. “No matter what we do, Highness, the border’s going to take the worst beating it has since the Jihad. We need to act now to restore the situation. Those units know me, Highness, I know them. And they're here, now, ready to deploy."

“You’re right, of course.” Caleb didn’t seem happy about that, but he rarely seemed happy about anything very often. “We’ll get the orders cut now, and I’ll make sure Petersen understands that you’re in charge.” Erik’s mind blanked for a moment at who that was before it clicked; Marshal Garrett Petersen, commander of the Third Guards, and who by strict rank was Erik’s superior. Not that it should matter, but the Prince’s Champion wasn’t in the regular chain of command; which was damn useful when it kept you outside of regular Army bunfights over areas of command, but less so when you had to make officers who theoretically outranked you do what they were told. At least with a direct command from the Prince that’ll be less of an issue. Caleb paused again, seeming to closely study Erik’s expression. “There’s something else you want to say, isn’t there, Champion?”

“A worry, yes,” Erik paused, putting his thoughts in order. Trying to convince himself he was just being overly cautious. It didn’t work. “I’ve been looking at the Liao raids, Highness, I don’t think they’re random.” He gestured, indicating the map. “They’re starting to look like what we’d do in the run-up to a major attack; rapid strikes to figure out enemy dispositions, check response times, get enemy defensive units deployed and locked in place. I might be wrong, but then again …”

“Maybe not,” Caleb agreed, frowning as he looked at the icons for Liao raids, the same patterns Erik had seen playing out in his mind. “But if they are planning a major offensive, you don’t think the Capellans might be worried about the federal guard having time and warning to mobilize and concentrate? Daoshen may be insane, but he isn’t that kind of insane, and Isabelle Fisk isn’t insane at all.”

"Highness, I have a nasty suspicion that if they're planning a major offensive, the Liaos want as much of the federal guard as possible in big concentrations where they can get at them," Erik replied. “I don’t even know if they are,” he admitted, “My best source couldn’t tell me anything but that a lot of the CCAF isn’t where they’re officially deployed.” And that, in itself, is telling; South Wind was embedded within the CCAF’s logistics command, and the lack of information suggested serious compartmentalisation. Unless she’s been turned, triple agent rather than double. Another headshake. The Maskirovka didn’t think like that; if they’d known that he’d turned South Wind, they’d have eliminated her with the thoroughness you’d expect from an organisation that favoured dropping anvils on individual ants.

“What do you want me to do, Champion,” Caleb said softly. He looked older, somehow, drained. “I know that you aren’t terribly enthusiastic about SUNSHOWER, but at this point, I couldn’t call it off even if I wanted to.” Erik conceded a nod to that; even with Black Box communications, it wouldn't be possible to get a stop command to everyone in time.

“I’d just advise caution, Highness,” Erik said, unhappy but without anything else to offer.

"I don’t think caution is an option left to us, champion, but I take your point," Caleb replied. “I’ll make sure our commanders know to be watchful.” He smiled, suddenly, clapping Erik on the shoulder affectionately. “Cheer up, Erik. If all goes well, this time next year we’ll be toasting victory on Sian.”

“God willing, Highness,” Erik smiled in turn, though he could read the false note in Caleb’s affected bonhomie. The Prince didn’t believe that boast anymore than he did.




Excalibur-class DropShip FSS Phoenix
Camelot Military Spaceport
Six hours later


Erik was in the middle of running a tactical simulation on the main holotable when his chosen unit commanders arrived. The tiny representations of BattleMechs, tanks and battlesuited infantry froze as he turned to greet them.

Garrett Petersen stood out immediately, the Guards Marshal looking exactly like a military noble of the Federated Suns was supposed to in the stories and very few did in practice.Tall and powerfully built, regular bronzed features and dark blue-gray eyes, red-blonde hair kept short to fit under a neurohelmet and a close-trimmed beard of the same shade. Uniform of high quality materials, much better than issue, elegantly understated. Even the scar fitted in perfectly; a shallow cut from the bridge of Petersen’s nose to just under his left eye, courtesy of a pirate Axman three decades ago, along the Periphery border.

What had happened to the pirate afterwards had made Erik wince, even in the dry, antiseptic language of an official report.

The other two were more in the normal run of things; Major-General Park Jung-hwa was shorter than Petersen but nearly as broad, wearing plain khaki field dress, and had very obviously been to the wars. A savage corona of plasma burn scars twisted one side of her face, a dull red cybernetic eye set into it drawing the attention, with grey shot liberally through her remaining black hair. Vice-Admiral Collette Rhysson was the youngest of the three; in her thirties, pale and dark-haired, with long features and the stringy muscularity common to most aerospace pilots Erik knew, and her hands, one a cybernetic prothesis, moving as she described dogfighting tactics to Park.

“Marshal, ladies. At ease.” Erik took a moment to study all three, noting their expressions. It was severe annoyance, mainly, which was about what he’d expected. “You all seem to be throttling considerable heads of steam.”

They exchanged quick looks before Petersen stepped forward, silently elected as spokesman. “Champion, with all due respect, what’s going on? Our units are scheduled to deploy for SUNSHOWER within the week, and even with most of the preparation done, there’s still a lot of work. Nobody’s indispensable, but we’ll be missed.”

“You’ll be back with your units shortly,” Erik said. “But there have been changes in your deployment orders. Now, I assume you have all your personnel on-base and ready to lift, and your units’ transport flotillas charged?” You’d better went unsaid, but he wasn’t surprised at the nods; veteran units with good commanders would be ready to go. “Good. Then I want your commands fully loaded up and boosting for their JumpShips by,” he made a show of checking his watch, “this time on the fourteenth. Destination is Markesan, moving into the Draconis March. You’ll be receiving full briefings en route. Questions, imperative supply needs?"

"I'm going to need to requisition a fighter carrier DropShip from the Navy," Rhysson said, checking the noteputer strapped to her forearm. "One of my LCT’s carriers is in dock for a full-scale overhaul of her engines; no way to get them reassembled and operational in three days. A week'd be pushing it."

"Expedition on supply orders is all I need." Park, her living eye closed as she called up information of her own.

"Authorised; I'll get the orders cut now." And invoke the Prince’s authority if anyone gets difficult. "Anything else?"

There wasn't, and after the needed pleasantries the three flag officers left; back to their units, and to get things moving. Erik picked up his noteputer, starting to write out orders. After a few minutes of getting nowhere, he sighed and stepped back over to the holotable.

“Reset simulation,” Erik said. The voice-command interface wasn’t used for tactical ops, it was too imprecise, but for this, it helped him think and focus. “Robinson Battle Academy Training Cadre and Twentieth Avalon Hussars defending against Kismet and Giri Battalions, Seventh Sword of Light. Auxiliaries in proportion; mapset is the RSBW complex at Tiberias. Execute.”

The system wasn’t as capable as those he’d used at NAIS, or seen in the Republic’s sim facilities under Geneva. But there was a comfort to it, the act of doing something, even simulated.

And, if I can win this, Erik reflected as he began shuffling lances like a card-sharp’s deck, if I can win this, maybe I can win where it counts.

Chapter 6 - Closing Thunder


The Triad
Tharkad City, Bremen Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
Transglass Inner Sphere
7 June 3143


The word spread quickly across the Triad when the long-range telescope satellites picked up the emanation of multiple emergence signatures. With a gap in her schedule Trillian rushed to the War Room to see what was going on for herself. It would ordinarily have been a welcome relief from dealing with angry barons and terrified landowners upset about defense measures but she could not escape the dread in her heart at the prospect that the Wolves had arrived first. The planet's defense was likely to hinge on the Arcadian troops being dug-in and ready alongside everyone else, if they were beaten to the planet by the Wolves the defense would be greatly in doubt.

Roderick rushed down the opposite hall outside the entrance. He was still in his cooling vest, shirt, and MechWarrior shorts. "Do we have IDs?" he asked, his voice controlled yet urgent.

"I came to find out."

Two infantry soldiers saw them into the war room. They were the last to arrive, it seemed, as Melissa was already present with Jasek, Julian, the Kells, and Khan Fetladral. General Maurer waited patiently at one seat. One holotank displayed a detailed profile of Tharkad in Mercator style with icons for every RCT and important sub-commands, a variation of Steiner fists with a few Davion sword-and-sunbursts and one prominent Wolf Clan marker. The main one had a profile of the entire Tharkad system and blinking lights coming from the zenith jump points. "Long range telescopes confirm new arrivals but we have no radio signatures yet," Jasek said for everyone's benefit. "The recharge station's identification confirmation should be coming any minute. Unless they're being jammed by a Wolf invading force."

The giant Wolf Khan, an infantry Elemental-wearing warrior by birth, spoke with a rumble in his voice. "We can do nothing but wait and see."

I went so far, did so much, and now I can do nothing but watch. Trillian thought on her experiences since she'd first heard of the Timkovichi Event, from her dealings with Martin on Arc-Royal to her trip through the Glass and everything that happened there, all the way to returning home to restore Melissa to her rightful throne. All of those efforts rode on what was to come. She'd done everything she could to give the Commonwealth a fighting chance. Will that be enough?

After another thirty seconds the incoming amber icons blipped out in rapid succession. The systems were processing the IFF codes of the incoming ships. Trillian inadvertently held her breath in anticipation of the result.

A new series of icons appeared to replace the amber dots; white hawks with golden crowns.

Trillian released the breath. She was not the only one. They did it. Nathaniel and his people did it. They got here first!

"The Wolves might get here at any time," Jasek reminded everyone. "Don't be relieved until we know our allies will have time to deploy and entrench."

"Still, at least we know they'll be getting here first in some way," Martin said. He chuckled. "Always reassuring to see that many ships coming as reinforcements. Looks like three RCTs or so?"

"High King Nathaniel's initial forces include his Lifeguards Regiment, the Second and Third Proctor Guards RCTs, and two brigades, the Second Royal BattleMech and Arcadian Rangers," Maurer said to confirm. "Going by the information, it would seem the Second Royal is not present, presumably sent to Gibbs after our request."

"That should be of help to the Sixteenth," Jasek said. Trillian noted the hard look in his eyes toward Maurer and a small sigh from the other man. Melissa mentioned there was disagreement. I suppose Maurer wanted everything for Tharkad. "We've got a few days before we can have anything approaching a real time communication with them, but let's transmit our defensive plans so High King Nathaniel and his commanders have time to consider them and give a response."

"I concur," Maurer said.
"Then see to it." Melissa turned to Trillian. The relief in her expression was evident. But Trillian didn't like the quiet fear she saw in her very distant cousin. Not for the fear's presence but for what Trillian knew it really meant. She still means to do it. To be the bait. The weight of that knowledge, and of what it might mean for her personally, pressed on Trillian. The Wolves will come for her and she will let them, to draw the Wolves off from me and the others. After everything she would give her life to undo the mess we've all made of the Commonwealth, but I hope it does not come to that. I pray it does not. I do not wish to be Archon, especially not like this!

"As for you, Lady Trillian, I will need you to be very busy this coming week," Melissa said, smiling thinly at the joke. Trillian was already playing her smoother-of-ruffled-feathers and political-fire-fighter, dashing to and fro on missions to placate, plead, and occasionally verbally pound those acting out against Melissa's policies. If not for the danger of Wolf raiders she half expected Melissa would have dispatched her to Coventry or Inarcs by now to see to those important worlds, or to Hesperus to arrange matters there now that Vedet Brewer was stripped of power. "Allied royalty is coming and there are proprieties to be observed."

"Nathaniel is here as the leader of an army, not a visiting sovereign," Trillian observed, smiling. "And I've no doubt he has no wish to deal with court formalities when his troops will be busy digging in."

Melissa chuckled. "I will take your word for it, but regardless, the forms must be observed. He will need a proper arrival ceremony at least, and a proper reception. I need you to see to it and ensure the Court is ready to receive High King Nathaniel properly."

She is not wrong. Trillian nodded. "I understand, it will be done."

"Good. Then our course is settled for the moment." Melissa glanced back at the holotank. The smile on her face grew warmer and, just for a moment, the stress lines seemed to fade. It was as if the sight of those holographic icons relieved her burdens at least a little.

We have come a step closer to saving the Commonwealth, and with every step we take, every little victory like this, our hope looks more and more real.

Of course, it would be so much easier if the Arcadians' arrival first meant the victory was won, but of course, that was just the start. The real battle had yet to be waged, and Trillian could do nothing but wait and see if her hopes would turn out after all.




Tharkad City Municipal Railyards


“Well, that’s our status, everyone,” Talia Yuen said, the images of unit readiness reports hanging in mid air. “Questions, comments, updates?”

The interior of the Tribune Mobile HQ’s main compartment was even more crowded than normal, with all her subordinate commanders assembled in it. Some were familiar; Berry, of course. Star Commander Kezia Wolf, red-haired and all taut, wiry muscle, casually resting her boots on the holoprojector as she leaned back in a commtech’s seat. Instructor-Hauptmann Gerard Stanson, a heavyset man in his fifties, sullenly unhappy at the occupation of his command vehicle - although that seemed to be his normal disposition anyway.

Other faces were new, or at least hadn’t been around for a while. Hauptmann Claudius Jacoby, commander of the demi-battery of mobile Long Toms, his bald ebony head seeming to gleam in the light from the screens, rubbed at the pinned up fatigue sleeve that marked his lost arm, before nodding in satisfaction. Leaning against the wall, a look of mild contempt on her haughty aquiline feature, was Hauptmann Jacinta Kirklin, of the Hesperan Guards company “with, but not of”, in Kirklin’s insistent phrasing, Talia’s command. The militia infantry commander, Hauptmann Tom Rogers, stood apart as well, an aging, overweight bank manager in uniform with thinning grey hair and a face like a tired basset hound; but that was probably lack of welcome, since Kirklin for one had been very vocal that she didn't want the militia officer including in command discussions at all.

Talia wasn’t sure about Rogers herself; his troops had dug in and sighted their heavy mortars with solid competence, but she was never sure about the weekend warriors of the militia. The Colonel did tell me Rogers was a good soldier in his active service, though God knows when that was; Tracial Steiner’s day, probably. Or at least Victor Davion’s!

Last of all were First Leutnant Virgil Pentecost, her slender and elegant exec, who’d somehow managed to shower, shave and change into an immaculate set of Class Ones since getting back from TharHes with needed spare parts. He'd even found an iceblossom flower to tuck behind his ear, which was dedication, in its own way. Pentecost was chatting amiably with Captain Nathan Rosenthal, head of the small liaison team from the Davion Guards. Young for his rank, by Davion standards at least, Rosenthal's mop of unruly brown hair and boyish features gave him the look of a grown-up Huck Finn; until you caught that his easy smiles never reached his eyes.

“I could wish for a higher practice ammo allowance,” Rogers said, finally breaking the quiet. “My kids are good, but we just haven’t fired our mortars that much.” Everyone nodded at that; heavy weapons practice was one of the things the militia were always short-changed on. Even assuming they could get the range time, Talia suspected a fair number of officers would take the budget for live-fire practice and pocket it; an old dodge and one that worked right up until their units were needed, when they’d pay. Or rather their troops would, which was usually the way of it. Not Rogers, though. I think he takes his job quite seriously. “Other than that, I think we’re as ready as we can be, without knowing when the Wolves’ll show up.”

“I don’t like the whole plan,” Kirklin put in sourly, stepping to the holoprojector and shifting it to map display. Icons and lines began to move; blue and gold and steel-grey clashing with amber markers. “When the Clanners come after us, we should take them on away from the railyards. They’ll be lighter, they can’t stand up to us in the open. Face them, front them, beat them.” The last accompanied with the ringing smack of a gloved hand against the edge of the holoprojector.

“No.” Talia looked across the assembled officers. Nobody was saying it, but a lot of them were evidently thinking that Kirklin was right. Which was fair enough, considering she didn’t like committing to a semi-static defence herself. But it’s the only option, and they have to understand that. “Our orders are to defend the railyards. I don’t think, Hauptmann Kirklin, that is a goal best achieved by leaving them open at first opportunity - especially not against an enemy force that’s likely to be a third again our numbers and more mobile to boot.” A few stifled chuckles at that, and Kirklin’s expression soured more. “Their advantages are individual capabilities and mobility; ours are mass firepower and discipline. Advantages we will lose if we rush off into a blindsided cityfight.”

She began highlighting firelanes and planned minefields, potential routes for their hovercraft and fast ‘Mechs. “We all know the factors here; time, space, force. The Wolves have to take the railyards; if only to stop us using them. But they’ve also got a lot of other widely dispersed targets they have to hit. So, we let them come to us; our mobile units can sting and harass, but we ultimately have more heavy and assault equipment. If they want to wait, fine - we’re on the defensive. They’ve got to win fast, or they don’t win.”

There were more thoughtful expressions now, at least hearing what she was saying. Time for the last bit.

“Gentlemen, ladies, we’re all fighting men and women. Worse, most of us are mechwarriors.” Talia smiled to take the sting out of that. “We’ve all been raised on tales of elegant victories; somebody takes somebody else in the flank, a commander’s nerve breaks, a well-timed orbital drop breaks the enemy line.” Her head tracked across like her Regent’s gun-heavy torso, singling out one officer after another. “Those battles are like two-headed horses; they happen, but you can’t count on them. They usually turn on one side being grossly inferior, in numbers or weapons or morale, training or leadership.”

Another series of hard looks. “That is not going to happen here. You all know what we’re up against, you’ve all fought it. We’re facing a big, tough and well-equipped army. Men and women who aren’t afraid to die, under commanders who’ve learned in a hard school. They aren’t as disciplined as we are, and they’ll make mistakes due to that —” they’d fucking well better, or we’re dead “— but we can’t count on them fighting stupid.”

Several of them gave her looks telling Talia that they’d noticed the part she hadn’t mentioned; slugging matches meant casualties.

“Any word on the Arcadians?” Kezia spoke for the first time. “I would be very happy to know we have our full strength for this bid.”

“No, nothing yet.” Talia tried to recall the jump timings she’d gotten. Junior officers weren’t really supposed to get that sort of information, but the Royal Guards were exceptions in a lot of ways. “They should be no more than one or two jumps away, but whether they’ll get here before the Crusaders do …” She needn't finish the sentence. They knew what a difference that would make. Relief forces were all fine, but allies dug-in when the shooting started would save more lives.

Kirklin shook her head. "The way I hear it, they've got a lot of shiny gear but haven't fought like we have. We shouldn't be counting on them to turn this around for us."

"That wasn't the plan," Talia said frostily. "But battle-tried or not, we know they've got some good training, they've got Clan-quality gear, and they're bringing the equivalent of two and a half RCTs we don't have, and that we're going to need if we want to keep Tharkad and be in any shape to push the Wolves back afterward."

"They fought bravely enough on Timkovichi," Kezia added. "What is important is that they arrive."

Before Kirklin could continue the argument Talia's noteputer let off an electronic trill. She lifted it and checked the screen. Everyone saw the relieved smile that crossed her face. "That was a general alert from regimental command," she said. "The Arcadians are in-system. They've gotten here first."

Grins and little nods answered her, with a sigh of relief from Rogers and Kirklin crossing her arms. Talia felt a burden shift on her shoulders. The battle was still coming, but it felt like it just might be something she would survive, and more importantly, that they'd win.




AFS Hawk's Nest, Inbound to Tharkad
10 June 3143


After three days Nathaniel felt used to having the floor remain firm against his feet. He imagined every soldier aboard felt the same. That was only part of the energy he felt while traversing the corridors of the Hawk's Nest, however. The soldiers and aerospace pilots of the Lifeguards knew only days remained before they were on firm soil again. Combat was weeks, maybe just days, away, against an enemy of great skill and ruthless power. While some had seen combat here or there, against Azami or mercenary raiders, or against the Combine attacks in Arcturus Theater, and the command officers included some veterans of the Fourth Succession War, Nathaniel and a number of his other bodyguards would be seeing battle for the first time in their lives. Just as he was.

The Hawk's Nest and her dozen sisters were not ordinary transport DropShips, however. They were Command Transports, Bastion-class, and as that name implied, they were not a soft-skinned troop carrier. Heavy Gauss Rifles, extended range pulse lasers, a squadron of embarked aerospace fighters, and thick ferro-aluminum armor made the Hawk's Nest a deadly adversary for anyone looking to strike at her passengers in space or on land, and in the deepest heart of the ship, above the transport bays and the massive fusion reactors powering the drives, the Command and Situation Room provided the ship's other main function. Already technical officers and personnel were making final systems checks on the array of holotanks, tri-vee, and flat displays that would allow a commander of troops to oversee operations for an entire regiment's worth of troops or, with suitable delegation, even an entire brigade. To a degree it was wasteful that three such ships were employed to move a single regiment but the Lifeguards were a special occasion, since Nathaniel would need to be able to command them and other forces from any ship. And it does allow for quite a significant artillery barrage, Nathaniel thought, considering each of the transports bore four Long Tom-grade artillery cannons in their noses, giving the Lifeguards an extra artillery company in effect.

It took a few seconds for his presence to be noted. Before Nathaniel could stop them, a senior NCO bellowed "His Majesty is on deck!" and prompted everyone to stand and turn towards him, stand at attention, and salute. Nathaniel returned the salute and said, "As you were", returning everyone to their duties.

He quickly recognized he was not the only senior officer present. Bridger was on hand with Nathaniel's cousin Matthew and Colonel Sir Andrew Laughlin. The latter man was an Arcadian native, a descendant of the Count Laughlin who helped to found the original Arcadian Free March, and the commander of the Lifeguards appointed to that post after building his career in the Tharkad Rangers and enduring a thorough examination of his life by SIS and MI5. He had a slight brown tone to his complexion and close-cut brown hair. Nathaniel approached them and the main holotank displaying what he quickly recognized as a map of Tharkad. Various points were marked with Steiner and Davion icons. Two half-formed hawks showed on the eastern continents of Heidelberg and Franz. "This is their defense plan?" Nathaniel asked.

"It is," Bridger said. "They're showing where they need our troops the most."

"They couldn't be sure we'd arrive before the Wolves, so it makes sense they'd focus on Bremen with what they had," noted Laughlin in a soft Islay burr.

"Right. And those sites are important?"

"Factories," Bridger said. "And major population centers are in proximity. The one on Heidelberg is Seimar Data Tron's main factory. It's one of the Commonwealth's top DropShip factories and a critical strategic target. With Franz, that's Bauer Enterprises, they produce aerospace fighters. A secondary objective, but one we should protect if we can."

"What do you think?" Nathaniel asked.

"I'd put the Second on the Seimar site," Matthew advised. "They're the better equipped and skilled unit of our big divisions, it's the right point for them. The Third is my pick for Bauer's factory."

"And the Arcadian Rangers? They would have a different role, I would imagine."

"Aye. Rangers aren't a stand fast and hold ground sort of formation, Majesty," Laughlin said. "Except for the Skye Rangers Corps, anyway. Brigadier Fraser wants to keep them on the move, hitting enemy landing zones and supply points where the defenses let her, and I'd back that."

"So would I," Bridger said. "Just like Vega. Let the frontline divisions do the smashing and let the Rangers do the skirmishing and raiding. Makes me wish we'd brought the Eighth Strikers, mixing Strikers and Rangers gave the Dracs fits and I'm betting the Wolves wouldn't like it either."

Nathaniel nodded. "They'll do their part whatever happens on Tharkad. What of the Lifeguards? Where should we fight?"

"Only one place for us to go, my Lord." Matthew didn't touch a control but reached into the holographic projection. The colors of the map shined over the hand as the finger tapped the eastern area of the main continent of Bremen. "The Triad itself. I'm sure they've got defenders already but the Lifeguards being there will be a big help if the Wolves come for Archon Melissa and the Lyran GHQ. If they don't, we're in a position to help out if things go bad around the Nagelring or the other major industrial or population targets."

"But they will," Bridger said. "This isn't just for conquest of one system. They're smart, not just murderous like Malvina. They're out to break the Commonwealth as a political entity so they can scoop up whatever pieces fall their way and leave us with the mess. At least, that's my assessment passed on from our MI people and the information we've gotten from the Lyrans and the Sea Foxes."

"The Sea Foxes. The space-based Clan," Nathaniel mused. "How reliant are they?"

"They're mercenary more than Clan, the way it seems," Matthew remarked. "They want profit and aren't blundering about looking for it. For instance, they've given us generous terms for providing JumpShip transport for supplies and replacements as they come through the Glass, plus protective escorts with their JumpShips."

"I haven't seen the terms," Nathaniel admitted with some guilt in his voice. The cost to the Federation was going to be enormous in both blood and money, yet he'd been too busy preparing himself to fight to pay as much attention to the money side of things. "How generous?"

Matthew smiled wanly. "The generosity of a corporation entering a new market for the first time."

"Ah. That kind." Generous now, to make us reliant, then bring the rates up once they think we can't just walk away. Of course. "Billions of pounds of the Federation's money for all that, then."

"War is expensive, my Lord. Aunt Victoria and Uncle Ethan used to share complaints about it."

First Prince Victoria Davion and my great-grandfather, High King Ethan, Nathaniel contemplated. What it must be like to have known them both and been so close to them. "But you think their intelligence is good?"

"I think they won't lie to us for the same reason all good information brokers don't lie, and looking over matters, they didn't say everything but I saw nothing to show they were refusing to share something important. So on the whole, we can expect their information to be accurate, especially where it lines up with verifiable data the Lyrans gave us. The Wolves want Tharkad, but barring keeping it, they want the Lyran Commonwealth in pieces so we'll be too busy dealing with its collapse to stop them from taking what they want and moving on Terra."

"Then we will protect both the planet and Archon Melissa," Nathaniel vowed. "And then we move on to liberate the other worlds they've conquered."

A tone sounded from a nearby board. The four men turned towards it as a CommTech reached for a control. "New radio alert, sirs," the Tech said. "Straight from the Sara Proctor. Multiple incoming emergence signatures."

"If we just got that radio message, than our light-based scanners…" Bridger turned to the holotank. "Bring up the system status, now."

It felt more like a formality. Nathaniel felt no suspense at watching the map of Tharkad vanish in favor of a three-dimensional model of Tharkad's solar system. Their position was marked as a large assortment of hawks about halfway between the zenith jump point, where more markers reflected the presence of the Sara Proctor, other naval assets, and their JumpShips and a handful of Lyran ships supporting the recharge station. A number of amber points showed near but not beside the recharge station. Moments passed before further light and radio updates came. The system processed them immediately. The flaring amber points became snarling wolf heads.

The Wolf invasion forces had arrived.

Gonna be a race to the planet

Chapter 7 - Wolves at the Door


Beta Galaxy Command Ship CWS Blood Fang
Zenith Jump Point
Tharkad System, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
10 June 3143


The technician and warriors in the Blood Fang command center continued their work while Alaric studied the display on his holotank. The Lyran recharge stations hung tantalizingly close, useful objectives that the Wolves had intended to issue immediate batchalls for the moment they'd completed their jumps. But there was no mistaking the near kilometer-long shape now positioned amongst them, central to a force of other vessels guarding a fleet of JumpShips still recharging off the station's collectors and reactors. We would have an advantage, he thought, considering the Dire Wolf and its accompanying Liberator-class WarShips. Only one enemy WarShip was larger than any of theirs, and only marginally so. Two more looked to be about the size of a large frigate or small cruiser, one of which lacked any visible capital-grade weapon mounts, and the last two were essentially oversized "Pocket" WarShips with K-F drives.

Another nearby screen showed the images of his fellow commanders and Khan Ward. Galaxy Commander Cooper's eyes blazed. "They do not have the battleship that devastated the Falcons, we are their superior in space. We can set upon them and eliminate them!"

"If we are willing to risk not being granted safcon, certainly," Alaric said. "I am not a naval warrior, but while we have an edge, it is not a significant one. They have multiple DropShips of some size that would be a match, or more, for our Isengrims. Carriers as well."

Galaxy Commander Ward nodded. "Aff, the Sea Foxes' data states their largest carrier has space for two trinaries worth of aerospace fighters. We have identified one of them among the fleet. The same is held by their WarShip-sized transport-carrier. Two more of the carriers contain trinaries of their own. If we Trial for their station and JumpShips we will need to bid all of our aerospace support to ensure victory."

And that would ruin the invasion long before we get there, Alaric thought. He had no doubt the Lyrans would refuse safcon. "Let us leave our WarShips and the bulk of our heaviest DropShips behind to threaten the recharge stations. We can keep them out of engagement range and force the Arcadians and Lyrans to hold those ships here to protect the stations, leaving us free to burn to Tharkad and invade with sufficient aerospace forces should we be denied safcon. When Epsilon Galaxy arrives we can then press a naval engagement with a greater margin, if we so choose."

"A fine idea, Galaxy Commander Alaric," Khan Ward said through nearly-clenched teeth. "I will leave instructions with Star Admiral Nguyen to that effect."

Cooper snarled. "And what if these Arcadians strike at our JumpShips?!"

"They are far from their home bases, with only Gibbs capable of repairing their battle damage, and they know it is under threat as well," Alaric stated. "They will not strike at us if we remain alert and can cause them harm in the effort."

This time Khan Ward was in no hurry to complement Alaric again. "My orders are given, the matter is settled. Wolves, complete your separations from your JumpShips. We burn for Tharkad!"




The sensation of gravity told Anastasia Kerensky that the Blood Fang was on the way to Tharkad. It felt good to finally have something like real gravity again, even if it was just the result of the constant gee of thrust generated by the DropShip's massive fusion engines.

Regardless, she still the duties Alaric had assigned her to complete. Every day, the same check to ensure every autocannon firing pin, every laser focusing lens, was still there, much as it had been the prior day. So she went about this task, now walking instead of floating in zero-gee, moving from container stack to container stack to verify the contents by visual inspection. Shit work, but it will not have the effect he wants. I will not let it, she vowed. I'll do this like a good little sibko brat being subjected to technician work as a test. It'd been one of a number of chores that the Pack Minders back on Arc-Royal used to not only make warriors remember the importance of logistics but to serve as inspiration to test into the warrior caste. "You don't want to spend the rest of your life doing this, do you?" being the obvious prod. And it did not work for them, either.

I know my worth, Alaric. 'Be a good bondswoman and remain loyal to me or this is the rest of your life'; that is your game, then. I'll play it all you want. But you cannot take away what I know about myself. I am a warrior, and sooner or later, you will acknowledge it, willingly or not.

And then, Anastasia allowed herself a smile. A wolf’s smile, predatory and cold. Then, there will be a reckoning.




13 June 3143



There were no windows on most DropShips, and especially not on Clan-built ones. It was a point of practicality that often struck Katherine Steiner-Davion as lacking a certain gravitas one might enjoy from watching the world, such as it was, pass by. Her viewing of the distant orb of her former capital, one of her homeworlds, was relegated to the impersonal view from a flatscreen imager she'd mounted on the wall of her quarters.

In another lifetime, she could have demanded far more personal space aboard the finest DropShips the Inner Sphere produced. After three-quarters of a century of living as a member of Clan Wolf Katherine was used to the laconic lifestyle of the Wolf warrior. She'd been forced into it on behalf of the one soul in all her life who seemed to understand her, to "love" her as much as a Clan warrior like Vlad Ward could feel that emotion. She'd reciprocated. Sometimes she didn't understand why given her disdain for warriors, for soldiers, for those who turned to brute force when a whispered word or a wide smile could do so much more in the right place. But there'd been an animal magnetism to the man, something that elevated him beyond the stultifying discipline of her brothers and other soldiers she'd endured. Vlad, and now Alaric, were so much more than them, and it made them worthy of her in a way she'd never imagined accepting such men or their power.

She reached a withered finger forward to press a key. With half the journey over Tharkad yet remained nothing but a brilliant blue pearl across the ink-black void of space. Eighty years. Nearly ninety years had passed since those first heady days when she'd made the people here bow and adore her greatness. Those first years had not always been easy, but compared to her suffering and ignominy since her brother's victory they had been a golden age that no hardening among the Wolves could erase her yearning for… or her hunger for the revenge that was her due.

Now my revenge is at hand. The Lyran people had acclaimed her once, but then they had failed her. Failed to crush her brothers, to crush the Kells, to crush all those who dared stand against her rightful rule. They would suffer for that failure when the Wolves took their world. Her son, her blade, would be their ruler, and would destroy the Lyran nation that had harmed and insulted her all those decades ago. Alaric will be Khan. He will rule the empire I should have enjoyed, and erase the memory, the achievements, of my enemies. That I live to see it… A satisfied smile crossed her wrinkled lips. She could imagine the licking flames consuming the official portraits of Victor and Peter and Adam. The Wolves, under Alaric's direction, would erase her enemies from the consciousness and adoration of the people. I will enjoy every moment.

A treacherous voice whispered in her ear. The flames are not lit yet. The battle must still be won, and your enemies are stronger for their new allies. The Arcadians may yet snatch your victory away. A furious snarl crossed her face at that thought. No. No, it can't end like that. I have waited too long. They are a weak people, led by a naive fool. They have not faced the full might of a proper Clan before. Alaric will triumph. He will. Her fist clenched. He must.




With the Blood Fang again under gravity, a great many activities were made easier for Alaric and his warriors. One of the oldest and most preferred means of finding enjoyment before battle was one of them.

The climate control kept his personal quarters comfortable for his state of undress. The heat of Verena's body, pressed as it was against his own, would have been enough to draw the sweat from his pores that now covered him. Though it was not that but their ferocious coupling that had been the instigator for the thin film of sweat still clinging to them.

Verena shifted, her muscles pressing against his in the process. Her eyes glistened with satisfaction that mirrored his own. "My future Khan," she murmured. "Are you actually going to let Anastasia test into the warrior caste?"

"In due time, possibly. When I feel it due."

"And when you are Khan."

"Yes." Alaric closed his eyes for a moment. The fire of his lust was sated for the moment, but that other fire would not die down so quickly. He felt the burn, the need to achieve the pinnacle of existence for a Clan warrior, rage within. "You would prefer she remain a bondswoman."

"I would prefer she was dead, my future Khan," Verena purred. "But I take satisfaction that I am the warrior and she bears the bondcord."

Alaric grinned. "Yes. I knew you would. But I will need strong warriors, now more than ever. Tharkad is just the start. We will need everything we have to take Terra when the Republic's walls come down."

"You feel they will?"

"In time, yes. They will shut them down to strike at their neighbors, or whatever means they use to maintain them will fail. Or perhaps they will destroy themselves by dissension. Whatever happens, we must be ready. I must be ready, if I am to become ilKhan."

"Seth Ward will kill you if he can," Verena reminded him. "He will never let you claim a Bloodname."

"I will kill him first," Alaric predicted. "He is a cunning warrior but he is not invincible, and his political machinations are easily handled. Though he cannot be allowed to return to Gienah and the Clan Council as conquerer of Tharkad." Alaric's expression hardened. "No. I think my Khan must die on Tharkad. By the enemy's hand."

"Not by yours?"

He grinned. "Not officially. Though I may put the blade in if the opportunity strikes and the Lyrans or Arcadians may be blamed." A chuckle rumbled from his throat. "Perhaps it is his Bloodright I will claim. It is a worthy one. It was my genemother's." My other father, he corrected mentally. Vlad Ward's DNA had been applied to the ova used to create Alaric, Katherine's way of ensuring he could one day claim the Ward Bloodname. "But whatever happens, Tharkad must fall. The Commonwealth must be disintegrated, or we will be too busy resisting the Lyrans and their new allies to descend upon Terra when the time comes."

"I will give it my all," Verena pledged.

"You will." Alaric grinned. "And if any claim the Arcadians' lord's life or bond, it will be me."

Chapter 8 - The Calm Before The Storm


The Triad
Tharkad City, Bremen Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
14 June 3143



The Lyran Royal Court was known for many things. Ceremony was certainly one of them.

Uniformed officers and officials stood in the Tharkadian cold at tightly-arranged places by their rank, social status, and closeness to the Archon. A military band drawn from the LCAF stood ready, instruments in hand, along with the battle-armored honor guards of the First Royal Guards RCT's infantry regiments. A long red and blue carpet was even now being rolled over the retracted blast shields of the DropShip pad where the AFS Hawk's Nest rested. Nearby pads held the vessel's sister ships and the troops ferried aboard them, but for the time being they would remain aboard. The ceremony came first.

Melissa waited patiently for the protocol team to finish rolling the carpet over the plates of the retracted blast shields, bringing them all the way up to the disembarkation hatch built on the ship's second deck. The Hawk's Nest extended a gangway from the hatch with mechanical precision and her people, with similar accuracy, put the carpet up to the very edge of the metal steps before stepping aside.

Moments later the hatch slid open. Power-armored soldiers stepped out, rifles at parade ready stance in their arms. They journeyed to the bottom of the steps and took up flanking positions where they put their arms at parade rest.

As soon as the next figure graced the hatchway entrance, the LCAF band struck up the anthem they'd spent weeks rehearsing. The triumphant strains of "Pride of the Free" filled the air at the descent of High King Nathaniel from his ship. The music had some familiar chords to Melissa, but she would never mistake it for a Lyran anthem of any sort. Nearly four hundred years of bloody history separate us, she thought at examining Nathaniel from the distance. He walked in proper time with the anthem and the trumpets hailing his arrival. His eyes never left the space in front of him and the dais where Melissa waited to formally welcome him in person. He did not want this, but he bears it well. Indeed, he'd protested "I'm coming as a commander of troops, not a sovereign on a state visit", but she'd won him over quickly enough with the fact of the gravity of it all. For the first time, two instances of their reality were seeing the face-to-face meeting of rulers. He was the first monarch to cross the expanse of infinity within the Glass and come to this side. That alone justified the majesty of the official state visit ceremony.

Yet she'd made a concession too. Nathaniel was presenting himself in military uniform, not official court wear. Because the truth was, he was here as a commander of troops to lead his army into war, a war to save her Commonwealth. She could hardly begrudge him the presentation.

It was quite a presentation. His red and blue military uniform was as formal and well-made as the LCAF uniforms around Melissa herself. Orders hung from his neck, representing those he typically handed out and stood as the master of by right of rank, and braided epaulets of golden color joined the double-looped silver aiguillettes at the shoulders that marked his status as a MechWarrior graduate of a military academy. A platinum tiara circled his head to function as a crown, cresting upward into a winged hawk shape above his forehead. Melissa knew he was young, but to see Nathaniel in person was to be strongly reminded of that fact.

Yet the most interesting part of all was the object affixed to his waist and uniform belt. A leather scabbard and sword hung from his left hip. It was not a thin officer's sword but a proper European double-edged sword of almost a meter's overall length. She recalled Trillian's reports on the coronation ceremony. The Sword of Liberation. He brought his regalia with him? She felt a bit of pity for his chamberlain and protocol ministers for dealing with the thought of it. But it is symbolic. For his people, this is not merely a war of alliance but a crusade.

The thought of it brought an instinctive chill to Melissa's spine. Her mind could not help considering the examples in her own history of such causes. The Capellan Crusades and the Blakist Jihad had been utterly brutal wars, well above the norm for the ferocity of the combatants proclaiming their side not simply in the right but "holy". Yet they are on our side. And they may need that belief in their cause to fight a foe like the Wolves.

Following Nathaniel were a file of his advisors, all in military uniform. Without a single misstep Nathaniel led them up the carpet to the steps of the dais, ascended, and stood before her. Melissa, as host, spoke first. "Your Majesty High King Nathaniel, I, Archon Melissa Steiner, welcome you to Tharkad in the name of the Lyran Commonwealth."

"Your Royal Highness Archon Melissa, thank you for your greeting," he said, sketching a courtly bow. Melissa matched the bow, a bare ten percent curling of her spine just as his was, and extended a gloved hand. He accepted it with his own. "I, High King Nathaniel Proctor-Steiner, greet you and the Lyran people on behalf of the Royal Federation and its peoples. I come as your lawfully sworn ally to sweep the enemies of Humanity from your worlds."

"We are grateful for your courage and readiness to stand with us in these dark times," Melissa replied, knowing that millions, likely billions, of Tharkadians were watching from their homes. JumpShips would take this meeting to every corner of the Commonwealth. "My finest stand ready to greet their new allies."

"Before we begin with the review, Majesty, it is my honor to present to you the Archon-Designate of the Lyran Commonwealth." Melissa gestured to Trillian who, it had to be said, bore the regalia of the official heiress of the Commonwealth with the same dignity she always brought to courtly work. Trillian stepped forward and offered greetings to Nathaniel who returned them with the same dignified grace. There was no denying the familiarity between them even through the ceremony. Our people will certainly see it. And I'm quite sure it will fuel scandalvid rumors. Not that I would object to unifying our realms by marriage.

Melissa waited until they were done before she signaled the commencement of the arrival review. Maurer was present with some of the High Command, including Jasek and Roderick. Martin Kell and Patrik Fetladral would be introduced afterward and Julian Davion following. Nathaniel, in turn, introduced his generals and Colonel Laughlin with all due formality. The Court came next, of course, and from there they filed into the vehicles for the parade ground viewing of the First Royal Guards' detachments. The Wolves are still days out, but they will be in range for real-time communication in the next forty-eight hours. The battle is upon us. Melissa surveyed her best soldiers with quiet melancholy that the years of discipline kept from her expression. All my fault. If the worst should happen, Trillian, it will be up to you to see us through my mess. I have faith you will.




Trillian remained with Melissa and Nathaniel throughout the review, providing him a familiar face and showing in public the importance she'd attained as the Archon-Designate. The same held true for their arrival at the reception.

Nothing less than the Grand Ballroom of the Triad would due for a visiting head of state, and that meant guest lists in the hundreds that would include virtually everyone of the slightest noble rank on Tharkad, along with the rest of high society. The room was full of gowned, coated, and uniformed figures, with wait staff coming and going bearing fine wines and finger foods prepared by the best chefs on the planet. The flag of the Commonwealth hung from the walls, the blue Steiner fist on a diamond-shaped pentagon set on a darker shade of blue, now joined by the crowned gold-winged white hawk of the Royal Federation set on the bisected field of blue and red. Among the islands of blues and whites of the Lyran nobility, red uniform coats from Nathaniel and his officers were visible, with Melissa having insisted on every officer of Colonel rank or better being invited. There could be more, but a number refused to see to their troops' needs on landing. The Wolves are just a few days out.

As much as many present would wish to forget it, it was quite clear that the attendees were enjoying what might be their final night of reverie before dying at the hands of the Wolf Clan, or being driven into exile. That was an unavoidable subject to consider, for Trillian recognized a disturbing number of those present as the native "Homeless". They were those with noble titles on worlds lost to the Commonwealth stretching back to planets captured by the Combine during the Succession Wars. By law and custom the Archon had to assume the costs of their housing until such a time as they were either granted new estates on other worlds or returned to their lost holdings. Now their ranks swelled, and with every DropShip carrying them, the strain on the Commonwealth's budget grew worse and Melissa's popularity, and legitimacy, slipped further. Not even the arrival of the Arcadians was doing much to dispel the nervous feeling she felt in the air. The Wolves had been unbeatable so far. Who was to say a young ruler like Nathaniel, with an army that had never been tried in battle with the Wolves, could succeed where the Commonwealth's best and brightest failed?

The reception brought no reprieve. Even if there were no cameras watching, the cream of the Commonwealth were lined up to be introduced formally to Nathaniel. At this rate all the food will be cold before he gets to have any, Trillian pondered as the next well-dressed figure came up. Margrave Leopold Hatzfeld, a deposed noble from Kitzingen, executed a courtly bow towards the two sovereigns. "On behalf of my poor suffering people, I thank you, Your Majesty, for coming to our aid," he said, his Star League English accented with the particular German of Kitzingen "You carry our hopes with you into battle with the Wolves."

"I thank you, and God willing, I shall carry those hopes to Kitzingen, a world I am honored to consider a part of my Federation," Nathaniel replied in accented German. Margrave Leopold's eyes widened at it. "My German instructor hails from your fair world on my side and was a devoted servant of House Hatzfeld. Your world's liberation is my goal, that I assure you."

Leopold nodded gratefully before turning to Trillian and executing a second bow. Trillian offered her hand for him to plant a kiss on. "Lady Trillian, radiant as ever. I owe you my thanks for bringing the salvation of my House and world."

She brought the hand back, smiling despite the thoughts in her mind. You say that now, but you were, I recall, quite irate when last we met, as the Wolves advanced and your world's conquest remained certain. And I'm well aware you sided with Vedet and Maurer. "I was fortunate that His Majesty and his people are generous and kind. But thank you, my Lord, for your kind words."

"I don't suppose that a greater bond is in store?" Hatzfeld asked, and the tone of his voice put Trillian on alert. This was not a mere pleasantry being shared. He was fishing for information. "You remain unmarried, and His Majesty is as well. You two are said to be quite close."

Trillian fought to keep the blush from forming on her face. An urge to slap Hatzfeld arose but stopped before it reached her shoulder, let alone her hand. "His Majesty was quite kind to me as a host, but there is no such engagement," she said with forced politeness and a forced smile that she intentionally placed an edge on.

"My bride-to-be awaits my return from the war, I must say," Nathaniel added. He'd not recovered as quickly but his composure was still intact.

"Ah, my apologies then. Once more I thank you." At that Hatzfeld moved on.

Others came, and the question was repeated far too many times for Trillian's liking. They are not happy I was made the heiress. They dare not say much, at least not now., but they would certainly tutter about it behind my back if Nathaniel and I were betrothed. She glanced at the younger man as he fielded another noble greeting with practiced warmth and propriety. I suppose I would not be opposed to such a match. But today's savior could become tomorrow's 'foreign influence', and I am already a reminder that the Federated Commonwealth once existed. It would cause far more trouble than it solved.

Once the noble visitors tapered off Nathaniel's control briefly slipped. Relief showed on his face. "There is much to your court culture I am not used to," he admitted.

"So I recall," Trillian said. "It was an interesting contrast to experience for me, but I imagine it is very different from your position."

"I read that you were both more formal and yet informal than our own," Melissa said.

"Yes. My entry into a room, and how I am received, is dictated by ritual and form, but among the nobility there is less of a distinction for social status, at least when mingling." Nathaniel accepted a small meat-filled pastry from a passing waiter, a bite-sized hors d'oeuvre that he chewed and swallowed in about five seconds. "Once my formal entry is made and any ceremony and protocol is complete, I would be treated little differently. A certain distance due to rank, of course, but I would be approached freely by the others, even commoners in attendance, and we could speak on matters casually."

"I see." Melissa nodded. "Among our nobility being mindful of the social rank of those we associate with, and paying the due respect, is important at all times. No one wishes to snub someone with the means and influence to impact their House and any ambitions."

"So I imagine." Nathaniel took a small drink from the wineglass in his hand. The velvety-red liquid was the same as Trillian's own choice, and every bit as good as what she knew he enjoyed back home. "Truth be told I am eager to meet with Generals Maurer and Kelswa-Steiner to finalize dispositions for the defense. My generals and I have already discussed our part in your defense plans but we need to make the final arrangements."

"You will do so soon enough, I promise," Melissa said. "But for now, the reception is every bit as important."

Skepticism showed on Nathaniel's features, but he was too perceptive to voice it openly. "Morale is what you are concerned with?"

"Yes. Many of those here are officers of the LCAF, or related to those who are about to fight," Trillian said. "Having this reception gives them a chance for a final evening of pleasure before the bloody work of defending Tharkad begins. Moreso, it would be taken as an insult if they were to be snubbed the chance to meet with you, Majesty, as a visiting Successor Lord of a Great House. Archon Melissa's authority would be undermined."

"I see. Then I shall take this as a duty to my ally, and bear it as any other," he said. "It is, at least, an easier exercise than what I shall face shortly."

Trillian nodded and felt a tinge of guilt. Melissa would be, against all advice, presenting herself as bait for the Wolves to distract them from Trillian and other leaders. Nathaniel would be with Jasek and the others but, upon the Triad being threatened, intended to take the field with the rest of his bodyguard regiment as the final line of defense. She would meanwhile be kept safe in the command center, to be rushed to a DropShip if the worst happened so that some continuity of government could be maintained while they awaited reinforcements to reclaim Tharkad. Out of the three of them, she was the most likely to walk away alive.

Though if the worst happens, the Commonwealth will disintegrate, and I will be Archon of nothing. So I must only hope that the Wolves are stopped when they land three days from now.




“Give me the thunder of a thousand guns over the fanfare of one trumpet,”Talia Yuen muttered irritably.

“Quoting Victor Davion now, boss? Isn’t that grounds for being kicked out of the Guards?” Virgil smiled at her, flourishing his uniform’s half-cape.

“Victor was Steiner as much as Davion,” Talia replied absently. That was a long-running argument. Then she noticed the flirtatious looks Virgil was sending at an Arcadian staff lieutenant; actually quite an attractive young man, flattered by the dress reds the Arcadian forces used. But, unless she was very much mistaken, wearing what was either a wedding or engagement ring. She sighed. Virgil was her friend, and a reliable subordinate, usually. But sometimes he took perverse pleasure in living down to ancient stereotypes of his sexuality.

“Leutnant Pentecost, may I remind you we’re on duty tomorrow morning,” Talia hated how much she sounded like one of her less humorous instructors. But, it suited. “That means I need you functional. That means not hungover; not absent so I have to send the Snowdrops to drag you out of your latest boyfriend’s quarters; and not,” she finished with a tone of waspish irritation, “fighting another duel with an enraged husband.”

“Hey, when have I ever done that before?” Virgil protested, smiling still.

“Please,” Talia choked off a wildly inappropriate laugh. “Tell me I didn’t just hear the Rooster of Tharkad City, the Stud of Donegal Province, the man who’s fought three duels over married men in the last year, protest innocence!”

“I’m not stupid, Talia.” Virgil shook his head. “I know better than to pick a fight at the Archon’s reception. General Clarkston’d throw me into orbit if I did. But,” his smile turned impish. “Got you relaxed a bit, didn’t it?”

Talai refused to dignify that with a response. But, it was true; she found herself far less wound up while people-watching. At least, the military groups were mingling; Lyran blue and white uniforms mixed with Arcadian red, and the occasional splash of sombre Davion green. She shifted over to the nearest; mixed pilots and mechwarriors, listening to a Davion flier describe her Huscarl OmniFighter.

“ … turns like a battleship,” the Davion pilot explained, her hands moving in complicated gestures, “but with a rotary autocannon and a pair of the new heavy re-engineered lasers tied into a targeting computer,” a grin, white teeth standing out against dark features. “Ain’t nothing the Dracs or Cappies have that can eat fire from it.”

“Bah.” That came from a heavyset retried Kommondant, and Talia couldn’t stop smiling as she recognised him. The Baron Mannfred von Claudeitz had been one of her instructors at the Nagelring, an air-breathing fighter pilot in his active service days and a good one, at that. He’d made ace flying for the Tharkan resistance. This was an old theme for him. “All these lights, all these bells and whistles. Gadgets, nothing more!” His thick, snow-white moustache and sideburns bristled as he continued. “In my day, we flew like men! No working instruments, not even a gas gauge. A pilot’s skill came from his heart, his mind, and the seat of his pants.”

“Pretty big instrument panel you’ve got there, Baron,” the Davion pilot shot back, pointedly eyeing his more than ample build. Von Claudeitz just laughed it off

“Hah! I remember my last dogfight. One on one, right here over Tharkad City. I was on a routine patrol …”

As the Baron continued his story, Talia tuned out. She’d heard it often enough to have it memorised, as good a tale as it was. Movement caught her eye. She turned to see that the Archon, the Archon-Designate, and the Arcadian High King were coming down from the dais. They were going to mingle.

Resolution crystallized at an opportunity that might never come again. Talia moved towards the trio. They noticed her approach at about the five pace mark. Some recognition of just how bold, and potentially career-threateningly-dangerous, this all was occurred to her, but she was committed and her legs did not stop. "Highnesses," she said respectfully, bowing in court fashion.

"Lady Talia." Trillian spoke first and recognition showed quickly on Melissa's face. "Your Majesty, this is Lady Talia Yuen, heiress to House Yuen the Landgraves von Summerisle of Loxley."

“I also have the honour to hold a Hauptmann’s commission in Your Majesty’s First Royal Guards," Talia added respectfully.

"Hauptmann Lady Talia, an honor." Nathaniel executed a short, polite bow. "Yours are the forces that will be defending the Nagelring, I believe?"

“Some of my fellow Guards have that honour, Highness,” Talia replied. “My command’s assignment is to defend the Tharkad City railyards.”

"Ah, true, the First is to be spread out, thank you for the clarification," he answered. The error was a minor one and he took the correction with obvious grace. "I imagine you have seen quite a bit of combat these past few years, but either way, I'm confident you will hold the Wolves in that quarter. Depending on how matters go I may well be joining your defense."

There was a familiar sort of energy to his words, ones Talia had heard many a time before from any number of Leutnants. It was not the vainglorious confidence of a noble's child convinced of their imminent martial glory, nor the exuberant lack of caution from a young officer heedless of danger and ready to do their part. Nathaniel reminded her of a freshly-minted First Leutnant who, while having never seen combat, was mature enough to be aware of what it meant and of his responsibilities as a leader. Except his responsibility is not towards a lance of MechWarriors but a whole army.

“I … would consider that a signal honour, Highness,” Talia chose her words carefully. “But, for duty’s sake, I must hope that such circumstances do not occur. It would, after all, mean that the situation has become considerably worse than we all hope it will be.”

"That is typically the case when the reserves are given a new assignment," he observed.

“True, Highness,” Talia acknowledged. She turned to Trillian next. "Lady Trillian, please accept my congratulations for your position, and my thanks for all the work you did to serve the Commonwealth. Not only for the allies you've brought, but for restoring the rightful Archon."

"Thank you, Lady Talia," Trillian replied politely. "Would that I could do more."

An uncharitable thought about Trillian not being in the battle slipped through Talia's mind, but she recognized it for what it was and paid it no heed. There are enough nobles willing to charge headfirst into battle; and few who could have brought the Arcadians here in a mood to help. "You have done more than enough." Conscious of the amount of time she'd taken up, she gave a final bow of her head to Melissa. "Highness, I hope to hear of your good health when the fighting is over. We have just gotten you back and the Commonwealth would be poorer to lose you again."

"Thank you for the kind words, Lady Talia, and I hope to hear of your's when Tharkad is safe. The Commonwealth and House Steiner would likewise be poorer for the loss of the future Landgravine von Summerisle."

Nathaniel nodded. "I hope to hear from you as well. God be with you, Lady Talia."

Nothing more need be said. They continued on, having given Talia more than her fair share of their time. She watched them walk off before turning away. Virgil's wide grin greeted her. "Leutnant!" she hissed, stunned at how quietly he'd approached.

"Don't mind me. I just wanted to get a better look at that handsome young man who led his army to our aid," Virgil said cheerfully.

Images of the social fiasco of Virgil trying to seduce High King Nathaniel played through Talia's mind. General Clarkston would probably have them both thrown into Tharkad’s system primary, impracticality be damned. A volcano, at the absolute minimum.

"My, you wouldn't be my competition there, would you?"

The very thought brought a blush to her face, not just from her having not thought of it, but from the instinctive realization it was not a suggestion she would be opposed to. "Leutnant, I think you may have had entirely too much to drink," she said in a voice that would have chilled the hottest 'Mech back to ambient temperature.

"Quite possibly so, but you know the saying. 'Eat, drink, and be merry…!'"

"'...for tomorrow we die'," she finished for him. "Or seventy hours, in our case."

A somber look crossed his face. "My point, Hauptmann, is that you have done everything humanly possible to ready us for the storm. So while we still have the calm, enjoy it."

He's not wrong, she reminded herself. "Very well. Just don't land us both before an honor court before the night is out."

"They'd never finish the proceedings before the Wolves arrived," he pointed out jovially.

Talia sighed but, despite herself, smiled. "Perhaps not." A scan of the hall caught sight of Berry, disconsolately meeting what was probably another unwelcome suitor. And her grandmothers momentarily not in attendance. “Now, come on my lad,” she indicated, “we’ve got an extraction under fire to perform.”




With the reception finally, thankfully, over, Nathaniel joined Melissa and Trillian in the Triad's War Room. While different from the one he knew from experience in the sublevels of the Royal Palace back on Arcadia, it shared the predominant feature of the great holotable in the middle projecting a map, though this one was centered on Tharkad. His eyes instinctively drifted down to the world of his birth and recoiled at the sight of Arcadia not in magenta or even blue but Clan Wolf's amber color. It is not my Arcadia, he reminded himself, startled by the fury he felt within at the thought of it. Father was just a small child when Scipio came for us in 3099. But Grandmother and her father, Ethan, how they must have felt at the thought of Arcadia colored O'Reilly red! His eyes took in all of the systems marked in amber color. The Wolves' Empire, while not to the size of his Royal Federation, were nevertheless an impressive achievement in terms of volume of space. Many of the worlds they hold are ones in my nation on our side of the Glass. Those people, those cousins of ours, now labor under the domination of the Wolves' eugenicist warriors. This will not stand!

It was not a new sight, he'd seen this map before, but seeing it in this size and detail reminded him of the scope of the Wolves' ambitions, and of how far he and his army would have to go to put an end to them. It will take time. Maybe years. And yet, it must be done. I cannot go home until I have fulfilled my pledge.

Jasek Kelswa-Steiner and Roderick Steiner were still in their LCAF dress uniforms and Julian Davion in the AFFS dress uniform, complete with sunburst vest along the left side of the jacket. Nathaniel's commanders were now in duty reds, presumably having swapped after leaving the reception early. Maurer, who had not attended the reception, was in regular LCAF duty dress.

"Gentlemen and ladies." Melissa nodded to Brigadier Luisa Fraser, the wide-shouldered and strong-jawed woman in command of the Arcadian Rangers who, unlike the others, wore a green beret with her unit's patch. "Are we prepared?"

"Our final assignments are confirmed, yes," Jasek said. "General Proctor-Steiner-Davion and General Bridger made suggestions and we've taken them into account." With tap of a key at the control beside him, Jasek switched the holotank to a projection map of Tharkad. Strategic positions were as Nathaniel remembered them with no new adjustments of major note. Jasek laid out the assignments of the Second and Third Proctor Guards to Heidelberg and Franz respectively, as well as the final assignments of the First Davion Guards and the other Lyran formations that made it planetside. The Arcadian Rangers would be distributed to a fortified series of DropPorts on Grolsch and the Tatiana Islands that would let them rapidly deploy in their DropShips as raiders or emergency reinforcements.

"There was no debate on your Lifeguards, Majesty," Maurer said. "We expect Seth Ward to assault the Triad as quickly as he can, and we cannot rule out any number of strategies to bypass our defenses. Having your bodyguard regiment protecting the Triad makes perfect strategic sense."

"We will be ready, I assure you," Nathaniel said.

"Aye." Laughlin nodded. "We train for this kind of fighting. The Wolves will get an iron boot to their jaws if they come here."

"Hopefully it will break their teeth," said Jasek. "At minimum, we need to hold them until the rest of your troops arrive. But the sooner we eject them from Tharkad, the better. The more we fight here the greater the damage, and the Commonwealth's taken enough hits already." He gave Melissa a stern look as he said those words.

Melissa smiled thinly. "My mind is made up, Lord Jasek. I have played my part in this fiasco. Let the Wolves come for me if they choose it. It may make them easier to defeat in the end, and it's important to keep them from the rest of you."

She said the words like a woman who didn't care that it might mean her death. Nathaniel pondered what might drive him to make a similar decision, to simply sit in his throne and wait for an enemy to charge their armored infantry or 'Mechs through his Palace. I would want to be in a 'Mech. Grandmother would have gone to her machine whatever the doctors warned.

"Your Highness, my Lords." One of the LCAF CommTechs looked up. "We are detecting an incoming signal from the Wolf fleet. Message only, we're still not close enough for effective real-time communication."

Melissa nodded. "Play it."

The holotank shifted to show an image of a man Nathaniel felt to be not much younger than his Uncle Peter. He wore a gray jumpsuit marked with the Wolf's Head insignia of Clan Wolf and a red star over a brown square on the collar, a gray cape of wolf's fur flowing over his shoulders and out of sight. His eyes glistened with haughty pride. "I am Seth Ward, Khan of the Wolves. My pack comes to claim Tharkad for our mighty Wolf Empire and exact our rightful revenge upon your treacherous Archon Melissa. Whom among you intends to defy the Wolves' vengeance?"

Another data window appeared on the holo-tank, showing a list of forces. Nathaniel read over them. "Alpha Galaxy, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Zeta, and Kappa too." Roderick Steiner's jaw clenched. "The troops reported burning for Tetersen and Gibbs must be Epsilon then."

Nathaniel nodded. Numerically we may be superior, but the Wolves' reputation does not make me confident this will come down to numbers. They will choose where to hit and we must defend multiple points. And many of the Lyran formations are the remnants of broken units turned into composite brigades.

Matthew snorted at the list. "I still don't get it. Telling the people you're invading what you've got, even including full TO&Es?"

"It is the Clan way," Khan Fetladral said, speaking for the first time. "The defender can choose how best to bid. But the Crusaders do not issue the batchall for honor but for intimidation."

"Well, what do we send them in response?" Matthew glanced to Nathaniel. "I'm not comfortable giving them our TO&Es and the like. We'll lose the element of surprise with some of our machines."

"Odds are the Sea Foxes have already cost you that edge," Jasek said. "They've had enough time to get plenty of info on your 'Mechs and they'll be selling that to the highest bidder."

"Archon, I will leave that choice with you," Nathaniel said. "But if you might humor me, I would like my reply to the challenge sent."

"I can hardly refuse you given you intend to protect my palace," Melissa said. "When do you want to record it?"

"We can do so now."

The others stepped away and Melissa gave a nod to the CommTech. "We're transmitting, it will take a few hours for the Wolves to get the signal." He indicated the holotank. "Recorder in the holotank is taking your image, my Lord. Transmitting in ten… nine… eight…"

Nathaniel drew in a breath and steeled himself. This is as much about morale as it is ritual. Khan Fetladral is right that this is intimidation. Maybe this will make the Khan wonder just what he is fighting. Or make him underestimate me if he thinks I am a fool. Lord, this does feel foolish, like I am in a holovid of some sort. But theatrics can count.

"...transmitting."

Nathaniel focused his eyes forward. "Khan Seth Ward of the Wolf Empire, I am Nathaniel Proctor-Steiner, High King of the Royal Federation, and I answer your challenge. My army of crusaders now stands before your ravenous pack. We will fight to protect the Archon and people of the Lyran Commonwealth." In a long-practiced move, he pulled the Sword of Liberation from the scabbard and held it, blade flat, towards the holotank. "Here on Tharkad, your victories cease. Here on Tharkad, the Wolf Empire begins its end. And when we are done, not a single world will fly your cursed standard, and not a single wrist will bear your vile bondcords. So I swear, on the honor of House Proctor, and by the blood of my ancestor the Liberator and all she built. So come, Khan of the Wolves, and face the might of the Crusade!"

After several seconds Nathaniel lowered the Sword and nodded to the CommTech, who seemed half-bemused and half-impressed before pressing keys on his control. "Transmission sent."

"Send to them our roster of defending units as well," Melissa said. "Not our troop placements, I will let Seth Ward wonder just who and what is where. His aerospace crews can do some of the work for him. But let him stew on what he faces here."

Patrik crossed his massive arms and smiled at Nathaniel. "You have goaded him quite well, King Nathaniel. His Wolves are proud of the title 'Crusader', and you declare it your own. He will certainly be furious with that."

"Either way, show's over," Jasek said. "It's time everyone started making their final preparations, we're at sixty-eight hours before they're on landing approach and there's plenty of work to be done."

"We'll be ready," said General Allen Proctor. The gray-haired commander of the Second Proctor Guards was a very distant relation, a descendant of a cousin of Sara the Liberator, one of Nathaniel's namesakes in the family.

"Just keep in mind we've got no room for error here," Roderick reminded the assembled. "This is for everything. Let's make it count."

Nathaniel nodded in agreement.

Chapter 9 - Ice, Snow, and Death


Hersch Pass, Weishaupt Mountain Range
Franz Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
Transglass Inner Sphere
20 June 3143


Missiles streaked through the air and descended upon Frederick Wolfe's Sunhawk. While his heart pounded his left hand punched down the key to activate the fifty ton OmniMech's myomer accelerator circuitry, pushing his machine to a run of over a hundred fifty kilometers per hour to evade the incoming fire. He glanced at his tactical display long enough to confirm the rest of his lance were right behind him in their Guerrilla OmniMechs. Lieutenants Alex McNaughton, Amira bint Khalid, and Paora Munihera kept the pace with their own machines' MASC likewise engaged. Alex, with some skill, twisted the humanoid machine's towards the origins of the missile streaks in the sky and let loose a counter-salvo of thirty long-range missiles from the torso-mounted pods on their machine, while Amira's advanced ECM system jammed the incoming Clanner missiles to undermine their target locks. Wolfe checked his own crosshairs as well but confirmed he had no such shot with the Clanners hiding behind the ridge line along the western edge of Hersch Pass. Until he had line of sight on the missile-carrying enemy 'Mechs his laser armaments were useless.

Alex's LRM salvo was not alone. A lance of Whippoorwill hovertanks from the Fourth Royal Cavalry Regiment rained forty LRMs apiece upon the ridge line. Explosions flowered on unseen targets, more than Frederick expected until he noticed the Hummingbird III VTOLs dancing in mid-air, using their agility and speed to evade fire while maintaining laser fire, and presumably TAG spotting lasers, on the enemy's fire support machines. One of the pilots' daring proved insufficient as clusters of submunitions found their rotor and half-tore off the whipping blade, causing the Hummingbird III to plummet groundward.

"Battalion Command to all companies, enemy forces confirmed heavy in Hersch Pass. Alpha and Bravo Companies are engaged with Four-RC, Four-AAR, and Seven-RAI elements. Relaying tactical instructions on Company Command channels." He mentally translated those designations: Fourth Royal Cavalry and Fourth Arcadian Assault, two of the armored regiments in the Third Proctor Guards Armored Brigade, and the Infantry Brigade's Seventh Royal Assault Infantry. That meant a mix of mid-weight cavalry tanks and heavy and assault-weight tanks with mechanized assault and heavy-weight battle armor suits. With both 'Mech and organic VTOL support like they had overhead now, it was a strong defensive force that could repulse an enemy brigade and hold the Pass.

Assuming the enemy didn't put long-range weaponry on the western ridge and flank the line, anyway.

His systems warned of a hard targeting lock. Wolfe veered his "Mech against the DI Computer's input, barely evading a sizzling laser beam from an enemy machine now cresting the ridge. He fired snap shots with his arm-mounted large lasers. One beam missed entirely but he was rewarded by a bright flash of molten metal from one shot slicing into the armor of a low-shouldered machine. The warbook quickly identified it as a Black Hawk OmniMech on his systems. Looks to be packing similar armament to me, he mused at seeing the laser assemblies mounted beside the 'Mech's hand actuators. A bright sapphire beam sizzled through the air and glanced along his Sunhawk's upper torso, above and to the right of his cockpit. He returned the favor with a shot that just barely missed. Before he could fire again, a gauss slug smashed into the torso of the Black Hawk. The Clan machine retreated back above the ridgeline.

"Bravo Lance, we'll give you cover fire." Captain McGruder's voice crackled over the line. Wolfe's tactical display showed the approximate position of her Ranger and the rest of Alpha Lance. "Charlie Lance is moving into an enfilading position to the southwest, but we need that ridgeline."

"Roger, Charlie Command. Bravo Lance, on my six." Wolfe checked the height of the ridgeline. At least forty meters up. Too high for a direct jump, we'll have to get up the incline a bit. "Keep your MASC engaged as long as you can." If our Techs did their jobs right the actuators should be in good enough shape to keep this up.

At his lead Bravo Lance rushed along the snow-packed ground of Hersch Pass. Alex kept their LRM bombardment up whenever they had a fresh salvo loaded, which contributed to the counter-fire from the three remaining Whippoorwill hovertanks that kept the enemy forces honest. A platoon of Bombardier suits freshly dismounted from a Grand Bull transport added to the counter-fire while sheltering behind the Bull, each firing eight missile salvoes from their back and left arm-mounted launchers. The air overhead was filled with missiles and the beams of laser light stabbing at the determined Hummingbird choppers maintaining TAGs on the enemy machines. The fight was big, almost chaotic, and Wolfe and Bravo Lance were just one cog in a much larger tactical machine being built back at Battalion Command. If the Clanners force the Pass they'll have an open line to Bauer's factory site, Wolfe thought. Best to stop them here, and that means taking that ridgeline and protecting the flank.

The ground sloped upward as they approached the lower edge of the ridge. He searched for a path up but found none, at least none in visual range. Means nothing close enough, we'll have to make the jump. His machine would just barely make the height but the others, he expected, would enjoy several more meters of clearance in their jumps.

The Black Hawk appeared at the ridge crest again. A fusillade of missiles erupted from the ridge line. Alarm warnings sang the moment Wolfe's instruments confirmed the missiles haad a lock. Adaptive warheads, no minimum arming range, just like our Terran-tech launchers. Without AMS mounts they had no means to shoot down the missile bombardment, but Wolfe hoped that a run speed of a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour would provide a defense of its own. Missiles rained down around Bravo Lance regardless and the reverberations of direct hit echoed in his cockpit, if not as many as he feared it could be. His displays flashed yellow to show where the missiles had chipped away at his armor plate with their warheads. Still, no penetrations. Laser streaks and tracer fire filled the air before him. More red showed on his monitor, to the right. One of the Clanner "Stars" had broken the line and were gunning for his lance.

The Black Hawk's arms lowered and fired at them. The pilot's gunnery was not lacking and the Clan warrior had led his shot well. Both large laser beams carved into Wolfe's 'Mech, flying armor from his right leg and right arm. He frowned at seeing he right arm large laser icon go red. Damn lucky hit! The Sunhawk wobbled under his control from the loss of nearly two tons of armor plate. Wolfe focused and held the throttle forward, letting the DI compute adjust while his forward motion evened out the wobbling and kept him moving. Closer… closer… He lifted the left arm and fired a laser shot that speared the Black Hawk in the chest. The beam played over the gauss slug's handiwork and thick oily smoke poured out with a stream of flaming liquid. Got a heat sink!

"Crap!" The call came from Manihera. "Right arm lost! Took an autocannon burst!"

"We're almost there," Wolfe replied. "Hold your courses, MechWarriors!" He said the words and felt an echo in his head. 'Hold your positions, MechWarriors!' That's what Lance Loo Miller said in the Wood. Said it until that Drac bastard put a PPC into her cockpit. He pushed the hot memory away with a moment of will, aided by the impact of an autocannon burst that tore his 'Mech's right arm away. This isn't the Wood! Keep it together!

His Sunhawk slowed on the incline up the ridge. 'Mechs with hand actuators and very good pilots could have scrambled their way up, but Bravo Lance had another, faster method. The moment his speed dipped steeply from his feet fighting for purchase, Wolfe slammed the key to turn off his MASC while his feet pressed his jump jet pedals. Jets of plasma-fueled flame lifted his 'Mech skyward, meter by meter. This is going to be close!

Just seconds after his cockpit view cleared the gray and brown rock of the ridgeline his jump jets howled their five second fuel warning. He shifted his feet to direct the thrust and push him laterally forward in those final few seconds. He was rewarded by the sensation of his 'Mech hitting solid ground. Immediately he confirmed his surroundings. The force of enemy 'Mechs were joined by two dozen armored infantry soldiers, half of them at the ridgeline with visible LRM packs on their suits and the other half further back. He ignored them to focus on the Black Hawk that had pestered Bravo Lance and wounded his machine. It was already tracking its laser arms on him. Can't take that hit! he thought while spitting his crosshairs on the Black Hawk. He squeezed all of his triggers. A sapphire beam from his left arm joined the emerald of his torso-mounted medium lasers and the biting ruby needles from the head-mounted micro-pulse laser. The Black Hawk moved at the last moment, shielding its gaping wound from his laser fire, but it was too close to dodge completely. The lethal light cut deep into the Clan machine's body. Wolfe was rewarded by the telltale wobble of a 'Mech afflicted by a gyro hit. Go down! Go down damn you! he thought while heat warnings blared in his ears. The cockpit was becoming a sauna between the heat of his lasers and the full burn jump it took to ascend the ridge.

But the Clan MechWarrior was too skilled. They kept their machine standing and brought their machine's arms to bear on his 'Mech.

Five more emerald beams converged on the Black Hawk. Three struck home, one exacerbating the first wound and another adding to the one Wolfe had just inflicted. A moment later a dozen missiles crashed into the Wolf 'Mech, all of them on its central body. Repeated explosions tore metal hide and bone alike from the 'Mech, leaving smoking wounds as it finally toppled over. With his heat lowered, Wolfe took a final laser shot with his left arm into the opened guts of the Black Hawk, spearing the fusion vessel within. Plasma briefly splurted from the wound, incinerating snow in plumes of steam when it hit the ground, and the 'Mech grew completely still.

The rest of Bravo Lance landed beside Wolfe's cooling machine. "Good kill, team," he said, turning his focus on the rest of the enemy. His crosshairs focused on one of the battle armor soldiers rushing towards them. The micro pulse laser mounted under his cockpit blazed once more. "Maintain the engagement. Clear the ridge!"

Bravo Lance advanced, weapons blazing, while a company of Hummingbirds moved overhead to drop their squads of Man-at-Arms battle armor suits into the fight. Wolfe let his 'Mech cool off another couple of seconds before returning to the fray.




Tharkad City Municipal Railyards
Bremen Continent


"Well, Hauptmann," Leutnant Bentley said, wincing as the medic extracted one last ferroglass shard from his side, stifling a curse as they quickly disinfected and bandaged the wound. "We found them."

That much was obvious; the demi-company of hovercraft parked in the empty marshalling area showed it. Holed lift skirts, scorched and splintered armour, and Bentley's Condor was missing one of the missile racks mounted high on the rear deck. More medics were tending to injured crew around them.

"We couldn't get far into their recce screen," he continued. "But I'd peg it as at least a full cluster; we marked elements of two more trinaries beyond the one screening."

Talia nodded, looking at the Tribune's map table. They'll hit the remote sensor fields in a few minutes. "Okay. Get your people under cover, Bentley. And thanks."

She turned to face the comms board. "Positions, everyone. I'll coordinate from here. Remember, call for defensive fires as and when you need. Captain Rosenthal, any air support you can get us."

"Got the biggest dogfight since Tikograd going on overhead," the Davion officer replied calmly. "But I'll see what I can do." She noted the image's background, that Rosenthal was strapped into the cockpit of his Vulpes. That led to thoughts of her Regent, she could command almost as well from there as here. No, Talia thought, taking a calming breath. Not yet.

The clatter of tank tracks, the crunching of heavy duty vulcanised rubber tires on gravel, and the tread of BattleMechs came from outside, icons spreading out on the tactical displays. Voices, as well — a shouted demand to know where their reserve mortar bombs had gotten to, battlesuit-amplified voices directing vehicles to their positions, one torrent of abuse from a militia sergeant aimed at a luckless battlesuit trooper who'd driven their Fenrir through a mortar pit's sandbag walls by accident.

"Long Tom section Gamma to commence firing FASCAM as the Wolves hit the outer edge of the remote sensors," Talia ordered, calculating range fields. "Mortars and LRMs to commence at eight hundred metres. Priorities are long-range platforms and any command units you can identify." Unlikely, Clanners didn't tend to readily identifiable tactical recog markers, but it was worth a try.

Amber icons started to appear, the solid burn of definite contacts rather than the flicker of probables, and the heavy concussion of the Long Toms firing began its steady metronome, like a door slamming amplified a hundred times over.

In many ways, it was the sound that kept her reminded that this wasn't just another kriegsspiel session in the Nagelring's command simulation rooms. The dislocation, the first time she'd commanded from relative safety rather than leading from her 'Mech's cockpit, unsettled her, and Talia clung to the sounds to keep herself grounded. The Long Toms' deep, booming rhythm, intensifying as the whole demi-battery began shooting. Sharper cracks of mortar fire, infantry and 'Mech-mounted both. Rippling shrieks of long-range missiles. Finally, the dry stick snaps of laser and Gauss fire, and the lightning-bolt roar of particle cannon.

Talia frowned as she watched the icons moving, flickering with damage codes and status updates, speaking softly as she directed fire missions and short counter-punchs. Something is wrong here, something is very fucking wrong. A straight attack from line of march was standard Clanner tactics but all that she could see was a single light trinary and what looked like a pair of vehicle binaries. This is the obvious move, and it's obviously going to fail; it might have worked on militia alone, but the Wolves had to know they'd be up against more than that here. Just ignoring that wasn't their reputation or her own experience with them, at all.

"Goddammit, you worthless tankborn bastard," she whispered, too low for her headset to pick up, cursing the anonymous Star Colonel facing her as Wolf icons began to black out and the air lance went in. Downblast from the VTOLs' rotors rattled roof panels as they flashed overhead, lasers, particle bolts and missiles clawing grievous wounds into a lightweight Gambit, sending the ex-Marik machine crashing to the ground in wreck. One of her pilots didn't live to see it; a light tank's flak shells shredded their rotors, left the VTOL spiralling into a building. "You're murdering them, you're murdering good soldiers, call them back."

Something snagged at the edge of her thoughts; a reason the rest of the Wolf cluster hadn't put in an appearance yet. Talia's frown deepened as she turned the thought over in her mind, and her blood ran cold as it clicked. Yes. Yes, it would work. It'd need troops with absolute faith in their commanders, and those commanders to be willing to countenance anything for victory, but the Wolves had both.

"All elements, beware of feigned retreats," Talia said over the command channel, speaking slowly and carefully to ensure no confusion. "And under no circumstances are your units to advance beyond five hundred metres from the railyards without my express order. Acknowledge." Affirmative responses came back, from all but one. "Kirklin, respond. Hauptmann Kirklin, acknowledge receipt of orders." Still nothing.

Talia felt like swearing at the top of her lungs, or throwing her headset across the compartment — neither advisable — as she recognised exactly what Kirklin had done. The old frequency switch; a dodge she'd used herself to avoid unwise orders. But now, it may mean disaster.

"Rayne," she called up the senior mechwarrior cadet. Daughter of a duchess, Talia remembered; one of the Homeless, granted, but highborn enough that Kirklin might listen to her. "Get over to Hauptmann Kirklin's position, relay my orders to hold position to her, and report back to me. Go." And now is the time, I think.

Barely waiting for the mobile HQ crew's acknowledgement of orders to route command comms to her 'Mech, Talia sprinted across to where the Regent knelt, hooked up to an auxiliary power truck. Scaling the chainlink ladder and pulling it up behind her felt like a homecoming; so did stuffing her battledress jacket into a storage locker and hooking sensor and coolant feeds up to her cooling suit. A familiar, centring ritual.

Running through the final power-up sequence, Talia checked her neurohelmet's throat-mic was in place and live before speaking slowly and deliberately. "Pattern check, initiate. Hauptmann Talia Yuen."

"Voice print confirmed," the soft, feminine computer voice, unchanged since the first Mackie took to the Yakima testing range more than half a millennium ago, responded. "Initiating code phrase check."

"Lux e tenebris." From darkness, light. Her family's motto.

Displays lit in a riot of colour, power and weapons readouts. Inertial compass. Targetying system.Tactical map displays. Talia focussed in on the last, resisting the urge to curse as she saw the icons of Kirklin's company pushing forward after the retreating Wolves, leaving the lone icon of Rayne's Barghest standing still.

"Ma'am." Even covered by her neurohelmet's 's visor, Talia could see spots of colour high on Rayne's dark-tanned features. "Hauptmann Kirklin directs me—"

"What did she say?" Talia pushed her Regent up to a low walk, moving to take her place in the defence.

"She said to… to teach your grandmother to suck eggs, and that I was a —" Rayne's flush deepened, and the cadet took a moment to control her emotions before simply saying, "She offered insult, ma'am."

"She was just as green as you, her first time in the ring, girl. Now, get on back to your position. We've got work to do."

When she was a cadet, Talia had watched the controlled demolition of a skyscraper, to clear ground for new development. The destruction of Kirklin's company reminded her of that accelerating collapse, where it had seemed, briefly, that nothing was happening and then everything began to happen at once.

One moment, Kirklin's company were chasing a weaker foe, withdrawing in good order. The next, as the fleeing Wolves turned suddenly at bay, dropping the jamming fields that had shrouded them two fresh trinaries emerged from hiding, pouring fire into Kirklin and her troops. Damage codes flickered faster than her eyes could track, the Long Toms' salvoes redoubling in intensity, shredding through ammunition and barrel life at maximum rate to try and arrest the inevitable.

It wasn't enough. Within less than a brace of minutes the Hesperan company was gone — Kirklin dying last, a monstrous Tomahawk eviscerating her Atlas even as her own fire ripped the arm and shoulder mounts from a Turkina — save for a fleeing Sarath, its turret blown apart, and a short squad of Standard battlesuits clinging to the Sarath's back.

And just like that, a company of veteran troops with a solid commander get pasted. Damn. There was no time for more; the Wolves were still advancing.

"Call it out, people. Any backup we've got, now."

The Tribune's crew offered a combined arms battalion, mixed Davion Guards and Stormhammers, driving up from the south and twenty minutes out. That was good, better was who was leading it. Julian Davion, a name and a reputation that was worth that battalion twice over. Rosenthal added a demi-squadron of Stukas, five minutes out, but only for one pass before they'd need to break off and rearm.

It'll do. "Rosenthal, call the strike," Talia ordered, reaching her own chosen position, holding the gap between the cadet BattleMechs and Virgil's lance. Exactly the place to put the best machine you had. She closed her eyes for a moment, just listening to the comms traffic.

" … remember, aim high on an Elemental. Take out the missile launcher and the suit's power pack goes with it." Leutnant Price, briefing another of the cadet battlesuit troopers.

" … Yankee White squadron, confirm attack direction west. Targets in open, you are cleared hot." Rosenthal, calm and collected as he guided the aerospace pilots in.

" … that's it, boys. Keep those pretty backsides towards me and the sharp ends at the Clanners. I can restrain myself and they can't." Virgil, coolly amused and contemptuous of the Wolves.

" … first man that runs gets my bayonet in his guts." Scatter from the militia infantry's squad channels, some nameless NCO with a warning as old as battles. Her mother's words, from that long night of drunken truths before she'd deployed for the first time, came to Talia; The first task of command is to make men and women face death. Love, respect, fear; you use whatever works.

And the Wolves came on, more numbers now than she had now. But not enough to win decisively. "Don't think of it as being outnumbered, people," Talia put as much of a smile in her tone as she could, "Think of it as having a nice big target selection." Scattered chuckles answered that.

She drew her target-lock markers onto the Tomahawk centring the Wolves' advance. Almost certainly their CO, those things were rare enough that they wouldn't be trusted to a lesser warrior.

The Stukas came blazing out of the heavens, so fast they were barely on her screens before leaving them. The thunder of near-sonic flight nearly overwhelmed the noise of their autocannon and particle beams sowing destruction through the Wolf formation. Armour spalled away from tanks and 'Mechs, battlesuits came apart. Talia saw at least two 'Mechs, a Mad Cat III and an Executioner lose limbs, and the turret of an M1 Marksman rose into the air on a pillar of fire as its missile magazines blew.

"Let 'em have it, people," Talia called, stepping her machine forward into full view as she stabbed out lightning blasts at the Tomahawk.




Wolf Clan Command Post
Bremen Continent


Seth Ward's choice for his primary landing point had been an obvious one to Alaric and, as it turned out, the defenders. Without safcon the descent itself had been a rough experience and only through the profligate use of NL-45s and Isegrim Stars had they shot down enough Lyran aerospace to ensure safe landings for Alpha and Beta Galaxies. The move had, at least, ensured the other Galaxies a less-eventful landing despite harassing strikes by Arcadian aerospace elements on Delta Galaxy's landings. Nevertheless, after three days of battle it was clear the Wolves' victory would not be an easy one.

Seth Ward looked up from a fresh report from Heidelberg while the holotank continued to show the broad image of their operations. Alaric hid the grin at his frustration over the utter failure to accomplish everything. "Cooper continues to struggle?" he asked.

"These Arcadians fight more strongly than we expected given the Sea Foxes' information," Seth said. "Zeta has made no progress, nor Delta."

"I see. Still, they keep those Arcadian formations from joining the defense of Tharkad City, and contribute to our cause in that fashion," Alaric pointed out. He indicated the holotank's markings. "Gamma Galaxy has already broken one of their composite units and moves to secure the Lockheed-CBM facilities near Cold Creek. Kappa Galaxy forces the Buena Guards to remain in their positions at Weibetal to protect the TharHes facilities, and my Beta Galaxy is already holding down approaches to Tharkad City itself and pins the First Royal Guards to the Nagelring. Once Alpha is committed we can force an entry into the Triad."

"The First Davion Guards are not wholly drawn out," Seth reminded him. "And the Arcadians' raiders vex Gamma and Kappa Galaxy's supply lines."

"Yet they dare not come under the guns of our reserve formations or our DropShips," Alaric pointed out. "And I have tasked two of my aerospace binaries to intercepting them when they next move over Bremen. The raiders will be forced to disperse for evasion." Which will reduce their capacity for mayhem well enough, he added mentally, though he felt it didn't need stating. "As for the Davions, they are already drawn into fighting with my Clusters. Once Alpha is committed I will bring my best Cluster across their flank, here." He indicated the regions east of the Rail Yards. "We have worn down their defenses enough to ensure an aerospace approach vector. Together our best galaxies will strike at the Triad from two sides."

"I will take the Triad," Seth insisted. "You will hold the Davions in place." His lips curled into a disdainful grimace. "Do this well, Alaric, and I will nominate you for the next Bloodright to become available in our Bloodhouse."

It sounded like a generous pledge. But you will jump at the weakest Bloodright to offer me, and use my refusal, if it comes, to deny me further opportunities. And if I accept it… you will find other means to undermine me based on that choice. Regardless Alaric could not say such out loud. "Tharkad City will be ours. Have you given thought to preventing the Lyran and Arcadian leaders from fleeing our victory?"

"I have held an aerospace reserve to intercept and disable any ships fleeing the Triad," he said. "Once we have killed Archon Melissa and eliminated her protectors, the rest of their leadership will be our isorla or die."

And with that, the Lyran Commonwealth disintegrates, even if we are forced to fall back from renewed Arcadian reinforcements, Alaric thought. The Arcadians will be caught in a swamp of seceding worlds and local rulers and we — I — will have the breathing room we need.

"Return to your warriors and prepare for my signal," Seth ordered. "It will not be long in coming."

"Aff, my Khan."




The Triad
Tharkad City
23 June 3143


The War Room's holotank displayed the state of the ongoing battle. It provided Nathaniel a worthwhile visual aid to understand all of the reports coming in though, as always, it struck him as terrible impersonal. All of those towns marked in amber are homes for thousands, millions, of innocent Tharkadians now under the Clan boot, he thought. The losses are numbers, but represent so much death. So many souls lost to us. So many good people. His eyes journeyed towards the continents where the majority of his soldiers were fighting two of the Wolf Galaxies. By numbers the battles should have been in their favor, given the size of the forces engaged, but the Wolves were living up to their reputations. The Third Proctor Guards held Hersch Pass only by a sliver and were being slowly levered out of the Dietz River Valley by weight of firepower. The fighting on Heidelberg was static, but the Wolves' ferocity had led to losses on both sides.

This is what you want, cousin, he thought, his mind wandering to Lord Arnold back home. All this death, all to claim systems that have not flown our flag in peace since before you were born. You survived this hell, but maybe it changed you. Maybe you grew to like it? Why else would you press me so on readying to begin it again?! Nathaniel chuckled bitterly. And yet here I am. The warrior-king on a holy crusade.

Jasek glanced his way. "Highness?"

"Hrm?" Nathaniel shook his head. "Idle thoughts, Lord Jasek, nothing but idle thoughts of arguments at home. Is there more you wish to share with me?"

"Your Arcadian Rangers have taken some losses trying to hit Gamma Galaxy's rear areas," Jasek noted. "One of their raiding commands lost two assault DropShips to aerospace interception. But they have the Wolves' attentions diverted and Brigadier Fraser's keeping the tempo up."

Nathaniel nodded. More lives lost. "Then the strategy continues to go as well as we could hope."

"That's better than we've experienced since HAMMERFALL, Highness," Jasek answered wryly. "That's why I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"It usually does." Matthew Proctor-Steiner-Davion approached the two with his eyes on the holotank. "General Proctor's asking permission to launch a flanking counter-attack, he thinks he's got an opportunity to inflict a big loss on the Wolves."

Jasek brought up more information on the fight on Heidelberg. "Ordinarily I'd insist he not do such a thing," Jasek said. "It's too risky."

"Typically you don't expose yourself when your enemies are happily throwing themselves into your fields of fire," Matthew said with a certain bemused flippancy. Nathaniel considered if he might ever be jaded enough to talk that way about killing. When you see so much death in your life, I suppose you find shelter in dismissal of it. "But General Proctor knows his unit and he's not a gloryhound. If he thinks the Second Guards can deliver a hammer to the Wolves' flank I'm inclined to say yes."

"You know your commanders better than I, General. And the Second's been holding up well enough that I don't doubt their morale."

Matthew chuckled. "They're used to having to stamp down Communalist guerrillas that the UOG keeps arming in Porrima March. Now they've got a real fight. Shooting at proper BattleMechs is a relief from walking on eggshells." He turned his head to Nathaniel. "My Lord, shall I signal our blessing?"

Nathaniel thought on it for a moment before nodding. "Do so." General Bridger, the younger, would have launched without asking. Will do so if the Wolves provide him such an opening. He stared at the map and tried not to think of all the lives being lost in the hundred or so firefights breaking out across Tharkad.

"Trillian wasn't lying about you," Jasek said. When Nathaniel glanced towards him, he added, "She said you weren't a warrior type. You're playing one, but deep down, you just want this over."

"Don't we all?"

"I want the Commonwealth saved, and Skye recovered. After that, well." Jasek shrugged. "To be honest, I'd probably stay in the army anyway, Highness. It's a career, and I am quite good at it. And even in peace, I think there's always going to be a need for soldiers."

"A necessary one, I know." Nathaniel shook his head. "Yet I wish it were not so. War is a plague on mankind, and it has cost us all too much."

"So it has." Jasek looked beyond Nathaniel. His eyes hardened. "And there it is."

"Hrm?"

"The other shoe just dropped."

Nathaniel turned to the display to find out what he meant. He was greeted by the sight of multiple Wolf icons, including all of the markers with the Greek letter alpha attached, in motion.

They were all headed right for Tharkad City.

Yeah, Kirklin's overconfidence cost the defenders big.

Chapter 10 - Battle Royale


Tharkad City Municipal Railyards, Tharkad City
Bremen Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
Transglass Inner Sphere
20 June 3143


Five minutes. That was how long the Wolf skirmish line - thicker than he’d expected - had cost them. Looked at one way, no time at all.

Looked at another, an eternity.

Julian Davion pushed his Templar up to its full sixty-five kilometres an hour sprint, shouldering his way through a wrecked hoverbike dealership. Part of him winced at finalising the destruction of someone’s livelihood; another part cursed that it was in the way at all.

“All elements, keep moving,” he called over the general address. “Baker-six, status.”

“Stuck until the recovery team gets here, marshal,” the tank commander replied. “But we’ve got security out, and our guns still work.”

Julian acknowledged that before continuing forward, asphalt shattering under his ‘Mech’s broad, spade-like feet. He didn’t like leaving people behind, but there wasn’t a choice. And a crippled Kinnol, plasma-gutted VV1 Ranger and half-immobilized Demon, plus the better part of two squads of battlesuit infantry was usually accounted a fair trade for a brace of dead Jousts, twice their own losses in downed Clan battlesuit troops, and an SM1 and Wulfen captured. By most standards.

But not the ones I need to measure by.

He shook himself out of the doubting thoughts. There was no time to spend on them; the road ahead was clear, and from the pillars of smoke and flame, and the intensity of weapons fire coming from the railyards, not a moment too soon. So, now to reset the board.

“Callandre,” Julian ordered, “take Charlie unit, swing out right. Soon as we’re engaged, hit the Wolves right in the ass!”

“Gonna cost you, Jules.” From his old friend, the level matter-of-factness of those words spoke volumes of her worry.

“Then we pay it. Just be there when I need you.”

Callandre didn’t answer in words, her Destroyer drifting through the column in a typically Calamity display of driving skill, her own company accreting around her. Another Destroyer. Paired Fulcrum hovertanks. A Kinnol, twin to the crippled Baker-six, two Rangers screening a JES tactical carrier and a pair of Maxims laden with Cavalier infantry and field capture-trained combat engineers. And the hard-hitting core of Charlie unit’s fighting power, a trio of BattleMechs; Wolfhound, Gunsmith and Jaguar. They vanished into the sidestreets that Julian knew as well as Callandre, and he put worries aside. They’d be where they were needed.

Striding across the open plaza surrounding the railyards, his Templar covering a dozen metres with every step, Julian ordered Hauptmann Berger to extend her company left as soon as they punched into the railyards. Not one for words, the Stormhammer officer lifted her Thunderbolt’s autocannon-fitted right arm in acknowledgement; and that was a machine Julian knew he’d need to get the story of someday. How one of the handful of TDR-9NAIS prototypes had found its way into Lyran space …

Then they were through the railyard gates, and into a damn close approximation of hell.

Sprawling across the same area as most battlefields, the railyards had become exactly that. Julian’s eyes tracked across the burning wreck of a JES crawler. A disabled Shadow Hawk, sprawled in a wrecked warehouse like a gutshot infanteer, an equally dead Fenris lying where the Hawk's rotary autocannon had nearly cut it in two. Cauldron-Born and Exile Elementals fighting to keep a Blood Reaper and Crusader Gnomes back, while a rescue team cut open the cockpit of a downed Antlion. And a Crusader nova, light 'Mechs led by a Ryoken and swarming Toads, dashing in and out to bleed damage from an MFB and a pair of mobile Long Toms, and the mismatched battlesuit platoon and crippled Mad Cat and Gotterdammerung trying to protect them, like bandit kingdom arena games writ large.

"End this sport," Julian snarled, tying everything into his primary triggers. He drew target markers across the Ryoken, and gave it everything.

Brilliant golden daggers of laser-light, a roaring burst of eighty-millimetre shells and the headache-bright blaze of a particle cannon wrought havoc up and down the Ryoken. Armour shattered and melted, stripping the protection away from the Ryoken’s torso. Heat sinks burst in a gush of grey-blue coolant. And a spike of heat on thermals, coupled with a stagger in the Crusader machine’s step as it tried to steady itself, told of engine and gyro damage as an autocannon shell burst within its chest cavity.

That was all the Mad Cat needed. Thrusting its remaining arm forward, a lance of azure fire burned the Ryoken’s cockpit from its shoulders. The suddenness of their commander’s death froze the Crusaders for a moment; that, and the double-company force spreading out around Julian. Robyn duChaine’s Vulpes and a Stormhammer Thanatos, supported by a brace of Pattons, muscled the Crusader ‘Mechs back, leaving a Falcon Hawk broken into pieces behind them. The Crusader battlesuits wilted as well, the lash of particle beam and laser fire from a platoon of Hasek MCVs, disgorging infantry in Fusilier and Cuchulainn assault suits and backed by a Firestarter and Gauntlet more than they could stand up to.

“Never bet against a Davion,” an unfamiliar voice commented in Julian’s headset, laughter plain even in the heat-induced rasp; the identifier on his main console confirming it was from the Mad Cat. “They have been waging war since before it was fashionable. Star Commander Kezia Wolf; and my thanks for a timely assist.”

“Not a problem,” Julian replied, Berger’s company swinging out to the left as planned; the Crusader Blood Reaper leaping backwards on pillars of ion flame rather than try its luck further. “Situation?”

“Not good.” A second voice; male, young and a good deal more serious than Kezia’s. Video feed showed unremarkable features - ones that would’ve blended into a crowd on any world in the Inner Sphere - pale in the backlighting of a battlesuit HUD. “Leutnant Taylor Price, Marshal.” One of the Fa Shih suits, crouching over a fallen Elemental on a Long Tom’s upper deck, waved. “Got pockets of fighting all over the yards - stay down, damn you -” Price delivered a savage punch to the Elemental’s helmet as they tried to rise, then another that made Julian wince and finally stopped the Elemental’s struggles. “Last I saw Hauptmann Yuen, she was up by the north wall; your Captain Rosenthal was with her.”

"Right." Julian closed his eyes for a moment, centring the battlefield in his mind. Then, reading tactical feeds and coms traffic, and trusting the instincts developed on a dozen battlefields. "All elements, form lance groups and sweep, clear the Crusaders out. Callandre, frei jagd."

"Music to my ears, Jules."

Julian gathered the Gauntlet, a Typhoon wheeled assault tank and a Hasek loaded with Fusiliers, plus both squads of cadet Fa Shih suits clinging to the OmniMechs like Taygetan forest apes, and pushed forward between a pair of storage barns.

Thermal and magscan were almost useless, half-blinded by fires and wreckage; twice, it was solely the Typhoon's active probe that gave any warning of ambush. The first was easy; a point of Elementals whose headlong assault was no match for the fire turned on on it.

The second, not so much.

“Disperse!” Julian shouted as a Crusader Vulture scattered four-score long-range missiles across the street. Most missed, spending their fury on tarmac or buildings, but most wasn't all. Armour splintered away from impacts, two delivering a tooth-rattling concussion as they burst next to his Templar's cockpit.

"Kabilovic, take out that missile boat," Julian ordered, tracking a pair of much closer icons. "We'll handle the Hellions."

"Acknowledged," the Stormhammer mechwarrior replied, their Gauntlet's jump jets flaring as they cleared a storage barn, Fa Shihs dropping away like lethal snow.

Like knife-fighting in a shoebox, the brawl that followed was quick, ugly, and costly. Both Hellions were down and dead, one with most of its fusion core blown out through its back by the Typhoon's twenty-centimetre autocannon, the other with its cockpit torn open like a foil ration pack where Price and his squad had evicted the stubborn Wolf warrior after Julian had reduced its legs to molten wreckage. The light 'Mechs' blistering short-range laser arrays had told, though; costing Julian's team the Hasek, a Fusilier suit, and a laser and most of the armour protection down his right side. The Vulture knelt in shut-down surrender, torso ammo bays blown out, but its missiles had exacted a seller's price as well. Kabilovic's Gauntlet was a wreck, limping on a crippled knee actuator, an arm and most of its armour protection strewn across the tarmac, the Typhoon's turret-mounted Streak twin-packs torn away and the turret itself jammed in train, and three of Price's battlesuits down. One dead and two wounded.

One ‘Mech and a battlesuit squad. Battles have turned on less, Julian reflected, pushing forward again, Leutnant Price and his squad once again clinging to the Templar’s torso.

Open ground, and another battle half over before he joined it as Callandre's unit hit the Crusaders from the rear. A Tundra Wolf harrying a wounded Bushwacker - its shoulder-mounted missile launcher hanging down against the Bushwacker’s back like a broken limb - found itself assailed in turn by a Fulcrum, Ranger and Gunsmith. More individual acts played out - a one-armed Vulpes battling a Clan-built Thunderbolt given reprieve as engineer teams swarmed up the Crusader machine with grapple-rod and jump-pack; Cavalier and Fenrir squads pushing Elementals back from beleaguered Lyran mortar teams - but Julian put them aside, trusting his subordinates and concentrating on the battle's centre of gravity.

There! A Regent and a Rawhide dueling a Tomahawk. A bubble of space in the marshaling yard surrounded them, each side giving its leaders room for their battle; shattered battlesuits and the broken form of a Crusader Mad Cat III mute testament to its ferocity. So too was the state of the main combatants; one of the Tomahawk's weapons armatures lay in the snow, coolant flowing like blood from semi-molten gashes torn deep in the blocky torso by particle beams and heat spikes telling of reactor damage. The Regent was in little better shape, its frontal armour more memory than protection, staggering as though punch-drunk on a fused knee actuator.

But it and the Rawhide fought together like a well-oiled machine. The Tomahawk pilot was caught on the horns of a dilemma; to turn towards one would permit the other to get free shots. The Clanner wasn't panicking, they were too good for that, but Julian knew well how easy it was for a pilot in that situation to be put on their backfoot and pressed until defeated. So long as they were left to themselves, the Wolf pilot was not going to walk away.

He considered a shot at the Tomahawk before movement caught his attention. A Jupiter, battle-scarred but weapons still intact, pressed towards the fight. No, I don't think so.

“Try me, Clansman,” Julian called over general address as he locked his Templar’s batteries onto the heavier Crusader machine. The Clan pilot was no sibko-fresh rookie, twisting their machine’s torso in a sinuous evasive pattern. A Star Commander, at least; and they would have seen Julian’s own heraldry, Argyle's templar cross set into the diamond of New Syrtis in honour of both his homeworlds. A passage in the Remembrance and guaranteed use of their genes in the breeding programs, if they can best me; the only kind of immortality Clanners believed in and one they all craved. Laser fire strafed across the Jupiter’s weaving torso, tearing deeper wounds in the armoured shell; its autocannon stabbed out flickering lines of tracer in response, cratering the Templar’s thick shinguards. Fire lashed in from multiple directions, hammering the Crusader assault ‘Mech to its knees.

An explosion flowered in Julian's field of vision. He returned his attention to the Tomahawk in time to see it topple as well. Its remaining weapons armature was an exploded ruin, the machine struggling to even remain upright; Julian winced, knowing what an ammunition detonation felt like through a neurohelmet. The Regent and Rawhide took their shots well, cutting their way through broken armor to devastate the fusion plant within. A plume of bright plasma and a spike on the heatscan spoke of their success. The Tomahawk collapsed, going over like a forest giant.

The Regent, wounded and proud, turned to face him. A female voice crackled over his comms. "Welcome to the fight, Lord Markesan. Your timing couldn’t have been better." The mechwarrior’s personal heraldry had been scorched away, leaving only the lion’s-head insignia of the First Royal Guards, but the comms system’s ID coding tagged her as Hauptmann Talia Yuen. "You've worked them loose, now it’s time to these unwanted guests the door."

"Agreed." Julian turned his Templar back towards the fight.

With Callandre rampaging through their backfield, the Wolves had to’ve recognised their position’s hopelessness, but they were good enough soldiers that they weren’t going to quit easily. That much, Julian would give them credit and honour for, if nothing else; he'd known commands of the AFFS that couldn't have executed a fighting withdrawal so well, nor extracted as dear a price in blood, shattered armour and broken machines from their pursuers for every step. But weight of numbers and firepower told; if the Wolves' increasingly ragged formation wasn't actually running down the Archon Michael-strasse, they were backing up rather hastily indeed. Quickly enough that Julian was mainly engaged in stinging with long-range particle cannon shots before Yuen called a halt to the pursuit.

“All elements, hold up here, and get ready for retrograde back to the yards,” she ordered, planting her Regent’s boot on a fallen Shadow Cat.

“We can still catch them,” Julian commented over a private channel. He actually agreed with Yuen’s call, but it was worth hearing the why.

“We couldn’t; not decisively, not before they made it to reinforcements of their own,” Yuen replied. “They can back up faster than we can chase; and I’m not throwing away a definite win for a mirage.”

Julian was about to answer in the affirmative when the southern skies lit up. Bright, flickering stars of aerospace fighters interweaving, linked briefly by lines of light or the contrails of missiles and rising or falling out of sight, some trailing smoke. The spotlight-beams of sapphire energy from subcapital-class lasers, stabbing holes in the cloud layer. Long strings of tracer fire, more missile contrails, and light-gauge energy rays rising upwards. And the descent flares of DropShips and individual ‘Mech drop-pods, scores of them.

“Unfinished Book,” Julian cursed. “They’re landing directly on the Triad!” He started his machine southwards before Yuen’s voice stopped him.

“Hold up, and think for a minute,” she said. “You’d have to fight through the city and the Wolves to get there, and we don’t have the time. Covington, get me the stationmaster, now,” she added, speaking to someone on a side channel.

“ … this thing on? Good,” came through a few moments later, voice-only. “Marshal, Hauptmann, this is Emily Marks, stationmaster. Can’t get you directly to the Triad; the Wolves’ve cut the direct line. But, there’s a surface-access point about three miles west in the government district that is clear. Got a lance-carrying train ready to go as soon as it’s loaded; give me fifteen minutes and some willing hands and I can have a company entrained to follow after them.”

“I’ll lead the first group. My machine’s in better shape than yours,” Julian said, running through unit status in his head. “DuChaine, you’re with me, he decided after a moment, barely waiting for an acknowledgement before switching back to the link with Yuen. “I’ll borrow your Leutnant Price, if you can spare him?”

“Can, will,” Yuen replied. “Two of my MechWarriors as well. Berry, Rayne, you’re with Marshal Davion. Stick to him like glue, you understand me?”

“Reiner Hogarth’s got a battalion forming up to try and bull through,” Callandre chimed in, her Destroyer rocketing away with a pair of Fulcrums riding its flanks. And God bless that old clotheshorse for not waiting for an order, Julian thought at that news. “I’ll join up with them. Leave me some fun?”

“I always do, Calamity,” Julian responded with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel. “Let’s get moving.” And hope we’re in time.




The Triad


Nathaniel finished shedding his duty jacket upon entry to the 'Mech bay. Underneath he wore the standard-issue cooling suit of the AFRF, a full-body suit threaded with coolant lines, their connectors, and the medical sensors his 'Mech would use to monitor his vitals and condition. The crowned hawk rank insignia was fixed to the collar.

The bay itself was one of many that supported defense of the Triad, each holding a company's worth of bays. He glanced about to see a matched pair of Liberator OmniMechs stomping towards the exit under guidance from an armor-suited Tech. A Hector and a Thor straightened in their nearby bays before lumbering forward. His eyes journeyed past the adjacent bays filled with assault-weight 'Mechs to the bay where his 'Mech waited.

Liberator was its name, the traditional designation of the inherited 'Mech of the rulers of House Proctor, long before the Crusader-inspired OmniMechs he'd just witnessed departing were given their designation. While the name was once held by the Black Knight Sara Proctor piloted in the final battles of the Liberation War, now it was a PLD-3 Paladin. The seventy-five ton OmniMech's model was long associated with House Proctor and the Arcadian people. The locals often compared it to the Black Knight design and with justice as it shared many similarities to that machine, indeed had been inspired by it aesthetically. But where virtually all variants of that older design sported all-energy armament, Liberator was configured with Streak-system six-shot SRMs to go with the lasers set into the torso and left arm. The right hand was empty but could, with a flick of a switch, take control of the sword embedded into the OmniPod mounted on the arm. All my years of education and training and now it comes to this.

"Majesty!" Nathaniel turned to face Colonel Laughlin, also in a cooling suit with a gold hawk rank insignia on his collar. A platinum-haired man about Nathaniel's age stood beside him, a first lieutenant by his cooling suit's insignia and wearing the patch of the Lifeguards on his shoulder. The commander of the Lifeguards saluted, as did the lieutenant. Nathaniel returned the salutes. "Majesty, this is Lance Lieutenant Harold Grayston, I've assigned him to be your immediate lancemate and co-commander. You give the orders and he'll see his MechWarriors follow to the best of their abilities."

"Thank you, Colonel." Nathaniel nodded to Grayston. His memory felt kindled by the man, a resemblance he couldn't quite place. "You're from a House, correct? I do not recognize the name immediately."

"House Grayston of Clinton, Majesty," he replied. "My cousin holds a count's title that my mother relinquished before I was born."

A memory kindled in Nathaniel. "Lady Diana Grayston of Clinton? The former Solaris duelist called 'the Countess of the Silver Fuller'? She was your mother? Then your father—"

"Though I am not his legitimate issue, I am honored to call Duke Edmund de Fortemps of Bondurant my father," Lieutenant Grayston replied.

Nathaniel nodded. He glanced and quickly confirmed the bay next to his held not another Paladin but, on closer inspection, a Silver Knight, a more direct successor of the Black Knight but upgraded to an eighty-ton frame. Like his own 'Mech it was fitted with a sword while the left arm carried a large-scale shield. Several torso-mounted lasers were evident. "Your mother's BattleMech, if I recall," Nathaniel said.

"Yes, Majesty," he confirmed. "Silver Fuller is a standard type for her class."

"Ah. Well then." Nathaniel nodded to the machines. "Let's not keep the pack waiting. Slaying wolves is an old job for nobles, after all."

Harold grinned. "So it is, Majesty."

"By your leave, Majesty," Laughlin said, A nod from Nathaniel sent the older man to his waiting BattleMech. Nathaniel and Grayston traveled to their own. The bays adjacent were vacant, indicating their lancemates were already outside and waiting. Nathaniel shared a final salute before stepping onto the bay lift beside the AFRF MechTech at the controls. The lift moved steadily and brought him to the hatch more quickly than he would have climbed by rope ladder.

Once inside Liberator Nathaniel followed the pre-launch checks out of rote habit. Only after everything was hooked in and he was seated in the command couch did the realization strike him. I face death today. Not just my death, but the death of everything I dream to achieve. He drew in a breath to center himself. Lord above, help me. Grant me my father's courage and help me to survive this fight, for the sake of my people and the peace we will have again. The thought helped him push away the fear, at least, enough to focus on the final start procedures. At the computer's demand for a checkphrase for identification, he replied, "Heavy is the head that bears the crown".

"Checkphrase confirmed. All systems unlocked. Initiating startup sequence."

Nathaniel finished his final checks while the computer verified, in its usual fashion, that the reactor, sensors, and weapons were online and nominal. The flatscreen displays of the cockpit joined the interactive HUD showing on his neurohelmet visorplate to give him every bit of data he might need. He waited patiently for a Tech to wave him forward with a red lightwand before he pressed the throttle lever ahead. Myomer relaxed and contracted and Liberator took its first steps towards the battle. He noted his display giving the locations and status of not only Grayson's Silver Knight but the other two 'Mechs in the lance, a Mad Cat II and Thor. We look quite odd to these people, he thought, reflecting on how both of those designs had similar counterparts of primarily Clan-make. Now these designs shall be associated with their defense and, in due time, their liberation.

The techs waved him to the door. He brought Liberator into a steady walk, steeling himself for the battle to come.




The snow-crusted grandeur of the Triad stretched out before Seth Ward's vision. The feed from the Blood Claw's external cameras showed the tainted majesty of a Great House capital in all its stomach-churning "glory". His instinctive snarl gradually became a wolfish grin as his eyes made their final sweep of the environment and the adjacent displays on his Hellstar BattleMech. A den of treachery and deceit, like all of the Great Houses. But not after today. Today, the Wolf Clan destroys House Steiner and takes its next step towards our rightful destiny as ilClan.

The superb DropShip crew brought the Blood Claw down in one of the Triad's parks. The door cycled open and his personal Command Star in the Golden Keshik stormed out under a hail of missile and cannon fire from various vehicles and 'Mechs behind prepared positions. The Blood Claw's weapons were already engaged against these foes and Seth was quick to join them. He focused his targeting crosshairs on a Fafnir and pulled the triggers. Four bolts of particle fire crackled through the air in the instant before they blasted blackened shards of metal from the Lyran assault 'Mech. Intense heat briefly flooded the cockpit before the Hellstar's massive heat sink capacity dumped the PPCs' excess heat into Tharkad's frigid air. The Lyran 'Mech teetered from the ferocity of his strike but did not fall. The pilot within was rattled enough that his return fire with its heavy-weight gauss rifles proved less accurate, only one slug striking Seth's Hellstar. You will not get another chance to use those weapons, freebirth, Seth thought. As soon as his weapon indicators went green again, he fired another barrage.

Just as he fired, a Lyran Hauptmann lumbered between them, taking two of the hits. It staggered from the blow, delaying its retaliation shot long enough for Seth to side step the Hellstar. Behind him, Star Captain Caroline Vickers' Night Wolf fired a full barrage of ATMs into the Lyran. The Lyrans had long broken zellbrigen and the Wolves were well and ready to respond with the same behavior.

"My Khan." The voice of Star Captain Hans Radick, commander of the Golden Keshik's trinary of battle armor infantry, crackled over his speakers. "We have confirmation of Melissa Steiner's presence in the Lyran throne room."

Seth had briefly pondered doing the deed himself, but what mattered was Melissa's death, and his warriors were his blade in the end, so it was still his kill. "Kill her and any who oppose you. I will divert reinforcements to you immediately."

"Aff, my Khan. The Archon will be dead by the time you arrive."

Seth grinned even as his fingers triggered another PPC salvo, this one spearing the Fafnir in one of its massive heavy gauss rifle assemblies. An explosion told him he'd landed a direct hit on the weapon, causing its capacitors to discharge violently and damage the Fafnir's internals. He urged the Lyran pilot to fall, to retreat, and to give him the opening he wanted. Time to end this war. The Lyran Commonwealth dies today, with my Wolves' fangs in its throat!



Armed soldiers had the run of the Triad now. Melissa found herself the only figure not garbed in combat suits of some variety or another. Battle-armored infantry and the towering assault 'Mechs of the throne room were her only companions. Even the image on the throne's rarely-used holo-display communicator was the helmeted visage of her distant cousin Roderick Steiner, live from the cockpit of his Clan-built Rifleman. "You should withdraw with the others," he urged again. "We can keep the Wolves distracted."

"And they will tear up more of the Triad, more of Tharkad, to get at me," Melissa replied. She swallowed and wrestled with the latest burst of existential terror. Her gut twisted with fear at death, a death she was inviting by dangling herself, almost literally, over the Wolves' snapping jaws. "If we keep them concentrated it makes a counter-attack easier."

"Don't lie, Highness. This isn't about saving the Triad." Roderick's jaw clenched. He wasn't yet in combat, but soon enough he would be. "This is about your guilt. As if dying here will make up for everything."

"It won't. But nothing will, nothing short of saving the Commonwealth," she said bitterly. "I am already doomed to go down in our history as one of the worst Archons the Lyran Commonwealth ever endured. All I can do now is ensure the Commonwealth and House Steiner survive so that history is actually written by a Lyran hand. My decision is made."

Roderick grunted a non-committal acknowledgement before ending the call. Melissa drew in a breath and centered herself. She glanced to her defenders with guilt. More lives to be lost. But they fight for the throne itself as much as they do for me.

The sounds of battle were distant at first, but all too soon the cries and screams and thunder were audible. She slipped in protective ear plugs, a demand from Trillian and all the others, but it only delayed the return of those awful sounds. The bodyguard infantry took up protective positions around her and the 'Mechs shifted, their pilots preparing to fire their closer-range weapons.

The distant wall blew inward. Battlesuited Clan infantry were first through the breach, following their warrior code; eternal shame to the laggard, glory even in death to the foremost. And a glorious death they found, as two-score missiles, bright jags of laser fire and the shrieking tirade of the Atlas's multi-barreled autocannon transformed the breach into a pocket of Hell not even the legendary toughness of Elemental armour could withstand. But BattleMechs could; a dun-armoured Crusader Thor muscled its way forward, the pack-lord come to show its cubs how the job was done, one arm tipped with brilliant leaf-shaped blades of muzzle flame. Melissa clutched at her ears in reflex, despite knowing it wouldn't add any to the ear plugs’ efforts to deaden the shattering roar as massive shells walked a path of destruction across the Atlas's shoulder and arm. Even as the Atlas staggered back, raining armour shards across the marble floor, the Fafnir stepped forward to take up the challenge. Laser pulses bit into the Fafnir's armour. In answer, it simply fired its heavy Gauss rifles; and if the autocannon had been loud, this was beyond belief, a sound so immense it was impossible to hear, one felt by the whole body. Melissa actually saw the moment of impact, though it took long moments for her mind to process it; the Thor's armour seeming to flow like liquid as both hypervelocity penetrators slammed home, the shoulder joint exploding like time-lapse footage of a flower opening and the heavy-calibre autocannon crashing to the floor.

The Thor stumbled, its pilot shocked by the sudden loss of weight. Both guardian ‘Mechs stepped forward to finish it, but more Crusader battlesuits were swarming forward, through the breach in the wall and the main doors. A chorus of wolf howls filled the air along with the roar of jump jets as they came on, the battlesuited infantry of the Royal Guards met them with a counterpoint cry of “Steiner and Victory!”, laserfire and missiles. A dozen small engagements sprawled out across the throne room, gunfire and the cracked-bell ring of battlesuits slamming together in close quarters combat, others leaping for the twin Lyran ‘Mechs. The Atlas snatched one out of the air in a giant steel fist, crushed it and hurled the remains into the midst of the rest, scattering a squad like bowling pins. That was all Melissa managed to observe before one of the Guards bodily hauled her into cover behind the throne. "Stay down, Highness!" the guard shouted, the pleasantly melodious voice incongruous with the hulking enormity of the Grenadier suit they wore.

Melissa's initial instinct was to refuse but the fear of her situation drove her to the prudent acceptance. Only after she was covered behind the throne did she justify herself. If I'm exposed it's too easy for the Wolves. For the good of the soldiers I have to stay alive as long as possible. She recognized the rationalization immediately. In truth, her legs were frozen. With all the laser beams and missiles and ballistic rounds firing, she couldn't even conceive of emerging. Remorse for her decision quickly set in. I should've gone with the others. My ego led me into this. 'Be the bait'. This wasn't necessary. I… stop. Stop feeling sorry for yourself!

A moment after that admonishment crossed her mind the entire room quaked beneath her, joined by the thundering of a collapsing wall. She turned to see the Fafnir down, halfway buried under the rear wall of the throne room. The ornate display above was partly broken by the crack in the structure that resulted; I'll have to have that painted over, I suppose, some irreverent corner of her mind whispered. A Clan battlesuit emerged from the broken canopy of the 'Mech covered in coolant and blood, and it shook Melissa that she couldn't remember the name of the young MechWarrior who'd just died defending her. The Clanner noticed her and raised their weapon arm to kill her; Melissa forced herself to stand, and look the Elemental squarely in the faceplate. They can kill me, but I'm the only one who can disgrace myself. Repeated high-pitched thundercracks filled the air as a number of rounds struck the suit until a geyser of blood briefly spurted from the chest cavity area. The Wolf warrior was down. Melissa watched as more soldiers poured in over and around the Fafnir's half-fallen form and the rear door of the throne room, a mixture of Royal Guard suits in their familiar color and less-familiar suits in the white and gold of the Arcadian Lifeguards. The battle armor suits of the latter stood out though she could not recall their designations. She did recognize the way they moved. Differences of history and background aside, bodyguard troops had one mission, and they trained in all the ways to fulfill it. There were flashes of steel, as well; Patrik Fetladral’s Wolves, led by the Khan himself and tearing into their Crusader cousins with the ferocity and hatred only possible between kin.

The fighting continued on, seconds feeling like minutes. The Throne Room was being demolished, its ornamental columns shattered by flying battle armor suits and the sweeping fire of 'Mechs, as more Wolf 'Mechs appeared at the broken wall. The Thor that first broke through finally toppled, both kneecaps blown and severed by the weapons of the swarming battle armor. A lighter machine Melissa didn't recognize fired flamers into her defenders, incinerating some within their armor; the Crusader MechWarrior only outlived them by moments as Patrik Fetladral tore the roof of the cockpit away with armour-augmented strength, filling the interior with a storm of lethal metal. She closed her eyes at imagining the grisly fate, one she might face all too soon herself, just for a moment, before forcing them open again. This is what you wrought, you fool, in your arrogance and pride! The least you deserve is to watch it.

There was a blast from overhead. She didn't see what caused it. She didn't see much of anything, in fact, as within a second a sharp impact struck her in the back of the neck and head. Everything went black.




A particle bolt flashed through the air just past Alaric's cockpit, sending his instruments into a brief staticky burst from the backwash when it collided with the department store to his left. He backed his Savage Wolf back and flipped the triggers to swap his ATM launchers to the short range warheads. Beside him Verena's Jupiter went forward. The colossal assault 'Mech was better able to withstand punishment than his 'Mech, with its double-extra light engine that gave it such heavy armor and firepower at the expense of vulnerability to engine strikes. Autocannon rounds ripped into Verena's machine to no immediate effect save stripped armor plate. She returned fire with zest while Alaric maneuvered behind and around her, allowing his missile launchers to confirm their lock before facing the offending Zeus down the way. With his launchers showing green for their new loads, he triggered both to fire. At the same moment Verena fired her 'Mech's PPCs, scoring direct hits that paved the way for the powerful short-range warheads to smash through the Lyran 'Mech's wounded steel skin. He was rewarded with a blast that consumed the side of the Zeus. Heat visibly rippled from the assault weight machine's wounds. A quick check on his thermal imaging sensor confirmed the heat bleed of severe damage to the fusion plant.

The Lyran MechWarrior, though wounded, did not relent. The PPC fired again and scourged armor from Alaric's right arm, very nearly penetrating to the sensitive laser housed within. Defiant to the last. I like this MechWarrior. Seeing the Lyran start to back away from them, Alaric risked his heat by firing both lasers into the visible wound. The double beams of sapphire light created a short-lived flower of plasma from the Zeus as it toppled over. Alaric keyed his tactical command channel. "Alpha One here. I am tagging a fallen Lyran 'Mech, make sure to secure the pilot, he will serve well as a bondsman and warrior of our Clan."

"Aff," a voice answered. "It will be done."

Now that he was freed from combat, Alaric took a moment to bring up his wider tactical displays. Beta Galaxy's many engagements were going roughly according to plan. Tharkad City was not yet secure and the forces at the Railyard had suffered a fresh reverse. A grin crossed his lips at seeing the reconnaissance estimates of the enemy forces. "Ah. There."

"Alaric?"

"This is Galaxy Commander Alaric, all forces within five kilometers of my position, fall in on me and follow." His eyes went over the map showing the tunnels linking the city proper to the Triad. "Our foes have given us an opening to aid the Khan in his battle for the heart of the Lyran Commonwealth. We will go to support him and share the glory that is our right!"

A chorus of affirmations answered him. Alaric pressed his throttle forward and maneuvered the Savage Wolf through one of the smaller commercial buildings. It slowed him and renewed the light gray layer of concrete dust on the machine, but buildings of such size could not resist the power of a BattleMech. Our victory here lies on the outcome of this battle. My ambitions demand I see to it myself.



Seth Ward allowed his machine's DI computer system to swat a light pole out of the way while learning a corner. A Lyran Bulldog tank turned the far corner, narrowly throwing off his aim. He discharged a pair of PPC bolts anyway that blasted apart an entrance to the Triad's mass transit subway system, retaining their power to strike the offending tank through the wreckage. When he moved closer he could see how brittle and weak the surviving, blackened armor was. The tank crew turned to throw his aim off their now-weakest side, so he discharged PPCs again and took more from their rear. Laser fire from the Wolvves accompanying him followed up his strikes until the Lyran tank belched fire from within. Two figures clambered from the burning wreck and ran for the cover of a building. They were of no consequence now.

With the core of his Golden Keshik at his side, Seth powered the Hellstar through a turn and into the approach to the Archon's Palace. The signs of battle were already showing ahead. My advance forces cannot confirm Melissa alive or dead. Now we make certain.

Magscan confirmed the contacts first. Seth grinned and said nothing while maneuvering his warriors into place on the furthest end of the Narrows. The Palace was in sight.

A formation of BattleMechs and vehicles awaited him on the near end, barring the way behind a series of ferro-crete barricades. In contrast to the blues favored by the Lyran machines these were in white and gold. Some had highly familiar configurations and shapes, but there was a difference to them, a panel here, a cockpit piece there, that bespoke their origins. His system's computers quickly identified their profiles and displayed the names as the Sea Foxes had passed on.

And somewhere there, the brash young ruler of the Arcadians sits in his 'Mech. Seth felt a fury burn within him. The Spheroid who dares call himself a crusader. He briefly considered leveling a personal challenge to Nathaniel before deciding against it. He leveled his crosshairs and triggered his PPCs at a looming assault-sized machine among the enemy ranks. "Forward!" he cried. "Today the Wolf Clan claims victory!"

By the time he finished his command, the air between them was filled with violence. The battle was joined.

Chapter 11 - By Talon and Fang


The Triad
Tharkad City, Bremen Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
23 June 3143


The sight of four sizzling PPC bolts wreaking destruction on a Lifeguard-piloted Gae Bolg heralded an exchange of deadly fire between the opposing lines of war machines. Nathaniel watched the tall humanoid machine falter and tip, the left side of the machine turned into a ruined mass of black metal and burning myomer. At the last moment the pilot recovered enough to twist and present his right arm to return fire. Beside him a Sabaton, shorter and squat with mounted gauss rifles and PPC on prominent shoulder and arm barrels, thundered a return shot. The Lifeguard Regiments 'Mechs and tanks opened fire in a fusillade into the approaching ranks of gold and amber machines with their snarling wolf head insignias.

The years of academy and field training guided Nathaniel's hand into repeating the action. His lasers and PPCs opened up on the moving figure of a Wolf Mad Cat Mk. II. Unlike that 'Mech's counterpart on his side of the Glass, it was a hulking ninety-ton assault 'Mech, and the tell-tale ripple of gauss weapons showed on each arm as it fired in reply. When his 'Mech didn't shake with a direct hit, Nathaniel imagined his foe had missed. Or fired at someone else. He selected his tac-comm with glances on his interactive HUD. The neurohelmet was one of the advanced, post-Terran War designs, with interior micro-cameras following his eye movements to register his inputs on the HUD menu. Once he was on the lance channel he spoke. "Crown Lance, forward, in time with Alpha Company!"

Some of the Lifeguards' smaller 'Mechs, as well as their heavy tanks, kept to defensive positions prepared on the Narrows. The rest were already at full speed, moving laterally across the elegant avenue to evade, backwards to cover damage, or forwards to draw fire. Nathaniel noted Harold's Silver Knight moving forward with his raised shield, deflecting laser shots and missile hits. The glancing blows would do nothing but scratch the solid curved plate of the Silver Fuller's shield, but eventually direct hits would wreck it. In the meantime, his immediate bodyguard had his right side protected, while to the left the autocannons and PPCs mounted to the Mad Cat II and Thor of his remaining lancemates. The HUD dutifully identified them as Lieutenants Trayvon Rutgers and Octavia Suddreth, reminding Nathaniel that he'd been so busy with army preparations that he'd not developed closer ties to any of his potential lancemates in the Lifeguards. I suppose in more traditional circumstances, Uncle Peter might have joined me instead, he pondered. Or my old lance from the Bolan Heavy Guards, had I asked them to come to Arcadia with me. A laser beam briefly played over his cockpit before it drifted away, too quickly to begin degrading the laminated ferro-glass surface. Nathaniel's heart skipped a beat. Dammit, stop thinking about it, fight!

For all the battleROM footage he'd witnessed through his life, nothing compared to being here. To sitting in Liberator's cockpit in the midst of the storm of carnage of a modern battle. Light melted armor and metal bone, particle and shell tore it, missiles blasted it. Amidst the chaos Colonel Laughlin's Fusilier darted to the front of the main company, the veteran pilot taking hits but missing the worst as his autocannon, missiles, and pulse lasers blazed defiance at the Wolves' best. He should be back with the Flanker Company! Nathaniel thought, but Laughlin was Ranger Corps at heart, and it was not their way to stand still in a fight.

Nathaniel tested his lasers on the wounded Mad Cat Mk. II he'd already shot at. Two solid beams and a pulsing beam from Liberator's left arm and chest mounts cut into wounded armor. At first he thought he'd only scored armor damage, but after a moment an explosion of sparks and rippling energy came from the emerald beams carving into the 'Mech's arm, telling Nathaniel his shot had detonated the capacitors of the gauss rifle within.

Firing orders came from Captain Lowenstein to Alpha Company. A Wolf Hellstar was tagged as a priority target. Nathaniel could see why upon seeing the 'Mech's PPCs firing once more. This time it was a Firehawk that endured its fury. An explosion flowered out the rear of the 'Mech's ravaged right side. Missiles from another Wolf 'Mech slammed repeatedly into the Firehawk until it collapsed amidst a cloud of pulverized concrete and black smoke from the burning lubricants and coolant of the machine's shattered fusion core.

Fire converged on the Hellstar, but the enemy pilot was highly skilled. Shot after shot missed or failed to effectively penetrate armor with how quickly the Wolf pilot maneuvered. Other machines took shots meant for the Hellstar. They're protecting that machine, Nathaniel thought. Could it be their leader? Khan Ward? Nathaniel drew in a breath. He thought of the reports, the ones that explained how Seth Ward was considered a highly skilled pilot and had extensive combat experience. And this is my first battle. It would be folly to engage him directly.

But if we do take him down, it might undermine enemy morale…

One of the Clan Jupiters turned its attention towards Nathaniel. Multiple bursts of autocannon fire tore armor from his limbs and side. Nathaniel juked his machine to the right with a tilt of the left hand throttle stick just before a pair of PPC bolts crackled through the space he'd just vacated. He focused his crosshairs on the Jupiter and stroked his weapon triggers. His left arm weapon flashed to life once more, sending its own crackling bolt of particles into the Jupiter's belly. Two of three SRM launchers confirmed locks and fired. Over half of the salvo crashed into the enemy machine, chipping away more armor. He let his heat diminish before cycling through his lasers, a choice that preserved him from overheating but saw only one of the laser beams inflict armor damage over the heart of the Jupiter.

Through this barrage, the rest of his lance focused their fire on the Jupiter. The Clan 'Mech nearly toppled before righting itself, its pilot adjusting to the loss of so many tons of armor. Where other pilots might have backed off, the enemy 'Mech refused, salvoing LRMs at Suddreth's Thor in defiance.

Ordinarily LRMs, even that many, would not be so dangerous, but just before they impacted, four PPC bolts crashed into Suddreth's machine. Two nearly ripped her 'Mech's right arm off and two more blasted away the armor protecting the right side of her machine. The LRMs that fell upon her found no armor to stop them from devastating that side of her 'Mech. The arm and its cluster autocannon was torn away and thick clouds of smoke from burning coolant spoke of the savage damage done to her engine. "Crown Three, cover Crown Four!" Harold cried over their shared line. He lowered his shield and fired a full salvo from all of his lasers. The Jupiter staggered from the loss of further armor, with one of the pulsing emerald beams chewing through one of the arms enough that the limb fell useless.

But the Clanner was still on his feet, and worse off, the Hellstar was clearly maneuvering to unleash its firepower on Harold. Nathaniel twisted Liberator into position and focused his crosshairs on the Hellstar. A risk I must take, he thought while waiting an extra second, both to let his heat return to ambient and to ensure the launchers got the necessary lock. They pinged red a split second before he fired. This time all three let loose, sending eighteen SRMs through the air at the Hellstar. The lasers reached the 'Mech first. Armor melted away at their emerald touch. The PPC shot struck one of the arms directly, leaving the armor plate a blackened mass in its wake. Heat flooded the cockpit of the Liberator as all his indicators closed toward the redline, drawing a stronger sensation of cold from the suit and the coolant flowing through its embedded tubes.

The missiles hit. Some were only glancing blasts that failed to do any armor damage, but he was rewarded with two of the missiles hitting the wounded arm. Their detonations tore through injured myomer and shattered metal bone. The arm in question blew free and thumped hard onto the concrete below, sending up a plume of snow.

The Hellstar turned away from Suddreth's battered Thor to face him. Nathaniel pushed the speed of Liberator to try and evade, but with Harold to one side and a looming Stormhammer just forty meters to his right there was nowhere to go. Three PPC bolts hit him square on the left side. The armor plate in that section failed spectacularly under the fury of two of the bolts while the left arm absorbed the third. The damage display informed him candidly that there was no armor protection left over the heart of his machine, just a mass of ruined metal that wouldn't resist the slightest strike. His weapons list blacked out the status of one of his left-side missile launchers; it too had been claimed by the hit. His engine remained unhurt for the moment, nor were his ammunition bins lost, but now nothing but endo-steel bone and structure protected them.

Just a few minutes. The battle had only raged for a couple minutes — or three? — and he'd already taken such a hit that his 'Mech was tactically compromised. It's all happening so fast!

Movement prompted him to twist his right hand towards the left. Myomer and bearings slid the upper half of his machine leftward, covering the wounded section to present his intact right-side armor to the autocannon shells of the enemy Jupiter now hammering home. Another Wolf machine, labeled a Night Wolf, fired a thick laser beam that carved off part of the right shoulder's armor plating and melted part of the housing for Liberator's head-mounted electronics. The armor held, thankfully, but he could feel the machine's balance tip from the changes to its weight distribution and had to wrench Liberator to one side to keep on his feet. The Night Wolf maintained its fire, with a laser slicing along the armor of Liberator's right hip and side followed by a thick beam of raw plasma. His heat spiked as the beam coated Liberator's right arm and side, scorching away the exterior armor plate until it finally fell free and cooled in the frigid air. Nathaniel noted the missile launchers that had yet to fire but which had presumably just reloaded. VCTMs by the look of them. If he hits me with a full salvo of the high yield warheads… Liberator would survive such a barrage, but it would likely compel Nathaniel to withdraw his battered machine from the Narrows.

In defiance he fired the chest lasers and SRMs. The latter did nothing, failing to lock due to ECM interference, and the lasers caused only armor damage. Yet even as the emerald light cut into the Night Wolf's hulking frame, a storm of metal started stripping its entire left side of armor plate. Nathaniel glanced to his right and noted the hulking Atlas-like form of an Eradicator BattleMech in Lifeguard white-and-gold. All four of its rotary autocannons blazed at what must have been full speed.

The Night Wolf's arm wasn't cut off so much as mulched by the shellfire. The Clan pilot started to turn, but was too late. An explosion blossomed from their torso, so violent that the Wolf warrior within could not keep his footing. The Night Wolf toppled over onto its injured side. Nathaniel fired every weapon he could bring to bear, but it was the laser barrage of the Silver Fuller that finished penetrating the surviving armor plate over the Night Wolf's belly. A brief plume of fusion plasma came and the Clan machine fell silent, its engine core pierced and non-functional.

Nathaniel gave himself a moment to consider the battle space. The Wolves were no longer a simple reinforced battalion; more Clan forces were coming up into the Narrows, and for every Wolf 'Mech down, another had replaced it. The Lifeguards yet held. Nearly forty MechWarriors, among the very best the Armed Forces of the Royal Federation could boast, against an enemy of matching technological caliber, similar skill, and inhuman aggression, holding with their comrades in the armored vehicles and the heavy armored infantry companies, the heart of the Lyran Commonwealth at their backs.

There were more than forty five minutes ago, Nathaniel thought. The Lifeguards are the best we have and the Wolves are matching us. With their numbers… no! We have to hold!

Just a few seconds had passed. The plasma was no longer on his machine and the heat was back to acceptable levels. Pay attention! he demanded of himself. He shifted Liberator's legs, turning to keep his vulnerable left side masked from the Wolves and ready to support his lancemates. He spotted the unmoving husk of the Jupiter, fallen before Harold and the others. Harold was facing a second Jupiter off, absorbing an autocannon burst with his shield while Suddreth's Thor fired its missiles and autocannon into the assault 'Mech's exposed left flank.

And there was still the Hellstar, unloading a trio of PPC blasts into Rutgers' Mad Cat II, still intact save for its lost arm. Rutgers' machine staggered as heavy particles broke the armor plate over its reverse-jointed right knee. Myomer crackled, broke, snapped, and the entire 'Mech teetered over. The Hellstar's right arm shifted, the smoking barrel pointing towards the 'Mech's cockpit.

Nathaniel wrenched his joystick into place, watched the HUD icon go gold, and pulled the triggers.

And missed.



A PPC bolt and lasers flashed a mere meter away from Seth Ward. He righted his Hellstar from the backstep he'd pulled it into and swung himself to face the damaged Paladin 'Mech. It is him, the Wolf Khan thought, grinning in appropriate fashion. Seeing the way the other white-and-gold 'Mechs acted to support the Paladin, and the fate of Star Captain Vickers, made it all clear.

His crosshairs settled on the Paladin and his fingers tensed. The Paladin turned just so, causing one shot to fly wide and wreck one of the buildings along the Narrows while the other two inflicted damage to the smaller 'Mech's chest and right side. Magscan results confirmed he'd broken through armor, though nothing vital was hit.

The Atlas-like machine that the Sea Fox-provided warbook data called an "Eradicator" turned its attention towards Seth, but it had no time to unleash its considerable firepower before a Tundra Wolf and Man O' War in Keshik colors engaged the machine, drawing its focus and wrecking one of its arms in the process. A second Jupiter, under Star Commander Tricia's control, was busy tearing up the Arcadian Thor while taking fire from the prone Mad Cat II and the shield-carrying "Silver Knight". There were other foes around of course, and behind them, a series of 'Mechs and vehicles firing into his forces whenever they had a clean shot. He would only have a limited time to kill the so-called "Crusader" before he was yet re-engaged.

Seth moved the Hellstar to the side just as the Paladin's left side swept his way. The maneuver threw off the Arcadian ruler's aim, causing his PPC shot to vaporize snow and ferrocrete instead of causing him any harm. His missile lock did succeed, much to Seth's irritation, peppering his 'Mech with multiple missile strikes. A damage warning lit up on one of the torso PPCs. It still functioned, but would not fire as effectively. It remains functional, I will adjust. He glowered at the white-and-gold 'Mech with the crown over the helmeted visage. Arrogant pup, little Spheroid lordling, you will now see the folly of fighting the Wolves! He re-centered his crosshairs and waited the last second for his PPCs to finish cycling. Once they went green, he pulled his triggers.



He's so fast! Nathaniel watched his PPC shot go wide and recognized his gamble had failed. The SRM launchers did acquire locks and fire, inflicting numerous wounds on the Wolf Khan's 'Mech, but did nothing to seriously diminish it. A glance at his damage indicators told him Liberator could not easily endure more than another volley from the three remaining PPCs of the Hellstar. Worse still, his lance was less than half-strength; Rutgers' Mad Cat was fallen, if still shooting, and Suddreth's Thor a blackened ruined lumping along, desperately firing its surviving left arm pulse lasers into the second Jupiter while under the protection of Harold. The battered Silver Fuller's shield was badly degraded from autocannon fire and PPC blasts; it would only take another direct shot before it would be gone.

His racing mind brought his attention back to the Hellstar. A voice from memory crackled through his mind. "Sometimes you just have to get close and take the hit." His grandmother Jacqueline had said those words to him after a sparring match in sim pods. It'd fit her style, and skill, as a MechWarrior, and it was his only hope. Nathaniel pressed the throttle forward and twisted his 'Mech to the right, bringing his left arm up and across his 'Mech's chest. The right arm extended back.

Three PPC bolts struck home. One fired low — battle damage to the emitter? — and took a chunk of the armor over his left hip and knee without penetrating. But the other bolts hit the limb directly, shoulder and lower arm. The lights on his PPC and one of his lasers flashed out an instant before the limb blew apart. His engine flashed a battle damage warning at the hit he'd just taken. Liberator's weight shifted. Nathaniel wrenched his joysticks in unison and kept the machine running forward. Five seconds or so before the PPCs cycle! I can make it!

The Hellstar stepped backward and brought its surviving arm up, the PPC barrel pointing right at him. Nathaniel had no doubt that if it fired, he would die in a blaze of particle fire. An instinctive urge to yank the joystick and shield his cockpit rushed up his arm, but his mind firmly held the limb in check. This was his only shot, it had to be made. When he moved the stick, his finger slipped over the right arm control, tying the joystick directly to the limb's movement and the weapon it held. As he reached the final meters, he pressed the stick forward and brought the right arm with it. The Hellstar shifted to his left and Nathaniel twisted his 'Mech torso to match, holding the joystick steady on its course.

The sword in Liberator's hand sliced forward in a stabbing motion that struck the one part of the Hellstar without the armor to resist it. The silvery blade punched cleanly through the ferro-glass of the Hellstar's cockpit. Crimson splashed over the surviving interior panes. The Hellstar tremored and pitched backward, to rise no more. Nathaniel glanced at the Liberator's sword and noted the tip had gone red.

I just killed a man. The thought struck him. I've taken a life. It'd been something he'd long understood, intellectually, would happen when he took the field, but he'd never felt that inevitability. Not emotionally. There was no evading it now. His chest quivered and his heart ached at it. A human life, ended, at his hands. No future, no chance to become something better. A soul, a person, was gone.

His grandmother had killed. His father had too. The rulers of House Proctor had, with one exception, been MechWarriors who saw battle and claimed lives on the field. It was just another terrible duty for them to see to in order to protect what they cherished, the people they were responsible for. Yet it still made his heart and soul ache from the weight of it all…

Liberator shrieked a hard lock warning. Nathaniel turned towards the origin of it, but he was too late. Missiles impacted all over Liberator. Engine and gyro damage warning lights flashed. The damage display showed his right arm stripped of its remaining armor by repeated heavy hits. I took a high explosive VCTM salvo he realized, too late to do anything about it. Try as he might, the gyro damage made holding Liberator to a standing position impossible. The mutilated BattleMech tipped towards its left and it was all he could do to roll and keep his eyes on his attacker.

Through the chaos of the battle, another Wolf 'Mech now approached. Nathaniel's immediate thought was its was a strange version of the Mad Cat before remembering it from the briefing materials: the Savage Wolf, a new variant of the older Clan design that mirrored the Arcadians' Mad Cat in so many ways. This one had a different color scheme from those he had been fighting, its amber and brown joined by a silver flash instead of gold, and a Wolf's head marked with the letter Beta instead of Alpha.

The pilot on the other end directed his arms towards Nathaniel's cockpit. He felt terror and swallowed. "Sorry, Mother," he murmured, knowing that he was about to die.

This vision was obscured by the appearance of another form of white and gold between Nathaniel and his attacker. Grayston! He watched as a pair of laser beams cut into the battered shield on Harold's machine, slicing away the ends in molten globs that melted snow around Silver Fuller's feet. Harold held his ground regardless, and it was his voice that crackled desperately over the Lifeguards' comm channel. "Protect His Majesty!"

Get up! Nathaniel demanded, of himself and his 'Mech. He drove the sword into the snow and ferro-crete, using it for balance while the DI computer did the precise work to bring Liberator to its feet in defiance of its wounded gyro. Before him the Savage Wolf's missiles fired again, but Harold's Mech took the entire salvo. Blasts rippled over Silver Fuller's left arm and side. The armor that remained was stripped clean by the blasts. The left arm dropped uselessly to the 'Mech's side, the broken stub of the shield still attached to the forearm. Silver Fuller's right arm came up, not to cut with its surviving sword but to shield the body. PPC blasts from a Jupiter in the same silver enveloped the limb and left it a mass of burning myomer and blackened chips of armor and bone. Harold's surviving lasers claimed armor from the Jupiter, which interposed itself protectively before the Savage Wolf.

Colonel Laughlin's voice now echoed over the line. "Fall back, Nathaniel! Damn it all, fall back!"

Nathaniel knew better than to dispute the commander of his bodyguards. He twisted his ravaged machine away from the fight, letting Laughlin's Fusilier and a pair of Liberator OmniMechs step forward in his place. He limped for the allied lines. I have done what I can, he thought, though it consoled him little. The Lifeguards were being pushed back regardless, and he couldn't help but feel he'd just doomed their efforts by drawing their attention to his well-being.

That was when he noted the reinforcements coming up on his scope.




A moment before his lasers could kill the Arcadians' High King, Alaric Wolf's victory was snatched by another of the white-and-gold machines. The Black Knight-like 'Mech interposed itself and used a badly-damaged shield to deflect his laser shots, though the shield itself melted away in the process. Growling in frustration at this, Alaric turned his targeting systems to the Silver Knight, as the Sea Fox-provided profiles were calling it, and waited for the ATM launchers to finish reloading. When they did, he stroked the trigger and watched a fresh volley of the high-yield warheads pummel the interloper who'd cost him a prestigious victory. Vereena added her weapons to his, devastating the Arcadian bodyguard with PPC shots that virtually destroyed the 'Mech's right arm and side. She moved forward and took the laser shots meant for him.

Yet the opportunity was lost for the moment. Other white-and-gold 'Mechs, defying the Silver Keshik's added numbers and their position, moved forward to shield the Arcadian ruler's retreat. Alaric noted their skill with some approval. Their survivors will make for good bondsmen. Alaric turned his attention to a smaller humanoid machine marked as a Fusilier. His lasers carved the remaining armor from the machine's right arm and sent a plume of flame from the autocannon housed there. Hit the firing chamber. That weapon's useless. In defiance the medium-weight 'Mech pummelled him with SRMs and pulse laser fire. Alaric took a glance at his ATM stores and decided not to fire another volley, not for such a target. He knew Verena well enough to anticipate her. A salvo of thirty LRMs proved him right, and though almost half of them missed, his enemy was left in poor shape to press the fight.

He was about to engage the next Arcadian machine when he noted a new lance worth of contacts coming from the side of the Narrows, pressing through a shattered structure to get into the fight immediately. He turned and noted the arrival of four machines and a single squad of battlesuits. They were distinctive for their familiarity; these are designs he'd known his entire warrior life, not the machines from beyond the Arcadians used. Two were in familiar Lyran blue, one in the distinctive blue and white-striped red of the First Davion Guards, and the last -

Alaric swallowed back a guttural snarl at the sight of Julian Davion's crimson and gold Templar. My cousin is becoming a great annoyance to me. Twice now — twice! — his intervention had stolen prey from beneath Alaric's own claws. There had to be a reckoning for that; and, Alaric found himself smiling at the thought, there was a certain poetic elegance to besting one cousin in sight of another. "The Golden Keshik shall have the honor of avenging our fallen Khan," he said over his command Star frequency and switching his tactical missiles to long-range mode. "We have other prey to deal with. Ensure that none interfere; Julian Davion is mine." The tactical missile racks sang out with positive lock, bright flashes of rocket motors strobing across his canopy panels as Alaric began.




“Punch forward, now! Hit and run; don’t give them a chance to focus,” Julian ordered, pushing his Templar forward like a man striding through a stiff breeze as tactical missiles, burning darts of fire, burst about it. A manmade bolt of lightning and autocannon shells stabbed back, illuminating the bronze-and-silver Savage Wolf in contrasting light tones for a moment. “By Freedom’s Sword!”

"Sandoval conquers!" Berry Sandoval-Steiner, laughter in her voice as her Rawhide bounded forward on bright argent flame, raking particle beam and short-range missiles across the cannon-heavy torso of the Jupiter guarding Alaric's flank. "Catch me if you can, Bottle Baby!"

"Face duChaine, face death," Robyn duChaine added the battle cry of her family to the howling roar of her Vulpes' autocannon, embracing an advancing Warwolf with high-explosive shells and searing laser light.

"Holy Mary for the Commonwealth! Freedom's home or glory's grave!" And Kate Rayne, setting her Barghest and Price's battlesuits into a tight defensive spread against a Gargoyle and an Elemental squad. Those snapshots were all Julian had time for as Alaric came on, and battle was joined in deadly earnest.

Blazing missile volleys, savage cannonade and the lash of high-energy beam weapons tore back and forth as, like gunfighters of the ancient West, the scions of two utterly antithetical military philosophies clashed. Alaric Wolf was the exemplar of the Crusader Wolves' belief in victory above all else, the glorification of the unrestrained warrior; Julian Davion forged and bound by the traditions of the military nobility of the Federated Suns, that how you won mattered just as much as that you did, and that the first duty of a soldier was to protect.

Alaric embraced the all-or-nothing tactics of victory or death from the outset, spending ammunition and heat budget with wild abandon as he spread shattered armour across the field. Julian met that headlong rush with solid, unshakeable discipline, scoring a line in the snow that he simply refused to yield, expending his own munitions and heat reserves with a miser’s care as he targeted Alaric's weapons, trusting to his assault machine's armour as he fought to pull the Wolf's fangs.

Man-made lightning fused and melted the twin small-calibre pulse lasers beneath Alaric's cockpit, his lasers crippling one of the Templar’s knee actuators in the same instant. Switching to autocannon and lasers, Julian pushed forward, splintered and melted away more of the Savage Wolf's armour, going for shoulder actuators or the vulnerable fusion core.

"Last chance, Alaric," Julian ground out, scourging away another layer of protection over the Clan machine's heart. He doesn't deserve it, but I have to make the offer. "I offer you hegira, now. Take it, or leave it."

"In my hour of triumph?" Alaric laughed in response, his machine taking a hesitant step back. "You overrate yourself, cousin; now get out of my way!"

'Cousin'? What the hell does he mean by — The sheer incongruity of that threw Julian's focus, long enough for Alaric to regain his footing and hit back. High-yield tactical missiles flashed off shoulder-racks; launchers rapid-cycling, risking a detonation in the tubes. This close, there was no time for Julian to evade; just enough to grit his teeth and brace as fireballs burst across his 'Mech, striated yellow, orange and crimson racing over the damage readouts like a forest fire.

Something gave in the already-damaged knee, and Julian could feel gravity taking charge, dragging the Templar over and onto its back.

The slamming impact, even with the command couch’s supports and the heavily padded and cushioned neurohelmet set stars flaring before Julian’s eyes, and something wenched in his right shoulder. A quick flex confirmed it wasn't broken, still had full motion; it just hurt like blazes to move. His Templar was the same, wounded but not fatally; but with the damaged knee, it was going to be the work of long moments to stand back up. And, as Alaric’s Savage Wolf stalked forward, looming over him, Julian realised those were moments he didn’t have.

“First Thaddeus Marik, then Anastasia Kerensky, and now you. It is a pity you Spheroid champions fall so easily, or I might feel some kind of satisfaction now.” The sneer was plain in Alaric’s voice, as was the curiosity in the next words. “Well? No last defiance? No valedictory words?”

“Anything I could tell you, you wouldn’t understand,” Julian replied coldly. “Just get on with it and be on your way.”

“If you insist,” Alaric said, levelling one of his arm mounts.

“I don’t think so, trash-born!” The familiar voice drew Julian’s eyes to his secondary cameras, quickly enough to see the Destroyer ramping off a downed Arcadian ‘Mech into a leap that brought it down close enough to intervene in time. Only the best hovertank drivers he’d known would’ve dared that kind of move, and only the very best of them could’ve pulled it off.

Callandre Kell was both.

Deftly feathering lift skirts and drive fans, she slid her Destroyer across in a raking pass, twenty-foot muzzle flame tipping the long, lethal autocannon mount. Heavy-calibre shellfire ripped the Savage Wolf’s near arm off at the shoulder, and shredded one of the tactical missile racks into metallic confetti.

“Alaric! Warriors, to the Galaxy Commander!” The Jupiter turned from where it had been demolishing buildings to try and pin down the nimble Rawhide, scattering missiles across Callandre’s path and following with bursts of maximum-rate autocannon. Most missed, but enough hit or came close to turn the Destroyer’s graceful arc into a spiralling tumble. It fetched up against the wall of a half-wrecked storage barn, though at least the soft “Ow” from Callandre said she wasn’t too badly hurt.

The Jupiter had no time to exploit that, nor did the rest of the Wolf force rallying around their commander’s machine. Spearheaded by a lumbering King Crab, emblazoned with House Hogarth’s silver lyre insignia and already spreading missile salvoes from its back-mounted multi-launchers across the Crusader line, fresh tanks, BattleMechs and battlesuit squads came up through the government districts Reiner Hogarth had been as good as his word, bringing a battalion and more into the fight; everything from a pair of lightweight Storm Raiders to the titanic bulk of a Destrier.

There were others, as well, Julian saw as he worked his Templar back to its feet. Roderick Steiner’s Rifleman was leading in another battalion, all Steiner Strikers, and fresh Arcadian troops were showing on his tactical maps, a scratch force primarily in Arcadian Ranger colors. At their lead was a 'Mech that, even with the broader tapering of the shoulders and the sharper ferroglass panels of the cockpit, passed for a cousin design of his Templar, colored in blue, silver, and gold. A sigil over the heart of the machine — his warbook now tagged it a Templar I-A — displayed a Proctor hawk with a Steiner fist on its breast placed over a Davion sunburst. The Templar I-A fired a barrage from arm-mounted autocannons that tore Alaric's other arm away from his battered machine. "Marshal Davion, hold tight." Julian recognized the voice of his cousin from another cosmos. Matthew Proctor-Steiner-Davion's next shot blew the arm off of Alaric's bodyguard in the Jupiter, the only thing that kept his salvo of high-yield ATMs from wrecking Alaric's exposed engine.

Pressing the pain of his injuries away, Julian wrenched his controls and started the process of getting his 'Mech back up. He was still alive and the fight wasn't over.



Alaric watched the tactical missiles blast Verena's left arm from her machine, the rest of the salvo blowing off several armor plates from the battered Jupiter's hip and side. His own warning systems shrieked with alerts from the engine damage Callandre Kell's shot had wreaked upon his machine. Heat flooded through the broken shielding on the fusion vessel and broken heat sink hardware kept his 'Mech from efficiently dumping the excess. Only one missile launcher remained for him to fight with. My 'Mech is not combat worthy, he realized, fuming at the thought. Damn that Kell and damn those reinforcements! Julian Davion's head was mine!

Alaric drew in a breath. No. Think. You are not a rabid beast, you are a Wolf Clan warrior, and the Clan needs a thinking leader with the Khan dead. He pulled his machine further back, allowing more of the Silver Keshik to shield his withdrawal with Verena holding her ground at his side, ready to intercept more fire coming towards him. He keyed his command channel. "The enemy is reinforcing the Narrows. Alert Alpha Galaxy to come to our support."

"It will not be possible, Galaxy Commander." The voice of his aide, Star Colonel Chance Vickers, betrayed frustration. "The Davions and Lyrans have reinforcements entering the Triad and threatening to cut you off. Our warriors fight to hold them back."

Alaric pondered this. "What is the status of our aerospace window?"

"Intact, but enemy aerospace elements are diverting towards eastern Bremen. Star Commodore Fahad estimates his remaining forces will not be able to hold it open much longer, and he insisted that I remind you that every lost Point will give the enemy greater aerospace control over the other battles."

Of course he did. He is careful. But not a coward. My anger is better directed elsewhere. And he was very angry. Every calculation he could make showed no outcome bringing them victory. At best, he could fight, grind the enemy down, and maybe even temporarily take, or at least level, the Palace. But it would cost him the majority of, if not all of, Alpha and Beta Galaxies. The best warriors of the Wolf Clan.

The taste of failure was sour, disgusting, as if he had just bit into filth. All of his work, all of his Clan's efforts, and it hadn't been enough. The gamble had failed. Tharkad was out of reach. The Arcadians would arrive in force and it was the Wolves who would be forced to defend their new empire. We will need every warrior. Every one of them. Further losses here are pointless! He spoke, knowing cold fury would drip from his voice. "Inform all Clusters to withdraw from combat where feasible and begin pulling back to our base camps. Tell the Star Colonels of Alpha Galaxy I am assuming command authority. They are to join me in fighting back to their DropShips. We are withdrawing from this battle."

"Galaxy Commander?!"

"Obey me!" Alaric thundered. "To stay is to see our best warriors destroyed in a losing battle. We will withdraw, and those who harry us will find our fangs bite just as deadly on the retreat as in the advance!"

"Aff, Galaxy Commander. Aff."

Alaric checked over the tac map. The Silver Keshik had already commenced a fighting retreat. After about twenty seconds he noted the survivors of the Golden Keshik were doing the same. A host of frustrated, angry "Aff!" responses came over the command channel.

With his 'Mech a ruined mess and only a few missile salvos left to fire, Alaric projected the position of the nearest DropShip and started his way there. He would issue what commands were necessary during the trip, but unless Galaxy-level coordination was needed by the tactical position, it would be best to leave the star colonels to their duties. He would need their support, in the end, to have any hope of salvaging something for his ambitions from this setback.

And I will have to face my mother. She will be furious. He felt dread at having to deal with it and a certain thick disgust at feeling that dread and knowing it came from his lingering affection for her. He turned from that thought to his own aching sense of disappointment, letting the fury simmer within him. Victory was so close. So close. Damn my cousin and damn the Arcadians!

Chapter 12 - Battle Damage


Alpha Galaxy Headquarters
Alistairberg, Bremen Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
23 June 3143


Night was fallen by the time Alaric stormed into the new Alpha Galaxy HQ, a captured and repurposed town hall in the outer suburb of Alistairberg. Unlike the prior command post this was only half-set up, with techs feverishly working to put back the holotanks and vidscreens and other equipment they'd been packing in anticipation of transfer to the Triad after an inevitable victory.

A victory that had not come.

Outside the occasional traces of skyward fire lit up. Their enemies were testing their fallback point's aerial defenses. It would not avail them; Star Commodore Fahad's warriors still had the numbers and skill to hold the sky overhead and the orbital approach. Yet that matters little. We lost. Alaric slammed his fist into a vidscreen, cracking it down the middle. He drew the aching hand back and noted the blood trickling from his cut knuckle. He clenched the fist and punched the screen again. We lost! I lost!

The battle kept playing in his mind, taunting him with possibilities that only now seemed to have been there, though deep down he knew that was his regret speaking. Since word came from the Foxes of the Timkovichi Event, the "Looking Glass" and the Clan-less Inner Sphere that lied beyond, he'd known the campaign to Tharkad would be a gamble. But to come so close! So close and yet defeated! It would be better had we failed at Gallery…! He shook his head at that. No. No, I am wrong. We have done far more damage to the Lyrans than we suffered there. We are better off.

He heard footsteps behind him. The cluster commanders of Alpha Galaxy assembled in the room. Only three were of star colonel rank, with two star captains representing dead or badly wounded superiors. Chance Vickers and his Beta Galaxy commanders arrived as well. He motioned to a tech. "Get me the other galaxy commanders."

"Aff," the tech responded.

One by one the others appeared, minus Tyler Cooper of Delta Galaxy. In his place, a stern woman of mocha complexion and an Elemental warrior's size glowered. Alaric recalled her name as Maura Sradac, a star colonel of Zeta Galaxy. "Where is Galaxy Commander Cooper?" he asked.

"The MedTechs struggle to save his life, he led a counterattack on the Spheroids who struck at our flank and lost his 'Mech to an enemy ambush. I command Zeta Galaxy in his stead."

Of course. Cooper would be the one to stumble into an attack. "Very well," Alaric said. "Our strike into the Triad was repulsed. Alpha and Beta Galaxies have retreated in good order and inflicted losses upon our foes, but Khan Ward lies dead in the Narrows and his victory with him."

A scoffing laugh came from Elise Ward of Gamma Galaxy. "This was your proposal too, Alaric. This is also your defeat."

Alaric forced his face to deny the curling of his lips into the bitter frown that tried to form. "Our defeat, yes, for you supported this effort as well. Every one of us did. The destruction of the Commonwealth was worth the risk, and we have taken a prize in their Archon's life regardless of our failure to take the Triad."

"Archon Melissa is slain?" asked Yvonne Vickers of Kappa. "This is confirmed?"

"Several of our warriors fighting for the throne room saw her claimed under debris," Alaric said. "The battleROMs confirm it."

"Then we have our vengeance, at least."

"Vengeance will do us little if we are defeated," Elise retorted. "It is clear the defenses of Tharkad are too strong for our forces to prevail. We must withdraw."

"Without hegira?!" Delta Galaxy's Rand Connors asked the question with fury in his voice. "You would humiliate us."

"If we have killed the Archon we have gained our vengeance and retained honor." Elisa snarled at Connors' words. "If we are to hold our conquests we must withdraw and prepare defenses. This gamble has failed."

"Galaxy Commander." One of the comm technicians approached. She was silver-haired, an older tech, one of Alpha's seniors, and the name "Lucinda" was written in stencil markings on her jumpsuit's right side. "We received a transmission from Star Admiral Nguyen. Star Commodore Fariq's scouting force jumped in and delivered a report."

She did not read it and Alaric did not ask her to. He took the noteputer she offered and looked it over himself. My suspicions are confirmed. He looked towards the main holotanks and the four faces staring at him. "Our ships have detected large numbers of JumpShips and DropShips at Westerstede and Upano," he revealed. "Most gave off Arcadian IFFs with a few Sea Fox ships amongst them. As few separations were detected, they are clearly en route to other systems."

"The rest of the Arcadian army," Elise Ward mused. "Did Fariq's scouts determine their strength?"

"Mass readings were not possible from safe ranges, so the count is uncertain, but he estimates their numbers to be multiple galaxies worth of troops. I would imagine they are the bulk of the Arcadians' commitment to the Lyrans." And hopefully not simply the second wave of a larger force.

Rand Connors' furious face twisted into a grimace. The others showed similar understanding, as did the star colonels assembled around Alaric.

"Yes," he said. "You all understand. We fought mightily, and we inflicted defeats upon our foes even at their best. The First Davion Guards bleed, Lyran units lie shattered. The Arcadian High King's best warriors were mauled in the Triad by our fallen Khan and the Archon is dead. But we did not take this world, nor can we without risking our best warriors against an approaching enemy hammer. We must pull back and prepare to defend our new den. We are Wolves, and none may enter our territory with impunity. The Arcadians will learn this lesson the same as every other foe we have repulsed over the centuries."

"Seyla," Yvonne Vickers agreed. The others soon echoed it.

"We are in agreement then. The withdrawal begins, now." Alaric waited to see if he had any opposition. None was voiced.



After tasking the subordinate commanders of Alpha and Beta Galaxies to their parts in the withdrawal, Alaric returned to his makeshift office. He toyed with leaving a ruin for the Lyran bureaucrat who would get it back, but such pettiness was beneath a Wolf warrior as cathartic as such a rampage might be.

He'd scarcely had time to sit before the door flew open. Katrina entered, her wizened face twisted into obvious fury. "You ordered a withdrawal," she said icily. It was an accusation, not an inquiry.

"Aff," Alaric said.

"Weakness," she spat. "Without a Bloodname, you will be destroyed for this."

"If we do not withdraw, we will be destroyed anyway when the Arcadians' reinforcements arrive," Alaric replied. His voice was blunt but cold. Do not try me! Not right now! "I will handle threats to my position as they come. But I can be nothing without my Clan."

"You have to do something!" she shouted. "Find a weak point! Throw another assault into the Triad and level it! Tharkad must fall or it must burn, or everything I worked for will be for nothing!"

Alaric glared up at her. "You? Everything you worked for? You worked for nothing!" He stood. "I am the warrior here! This is my work, you barely tested into the caste!"

"I got you your position, son," Katherine hissed. "I gave you life and I gave you the means to become what I should have been. Even if you fail me, at least be grateful for that!"

In a fit of temper Alaric's clenched fist shot forward. The blow shattered bone and teeth. Katherine fell backward, shock showing over her features as she hit the floor. Shock that turned to fear as Alaric reached down and grabbed her by the throat, forcing her up while his grip drew a pained gasp that he nearly extinguished with a tightening of his hand. "You made me as your weapon against the Inner Sphere," he said. "You made your ambitions mine. And they still are mine, because I know my worth, my skill, and I know I surpass you. But know this, mother. I am not you. I am a Clan warrior. The Wolf Clan is my clan, and I will see it and the worthy warriors within rise with me! So long as you are useful to that goal, I tolerate you, but do not delude yourself that you are worth anything beyond that. Speak on this again and I will kill you."

The fear and horror in her eyes spoke her understanding of what he said. He released her. She rubbed at her throat and her bloodied mouth. When she tried to speak she grimaced and winced.

"Your jaw may be broken. Report to a MedTech and see what they can do." Alaric clenched his fist reflexively, remembering the impact of his knuckles against the bone. "I will authorize all resources to see the bone set. Go."

With fury and fear showing in equal parts in her eyes, Katherine departed.

Foolish, he chided himself. I lost control. I must never lose control. Not now. The words helped him subdue the rage he felt within. His mind must be directed to the future. We have been defeated, but we remain strong. Another chance will come. The Arcadians are not unstoppable. We can defeat them. I must secure my place, I must have Seth Ward's Bloodname, so I must see to our successful extrication from Tharkad. He sat at the desk pondering that problem. They had the means to withdraw, but nothing to guarantee the foe would let them get away without further combat. Yet I cannot ask for hegira. It would be a disgrace, an admission of defeat that would destroy me. Nor will any of the others agree to such. No, I must make the enemy offer it on terms I can accept honorably. If only we had claimed more than that Lockheed factory, if we had managed the TharHes plants the Lyrans would be certain to offer hegira to get them back intact. He briefly considered launching an all-out strike to do just that, but as his hand reached for the comm control, he hesitated. No. That would simply cause greater losses. There has to be a better way. Something…

A memory teased him from the back of his brain. He took up his noteputer and started flipping through material. The Arcadians offered hegira to the Falcons twice, they say, but why? On Timkovichi it was a wider wager, but what of the other time? He checked the reports, primarily from their Sea Fox sources, on the Arcadians' prior battles with Falcons and Horses. Not at Morges, nor the first fight at Timkovichi. Hrm…Great X? He read the report on the battle and its outcome.

Then he read it a second time. A small smile formed on his face. There. That should work. He reached for the comm and keyed it on. "Send an order to all commands. Have those we have taken as isorla gathered and given a public counting. Then have them placed upon our DropShips."

Chance Vickers was quick with a reply. "Aff, Galaxy Commander."

Sentiment. Alaric thought of Spheroids and their sentiments. Yet we are not above it all, or my mother's corpse might very well still be cooling in the floor. It is something I will need to keep in mind.



The Triad
Tharkad City


The Royal Palace Hospital was typically not so crowded. Nathaniel, now in a uniform jacket of "duty reds" over his cooling suit and in the company of his cousin Matthew and Roderick Steiner, walked through halls lined with military and civilian nurses dealing with injured and wounded soldiers. Most were quietly considering their wounds or resting, some even seemed asleep. Nathaniel sympathized with that. I feel like I should sleep a day right now. My instructors at Ayrshire were quite accurate about the "post-battle crash".

Armed bodyguards saw them through checkpoints until they arrived at the door to the hospital's Royal Suite. Khan Patrik and Jasek were waiting there, the former stone-faced and quiet and the latter frowning with uncertainty. Nathaniel saw Jasek's eyes move to the side and turned in time to see Julian Davion approach. The older man looked like he'd aged half a decade compared to when they'd last seen one another. His right arm was set into a sling. "Thank you, Marshal Davion," Nathaniel said. "My Lifeguards and I owe you."

"You don't," Julian answered in a quiet, somber tone. "Without you, the Wolves would have captured the Triad. You and your guards made the difference between victory and defeat for us all."

"Would that it had not cost us so much." Nathaniel knew that Lieutenant Rutgers was somewhere in the hospital, mutilated and half-dead from the Wolf battle armor warriors that had broken into his fallen 'Mech's cockpit to silence his weapons. Harold Grayston would be with him by now. I will have to find them when this is over. And Colonel Laughlin. He should be in one of the rooms by now given Colonel Winfield's description of his injuries. But first things first.

Jasek led them inside. Nathaniel noted Trillian and Martin Kell seated beside the bed in the center. "Good Lord," he murmured at the sight there. Archon Melissa was mercifully asleep in the bed. Most of her body was contained in a cast of plaster, with visible catheter and breathing tubes set into the hospital bed's frame. An IV line continued a steady drip of medications to circulate into Melissa's body. Her head was likewise covered in bandages, and the part that wasn't bore red and purple flesh from extensive bruising. "What happened?"

"One of the Wolf 'Mechs brought down the roof and wall behind the throne," Martin replied hoarsely. "She was hit by debris immediately. She'd be dead if not for a couple battle armor-clad guards throwing themselves over her. Their armor and bodies shielded her from the worst of it." Martin nodded to Nathaniel. "One of the soldiers was yours. I'm afraid she didn't survive."

"God rest her soul," Nathaniel sighed. "And Archon Melissa?"

"Stable," Trillian replied. Her eyes were distant. "Multiple internal injuries and fractured bones. An emergency X-ray confirmed multiple fractures in her spine as well as arms, legs, and ribs. Another scan will be done to confirm potential damage to her brain and skull from blows."

"Dammit all," Roderick swore. "She should have sought shelter."

"She did as she thought her honor demanded," Patrik replied in his customary bass rumble. "She endangered her life as surkai for her mistakes, and it would be wrong to deny her that."

"Surkai?" asked Nathaniel.

"Asking forgiveness for mistake, error, or misconduct," Martin answered. "You usually offer or accept a punishment, after which the Clan considers all to be forgiven and will not hold the matter against the offender anymore. The whole thing falls under the idea of surkairede."

"That is true as to the substance of it, aff," Patrik said. "It is a matter of balancing the scales of honor."

"The Clan idea of penance, then," Nathaniel said.

"Aff." Patrik clenched a fist. "The Crusader MechWarrior who brought the roof down did not live to claim honor for it. I claimed her life in the battle. Rest assured of that."

"Right now the important thing is to figure out what happens next," Jasek said. "Maurer and Bridger are seeing to reorganizing our defenses. All of our units took severe lumps, especially when the Wolves started their fighting retreat. It was everything we could do to keep the First Royal Guards from wrecking themselves trying to stop Alpha Galaxy's escape after word came the Archon had been hurt. If the Wolves call in their other troops and try this again we'll need to call in reinforcements from the rest of the planet."

"I'm not sure they will, not if they're smart," Matthew said. "Admiral Abdul-Jabbar radioed earlier today that the Wolves just had some extra ships jump in. He figures them for scouts and is inquiring with our incoming troops if they spotted any jumps in time with them. If they answer yes, I imagine it means the Wolves know we've got troops and ships coming up that can join the defense of Tharkad, and if they don't want to get caught burning out-system they'd better leave now."

"Which set of reinforcements?" Nathaniel asked. He broadly remembered the other units coming up, but depending on how well recharges went, he couldn't be sure who was coming first.

Matthew grinned at him. "First Royal Guards, plus three of mine; Proctor Heavy Guards, First Proctor Guards, and Proctor Light Horse. Further back, the Proctor Assault Guards and Bolan Heavy Guards are at Upano with the Second Strikers. Not to mention our little surprise that headed onward." Given their location the grin faded once the moment was past. "The Wolves had their shot and they missed. They either fall back or we're going to mulch the lot of them right here, end this war here and now."

"We have to be ready if they decide to make an all-or-nothing push here instead," Julian said. "How fast can the other formations on-planet get here?"

Jasek shook his head. "It varies. Most of the Arcadian Rangers are already in positions around Tharkad City, and we're rotating in the Second Royal Guards and a couple of our composites. But a lot of the composite units got hurt fighting the Wolves in the south of Bremen. We can use them as a final line of defense but I'm not confident putting them up against the best of Alpha and Beta Galaxies."

"Our people on Franz and Heidelberg are putting together rapid reaction forces to send our way if we need it," Matthew added.

"Do what you must," Trillian said. She stood. While she'd not been in combat, Nathaniel thought she looked as tired as he felt. "I have to speak with the Commonwealth Council and prepare the official statement to the Estates General and the populace. It will hurt morale, but it cannot be hidden, not after what happened with Vedet. I will have to assume a regency until Melissa is fit to govern."

"It might hurt us just as much as losing her would," Martin said.

"Maybe, but faith in the Commonwealth has already declined enough. And I will not claim the title of Acting Archon," Trillian insisted. "Not until I must. Vedet has poisoned that title too greatly and too recently."

"You will have my firmest support, Lady Trillian," Nathaniel assured her. Julian nodded in agreement as well.

"Thank you. Please, keep me informed of further developments." With a final nod she departed.

One by one the others did so as well, filing out of the Royal Suite and leaving the badly-hurt occupant to her rest. Nathaniel watched them head out while waiting to see if he could find an unoccupied nurse. That seemed to prompt Julian's attention, who turned back to Nathaniel. "Waiting for something?"

"I want to visit some of my troops who are being attended to, I was waiting to speak to someone who might point me out to them," he answered. "I almost lost a lancemate, I owe it to the man to visit him at his sickbed."

"Right." Julian nodded. "I meant what I said before. Your unit made the difference here."

"They did. But perhaps they would have done yet more if I were a better leader in combat." Nathaniel took a moment to consider what he'd just said, what he'd just admitted to. "I'm not a warrior like you and my cousin Matthew. Not at heart. I never wanted war. I've hated it for so long, hated what it did to my family, to my grandmother and mother and everyone else who lost…" He stopped and lowered his head. "I don't even remember my father. I was too young to remember him when he went off to fight… to die."

"I understand more than you know," Julian replied. "I’ve spent most of my adult life fighting to keep the peace of the Suns. But, in the end, it takes two people to do that; I can’t say I know how this applies to your side of the Glass, but trying to maintain a ‘peace’ that the other side rejects rarely works for long.” A sigh. “You remind me a little of my uncle, Prince Harrison. He didn't want war either, did everything in his power to hold back the March lords. Maybe, probably, more than he should have given some of the things I’ve -" Julian stopped, shook himself. “That’s not important. I guess the point is, as a ruler, you’ve got to try and do what’s right, based on what you know, more than anything else.”

"They call me naive back home. They say I'm going to be a failure to my people," Nathaniel said. "That I won't protect them from the Dracs, or the Dowager and the Capellans. I don't want that, I don't want war but I do want to protect my people. But maybe… My first battle and I not only nearly die, I get some of my own soldiers killed trying to save my life."

"They made that choice for themselves," said Julian. "Twice, actually; the first time when they volunteered for the Lifeguards, and the second on the field at the Narrows. If you want to be worthy of that, I’d suggest starting by accepting that your guardsmen had a part in it. And you weren’t just ballast, anyway. I haven’t studied the battleROM footage in any kind of detail, but you are aware that a Donegal Broadcasting crew was covering the whole thing, yes? You brought down a Khan - the first Wolf Khan to fall in battle against our forces for almost a century. That counts for a lot, and it’s going to be making its way across the Commonwealth - and into the Clan OZs, if I know Lohengrin - as fast as the discs can be printed. It’s a shot in the arm for morale the Lyrans need, and need badly, right now."

"I hope so," Nathaniel said. "As things stand, I'm not eager to fight them again, though we must." He drew in a breath. "I can't go home until I honor my pledge. The Wolves' captive worlds have to be liberated, and their bondsmen. Otherwise I make a mockery of what I've promised to my people."

“And that’s the side of ruling that nobody who wants it ever thinks about,” Julian nodded. “Obligations weigh heavier than power. And now,” his expression shifted, becoming more somber. “I believe we both have wounded to visit.”



The Triad
24 June 3143


Nathaniel awoke the next morning, shook off his aches and pains, and performed his mourning routines with alacrity. His breakfast was appreciated more in filling his stomach than the taste and care of the Triad cooks who prepared it for him. Once he was fed and uniformed, he went straight for the War Room.

The main holotank was dominated by the map of Tharkad. The Wolves were no longer in the vicinity of Tharkad City proper, but in Bremen's south they held the Lockheed-CBM plant, and Delta Galaxy remained just outside artillery range of the TharHes plants. On the other side of the planet, it was noteworthy the fighting on Franz was reduced in intensity and mostly ceased on Heidelberg. The Second Proctor Guards are triumphant, then. Excellent, as we may need them here.

Jasek, Bridger, and Maurer were present already. As Nathaniel stepped up to them, another door opened and Julian walked in. Matthew and Roderick Steiner are presumably checking with field commanders, then. He accepted their salutes and returned them. "Any updates?"

"A reduction in skirmishing across the planet, and the Wolves are pulling back on some but not all fronts," Maurer said. "They are undoubtedly considering their position."

"It's not a good one, even if you don't count our incoming forces," Jasek added. "for all the lumps we took we've got a number of forces still combat ready. Over on Heidelberg they're in real bad straits, Zeta Galaxy's been rolled back and has lost a lot of their best in the fighting. They're on the defensive, which means we can pull the Second Proctor Guards over to Bremen. Honestly, if I were them, I'd be hoping to get offered hegira."

"That is, we would let them withdraw from the system peaceably?" Nathaniel asked.

"In this case, yes."

"What do you think?" Nathaniel asked the others.

"I want Lady Trillian's authorization, but I'm not entirely opposed," Maurer said. "The longer the Wolves fight on Tharkad, the more the Commonwealth shakes, and the more we risk a disaster. Their withdrawal will be of immense morale benefit to the populace and the LCAF. Yet it does mean we will have to meet their forces again, and this time they will be defending. Your incoming troops could, if we keep them here, ensure the Wolf Clan's collapse."

"Assuming they don't throw everything at the Triad and level it," Julian replied. "If Alaric decides it's all or nothing and commits to that, it's still an open question on if we could stop him from inflicting massive damage. It won't do any good to break the Wolves if the Commonwealth's wrecked too."

"Though it does mean a longer campaign to push them out of Lyran territory if they get away intact," Bridger said.

And the longer the campaign, the more pressure I will face from home to cut back our involvement, Nathaniel thought. He imagined the losses they'd taken here might be offset by victory in terms of popular morale, and the burning flame of outrage against the Clans would sustain support for some time, but over time the perception of the war as a drain on resources needed for the Royal Federation's defense would increase. Lord Arnold and his allies will see to that, he thought darkly.

The door opened once more. Roderick and Matthew entered, followed by Khan Patrik and Lady Trillian. Nathaniel wondered if she'd had a single wink of sleep given the bags under her eyes, no longer quite obscured by whatever makeup she'd applied for the sake of the holocams. "My position as Regent is confirmed as of this morning," she announced to the assembled. "There was a motion to name me Acting Archon but I successfully quashed it until we know more of my cousin's prognosis."

"It does seem little more than an issue of naming, Highness," Maurer said. "You are the highest political authority regardless and the named successor to Archon Melissa."

"Names, and words, have power we ignore at our peril," Trillian replied, glancing briefly to Nathaniel. Undoubtedly she remembered his coronation, or the many debates and matters that led up to that moment. "Regardless, I would hear any updates on the situation."

Maurer shook his head. "Nothing significant. The Wolves have not resumed any advance and we have some indication they may be planning to withdraw from Tharkad, though nothing is yet confirmed. We have dispatched reconnaissance flights to monitor their LZs as best as they can without triggering aerial interception."

"And our losses?"

"The First Royal Guards…" Maurer started in on the lost machine count, which he argued to be a preliminary but not absolutely final conclusion, before moving to personnel losses confirmed. Nathaniel felt sick at the numbers given. The death toll in uniformed personnel was in the thousands. Most were his age, young men and women who'd signed up to protect their nation, protect their worlds and homes, and had been burned to death, lasered, blasted, or obliterated by modern firepower. He could see Rutgers in his sickbed, half-conscious from painkillers as doctors checked the stump of what had once been his right arm before it was violently torn off by a Clan battle armor soldier. I marched out with forty-four MechWarriors, over two hundred vehicle crew, and another two hundred infantrymen. I lost ten of the MechWarriors and dozens of the other two. We held our ground but the price was just… oh Grandmother, is this what it was like for you? No wonder your heart was so hard.

He noted Julian had glanced his way. Before he could speak, Julian nodded. "'Nothing but a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.' Old wisdom I learned at NAMA."

"We're getting a flagged transmission from one of our recon flights," one of the war room techs announced, drawing the attention ot the worthies present. "The Clans appear to be loading their DropShips in at least one LZ."

"Put it on."

The image was clearly a magnified one from a suborbital aerospace craft. Occasional flashes of weapons fire made clear the Wolves were engaging these flights, and the camera image wobbled sometimes given the maneuvering needs of the craft taking the footage. For the most part the Clan OZ was what Naathaniel would expect, with the clustering of 'Mechs, vehicles, and other equipment, cargo and transport vehicles, figures milling around, and such.

Yet one thing stood out. Several rows of standing figures, bordered on all sides by battle-armored infantry. Nathaniel noted Bridger's jaw clench in fury, but the older general said nothing. The image enhanced and zoomed in enough that Nathaniel could make out the assembled were mostly in blue BDUs with a handful of greens and reds. He realized these weren't Clanners.

"They're loading POWs onto their ships," Roderick said. "What the hell for?"

"To get them out of the way and secured before loading their own troops," Maurer suggested. "It appears the Wolves have decided to retreat."

"Can we confirm this at all their LZs?" Nathaniel asked.

It took several minutes and a number of calls, during which little was said. More images came, some more or less detailed, and the number of captives fewer or greater, but always the same.

"It is odd," Patrik said. "You do not count isorla in this manner, not usually. It is done in their confines before they are distributed to the capturing warriors and units."

"So they are being made slaves?" Nathaniel asked.

Patrik grimaced. "No. It is… hard to explain to one not of the Clans. Or, perhaps, easy to explain and hard to understand," he said delicately. "To be taken as bondsman is an honourable state, according to our redes and laws as the Great Father and the Founders set them down. To take a warrior as a bondsman is recognition of their honour and skill, a declaration that you believe them to be a valued addition to your Clan. It is often the Way that the warrior who took a bondsman is made responsible for educating them in the traditions of their new Clan, and learning from them in turn, if done as it should be in guiding a bondsman to the restoration of their status as a warrior. Synthesising something new and stronger out of the best of both traditions. The exact nature has had to change somewhat since our return to the Inner Sphere, but it has worked well for many involved. Phelan Kell was a mere pup, angry at the world, when he came among us. Yet it was the making of him, as a warrior and a leader." He smiled softly, before his expression hardened. "But this seems more a mockery. The Crusaders know we are observing them. They are displaying their isorla to us to goad us into something, or taunt us."

"And if someone refuses to join the new Clan?"

"Under the Clan tradition they are allowed bondsref."

"That's what Malvina demanded," Nathaniel recalled. "She wanted us to let her kill herself."

"Yes. Refusing the bondcord requires death." Patrik turned his head to face Nathaniel. "This offends you?"

"It is slavery," Nathaniel retorted. "Offering death as an alternative to being required to serve is nothing but that."

"It is not the same for a Clan warrior," Patrik replied. "Warriors from most Clans recognize it as a gesture of honor and do not refuse the bond. They would rather regain warrior status and continue efforts to win glory and a chance for a Bloodname; even if they truly wished to return to the Clan of their birth, as a warrior there would be more options to arrange their return in honour. 'Where there is life, there is hope' is the saying, if I recall rightly. Those Clans most known for refusal were regarded as our more… unhinged brethren. The Blood Spirits, the Fire Mandrills. Formidable warriors, and honourable in their own ways, from what the Remembrance says, but too rigid to bend before they broke." Patrik gestured to the images. "But again, it is nothing like this. The Crusaders have long lost their connection to what it means to be Clan, to follow the Way of Kerensky. This is dezgra behavior."

"I wouldn't be shocked if they're hoping to browbeat some of our boys into signing onto their warrior caste," Jasek said. "They've done it before. Might be harder if it's clear we're winning now, but for a chance to get better grub, better treatment? And if it means they don't get used as forced labor? Some might just say yes."

"I can't allow this," Nathaniel said. "We must get our people back."

"If even the Falcons would accept prisoner exchanges, would these Crusader Wolves do it?" Bridger asked. "We managed it on Great X and Timkovichi."

To Nathaniel's surprise, Patrik let out a booming laugh that thundered over the room. "Chalcas son of a Blakist, I would almost congratulate your cunning if it were not sich utterly dezgra behaviour."

Trillian recovered from surprise at the man's action. "Khan Patrik?"

"I will place my armour as isorla for the bid that the Sea Foxes have sold as much information to Alaric and the Crusaders as they have to us. That would include your warriors' campaign against the Falcons," Patrik said. "They would know about the actions on Great X and Morges, and the insistence on prisoner exchanges. Alaric is doing this to goad you, High King Nathaniel. He knows you will want your people back, so he has arranged this display so you will ask him for a prisoner exchange; or possibly as a provocation to an unwise bid of single combat, but I suspect the former is his first thought." The Wolf Khan scowled. "Alaric thinks like a Liao, not a Ward, whatever ancestry he claims. All he has to do is refuse every offer until you include hegira. Then he gets his surviving warriors back as well as the honorable withdrawal he and the other Crusader commanders need to avoid dishonor."

"I see." Nathaniel nodded. "Yes, I do see. Clever of him."

"He has a reputation for it," Jasek said. "I, for one, don't like the idea of giving him what he wants."

"Nor do I. But we have a duty to our soldiers that transcends such. Getting our people back matters more."

"Alternatively, our prisoners will not be returned to Clan 'Mechs to cause us greater loss in future battles," Maurer said. "And we can always liberate captured POWs during our advance."

"Assuming these Crusader Wolves do not butcher them as the Falcons did on Great X and Morges," Nathaniel retorted. "And what would it say to our troops that we will let their comrades be carried of to keep a few dozen of our own prisoners?"

"Relief that we are not forcing them to fight such enemies again?" Maurer suggested sharply.

Nathaniel swept his eyes towards the others. "And what do you say?"

"Maurer's right that we'd be letting Alaric walk free and get a bunch of very good MechWarriors and aerospace pilots back," said Roderick. "But some of our people are pretty good too, and I'd like to get them back in action on our side. Plus it'd look good for morale."

Bridger nodded. "I'm with you, Majesty. We don't abandon our people."

Nathaniel patiently waited for the others, or Trillian, to speak. Patrik was the next to do so. "While vengeance is owed for this, honour counsels that our obligations to our warriors must come first. I believe that the offer of hegira is the best course open to us, for now. Afterwards," one slab-like fist clenched unconsciously, in a manner reminiscent of an Elemental battleclaw gripping and crushing. "Afterwards, we can settle our accounts, to the fullest measure, with the Crusaders." The expression that crossed Patrik Fetladral's features at that could only by a very loose definition be called a smile.

"I say we make him sweeten the pot, then," Matthew said. "Make them pull out of the Lockheed plant without taking a single damn thing. No loot, no salvage. They give us our people back, we return theirs, and they get the hell off Tharkad."

"Alaric may be required to demand yet more in return for that," Patrik warned.

"Then he gets nothing, we start hitting the LZs to get our people out, and we hold him here until the reinforcements come. I'm sure he knows we've got people coming and he wants out before we bring that hammer down."

"What do you think he will ask for in addition, Khan Patrik?" Nathaniel asked.

"A truce, so that he can graduate another class of warriors and gain a chance to secure a Bloodname and become Khan," Patrik replied. "He is highly regarded as a ristar and only Seth Ward's political power and the lack of a Ward Bloodright opening up has kept him from that so far."

"Hell no to that," Matthew insisted. "It'd destroy our campaign planning, he'd get to dig in."

"Agreed. I swore to liberate those worlds and I will not let him even entertain keeping them, nor would I expect Lady Trillian to agree to such."

"Indeed not," Trillian concurred. "A truce is out of the question. But if he agrees to a prisoner exchange and leaving the captured factories intact, I agree to grant hegira, and will communicate the offer."

"While it is your decision, Lady Trillian, I would suggest General Roderick, Marshal Julian, and High King Nathaniel transmit the offer," Patrik said. "It was their forces that protected the Triad, and it was Nathaniel who slew Khan Ward in battle. Their offer will be taken more seriously and as having all required honor."

"Very well," Trillian said. "I leave it to you, gentlemen."

"Any reason to delay?" Nathaniel asked the older men.

"None, Majesty," Roderick said. "Let's make the call."

Chapter 13 - Nothing But A Battle Lost…



Tharkad City Municipal Railyards, Tharkad City
Bremen Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
24 June 3143

Talia Yuen winced as she sat down rather heavier than she’d planned. According to the medtechs, the ribs down her left side weren’t broken, but they were badly bruised, and she really shouldn’t be jarring them anymore than necessary.

That had happened during the second Wolf attack, when she'd been trying to get another company organised to back up Julian Davion. Someone on the Crusader side had gotten themselves rallied and reorganized faster than Talia had expected; and if not for young acting-leutnant Covington getting a pair of fresh battalions from the Buena Guards to reinforce the railyards, things could've gone very badly. As it was, they’d been more than bad enough.

Her entire command now totalled, operational - if you were really generous - a short lance of BattleMechs, a company and a half of tanks and mobile artillery, and enough infantry, battlesuits and shirtsleeves both, to maybe fend off attack by a determined troop of Girl Scouts. The raw numbers didn't convey the feel of it, though; not the way the holes in her command group did. Kirklin was dead; so were Stanson and Captain Rosenthal, the former killed in the brawl through the yards when his Manticore was swarmed by Wolf battlesuits, and the latter in the second Wolf attack. Saving my life, just to make it bloody worse. Berry was over at the Triad, and Hauptmann Jacoby still in surgery. Kezia Wolf was post-op and stable, thank God, but she'd be laid up for months regenerating her legs from just below the knee.

That left her with Virgil, Covington, Tom Rogers, and Point Commander Tiphaine. At that, probably all of them should be in the hospital; Virgil was most obvious, one leg propped up on a stack of crates and cased in fibreglass and supporting gel cushions from hip to just below his knee. A broken femur was no joke, even with modern medicine, and even if it was a clean break the medtechs had started work on fusing already. Tiphaine, a dark-skinned redhead of typical Elemental scale - product of a Fetladral-Osis cross, if her memory worked - was essentially one giant bruise from where a Crusader Sun Cobra, unhappy with what she was doing to its hip with her battlesuit’s laser, had backhanded her through a couple of buildings; and Covington was wearing his uniform jacket over one shoulder, features pale under his dark hair as another medtech finished taping up his own badly battered ribs and ensured the dressing across a gashed forearm was secure. Rogers was mostly drawn and pale, from exertions he evidently wasn’t used to at his time of life.

Part of it, as well, might be shock, at the Royal Guards infantry pointedly extending their salutes to include him; even the few Elementals still on their feet were acknowledging Rogers with quiet respect. Killing an armoured Elemental in your shirtsleeves had that effect.

“Okay, that’s the breakage,” Talia finally said. “Do we have any good news?” That provoked a quick exchange of looks.

“Well, Covington, elected spokesperson by default, spoke up, “we’re not dead, and we’ve held the yards. I think that’s on the credit side of things.” He paused for a moment, checking one of the noteputers piled on the Tribune’s map table. “And our support echelon came through pretty much intact. Given time, everything that hasn’t been completely wrecked we can restore to running status; and it turns out Arcadian parts mate with ours pretty easily.”

“Personnel is .. not so good,” Rogers put in. “I’m afraid most of our injured aren’t going to be out of the hospital for weeks, at best. And several on their feet,” he shot a pointed look at Virgil and Tiphaine, “shouldn’t be.”

“Hey, I am off my feet,” Virgil protested, indicating his leg cast. It wasn’t funny, but everyone laughed anyway.

"Well, we're on reprieve for now at least," Talia said. "Tac recon reports are the Crusaders have fallen all the way back out of Tharkad City, and they're linking up with the formations that were besieging the Nagelring on the way back to their LZs."

"And what word from the Triad?" Tiphaine asked, an edge of something close to worry in her voice. Of course; she’s probably got friends, maybe sibkin, with Khan Fetladral’s bodyguard.

“More or less that we’ve won. Seth Ward’s dead, that’s been confirmed. It looks like the surviving Wolves from the Triad have retreated as far as Alistairberg.” She frowned, thinking for a moment. “There hasn’t been a casualty list posted yet, but I’ll keep everyone informed as soon as I get one. The palace and the Estates General are supposed to be making a formal statement in a few hours, I think.”

"There's a rumor going around the Archon was killed," Covington said in a withdrawn, sad voice.

"We only know she's been taken into medical care, at least right now, but I imagine Lady Trillian or the Estates General will make Archon Melissa's condition public soon. As public as they can with the Wolves still on world. Right now we need to focus on getting the unit ready for any further action, if needed, and get our wounded cared for." A telling look was leveled towards Virgil. "Only other thing you can do is pass the word on. I'm proud of everyone. We held the line. For the first time in a while, we stopped the Wolves, and I'll see to it everyone is recognized for that."



Guest Quarters
The Triad

"Duke Vedet, sir? General Kirk is here to see you."

Vedet Brewer frowned, sliding his bookmark into place as he stood. That, he definitely had not been expecting this morning; in truth, he hadn’t expected to be alive. Alaric Wolf was a creature of utter spite, and doubtless he remembered, wanted revenge for, the Hesperan Guards standing between him and what remained of the Silver Hawk Irregulars on Helm. One of the only decisions I've made in the last decade I'm proud of.

"Then by all means, lad, show him in."

Clad in a battle-scarred and smoke-stained cooling suit, Tom Kirk looked out of place amid the understated opulence of the guest quarters. But the sincerity of his greetings were welcome anywhere, and one of the few openly friendly gestures Vedet had received for some time.

"I'm sorry I left things this long, Your Grace," Kirk said as he sat down beside Vedet. "But, well …"

"It's just Vedet to you, Tom. And you've been rather occupied elsewhere, I know." Vedet smiled softly. "How have the Hesperan Guards fared?"

"Better than we were worried about, worse than we hoped," Kirk replied. "We're at about three-quarters' book strength; maybe more once I've had a chance to check up with our repair and medical people." He nodded at the books stacked neatly on the table; mostly history books and military-political strategy treatises. "You've been making good use of your time, I see."

"Reading is one of the few pleasures available to me right now, Tom. I don't know if you'd noticed," Vedet chuckled darkly, "but my social calendar has become somewhat empty of late. And a man should take every opportunity he can to better himself." Even if a piss-poor job of that I've been doing up to now.

Kirk frowned as he picked up one of the books. “Forging The Round Table: The Lives of Alexander and Paul Davion,” he read off the cover. “Misha Auburn’s work?”

“Not popular among the academic set, I know, but I’ve found her quite insightful. Now,” Vedet let a serious edge enter his voice. “I know you didn’t come here for a literary review, so what is it, Tom?”

Kirk paused for a moment, then produced a metal box about the size of a cigar case, hitting an activation stud as he placed it down on the table. Vedet recognised what it was almost immediately from the ear-popping sensation and the faint whine at the very edge of his hearing; a white noise generator, making any audio bugs useless. This was serious.

"The Evening Star's drive is fully charged," Kirk said quietly. "With how confused everything is, say the word and the Guards' spec ops teams can have you out of here and aboard her before anyone realises what's happening."

Ah. He should, Vedet supposed, really have expected something like this; he had chosen the Guards for loyalty as well as competence, after all, and it was tempting to get out of here while the getting was good. But …

"No, Tom. Not now, at least. I do appreciate the offer," Vedet smiled, "but I'm not going to give Melissa, or Trillian, an excuse to set LOKI on my heels." He very carefully did not look at the hidden access passage to the Triad's hangar levels. It hadn't been blocked or even locked down from his access codes, and Vedet strongly suspected that was deliberate; Melissa hoping he'd give her an excuse. And I might have, if I hadn't stopped panicking and started thinking.

"You're gonna have to walk me through this one, Your Grace," Kirk replied, skepticism plain on his craggy features.

"Melissa was seen to have me arrested. I know," Vedet raised a hand to forestall Kirk's protest, "she hasn't admitted that specifically, but the entire court knows that's what actually happened. Sooner or later, she's going to have to produce me, alive, and either lay formal charges against me before the Estates General or let me go. If the rumours are true, and Trillian’s to be Archon pro tem until Melissa recovers, that goes double. Trillian’s always been a diplomat, after all," Vedet noted, “very much one for doing things as aboveboard as she can with the damage to the Steiners’ legitimacy of late.”

“Seems pretty thin.” Kirk frowned. “If I was in her shoes, I’d probably just do it and try blaming the Wolves.”

“Well, I’m glad to know you’re maintaining a nastily suspicious mindset, but it wouldn’t work out, we both know that.” Vedet shook his head. “Alaric isn’t the type; if he was going to assassinate me, he’d admit to it publicly. And we both know that Caroline wouldn’t buy it for a minute; much as we’ve never got on, she’d retaliate on principle.” That much, he knew; cousin Caroline had been confirmed as interim CEO of Defiance, and as much as she’d never liked him, her attitude had always been, ‘Me against my cousin; my cousin and me against the world’. “Speaking of which, I don’t want any unofficial actions taking against Hiram.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but I’ll tell the lads to be sure,” Kirk agreed. “I am a bit surprised you’re not more annoyed with him, though.”

“True, I wasn’t happy when he chose to side with Melissa,” Vedet allowed, “but he’s dear cousin Caroline’s favourite, so allowances have to be made. And, well,” Vedet’s thoughts took on an almost wistful cast, “he was a wastrel when Caroline first sent him to Hesperus, and to the LCAF. But he’s proven himself; I did teach him that a man has to stand up for his principles, and that anyone who doesn’t isn’t much of a man. It would be a little childish to throw a tantrum about him doing what I’d taught him to. At that,” the melancholy thought of Cassandra Mylonasa came unbidden, “Hiram’s done a damnsight better job of it than I managed at the same age.”

"You’re remarkably more forgiving than I think I’d be in your circumstances, Your Grace."

Vedet smiled quietly at that. "Forgiveness has its advantages; remember, you can only ever kill someone once. And Hiram may still be useful." He glanced towards Kirk. "You should see to your duties, General. Standby."

"Very well, my Lord. I will keep on eye on matters for you, and keep the troops ready." With all appropriate crispness Kirk saluted his true commander, turned on his heel, and departed.

It appears Tharkad has been saved, Vedet thought. But the Commonwealth's survival remains to be seen. And in chaos, there is opportunity.



Third Proctor Guards Temporary Bivouac
Weishaupt Mountains, Franz Continent
24 June 3143


It was the nature of interstellar warfare that fixed facilities were more a luxury than an expectation. Frederick Wolfe learned the finer art of setting up temporary facilities at the RSMA back on Donegal, his Donegal. The layout of prefab structures brought in on the Trefoil-class cargo DropShips towering nearby allowed for sleeping areas, shower facilities, and everything else a unit needed to live in the field. The DropShips, with their vaguely triple-wedge form around their engines to give them their names, served to provide the Third Proctor with post exchange services, various sundries needed, and most importantly, food.

The chow hall was fairly active even at the late hour. It was officially a new day as of twenty minutes before, but not everyone was ready to sleep. The post-battle crash inevitably brought the post-post battle crash "rebound" when you didn't get to rest right away, as the Third BattleMech Battalion/Third Guards had endured prolonged skirmishing and fighting well into the evening before the Wolves broke off contact. Now Fred Wolfe, his lancemates, and many other pilots of the Three-Three were getting a meal while MechTechs looked over their battle-scarred machines. They must go mad, Wolfe thought while circling a plastic fork through his lumpy potatoes with mutton and a light meat sauce. You put new armor plate on and take it off again twelve hours later because someone's burnt a hole through it or torn it in half with autocannon shells. Talk about futility. He smirked. Random thoughts. My brain really is exhausted.

"Something funny, Lance Loo?"

The question came from Alex McNaughton. Alex had short-cut hair of sandy brown color, thin eyebrows, a round face, and a faint Arcadian burr to their voice. The chill of the Tharkadian air that still seeped into the climate-controlled prefab chow hall kept any of them from shedding their winter BDU jackets now covering the cooling suit FDUs they wore just in case the Wolves came back. A steaming bowl of goulash remained mostly unfinished given Alex's attention to the creamed potatoes beside it.

"I'm so tired my brain's popping all over the place, Naughts," he answered. He glanced at the others, Paora Munihera, all hundred and eighty centimeters of hulking Indo-Maori from Clinton's Chelsea Range, was working on his own goulash bowl, while Amira bint Khalid of Dar-es-Salaam brought her eyes up from the half-finished falafel she'd snatched from the halal/kosher section of the chow line. Her thin face of darkened bronze was framed by the blue AFRF-issue hijab she wore. "Combat crash always follows a surge when you can't get some rest, but the surge doesn't drive all the fog away. The instructors try to teach that to you with those late exercises but it doesn't do justice to the real thing. Getting shot at for real's far different from exercises in sim pods or late marches on the range. Don't be afraid to show it, though. This isn't a competition to see who can look the least-exhausted. You've seen the fight. Felt it." He nodded again to Amira, knowing that underneath her uniform the tape was still wound around her torso to cushion a broken rib. His own shoulder ached from when a Clanner battle armor trooper's handiwork brought his 'Mech falling over. "You've got nothing more to prove."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Paora said. "We came out alive thanks to you."

A part of Wolfe warmed at hearing those words. I did right by you, Miller. I did right.

"Whole company's lucky," Alex said. "We didn't lose anyone. Not like Alpha and Bravo."

Wolfe joined the others in nodding. Charlie Company's twelve pilots were still walking and their machines were intact (more or less). The rest of the battalion hadn't been so lucky. "Do we have a final count?" Amira asked.

Wolfe nodded. "Got it from Captain McGruder an hour ago. Alpha lost three pilots KIA and four wounded with one MIA. Bravo's scout lance got jumped by the Wolves over along the Nordweiss River, all MIA, and the other lances have two KIA and one wounded." Just like New Wessex. He noted the lowered heads. Battalions of armor and infantry were larger by nature compared to 'Mech battalions, with only fifty pilots at max if you had the full reserve of ten functioning with the battalion staff element. They were more like an aerospace wing socially. You were closest with your lancemates, typically knew every name in your company, and would at least be familiar with over half of the other companies' MechWarriors. Five of them would be going into a war grave or a transport back home for burial by family, the others might be joining them if the wounds were bad enough, and for those five missing…

Wolfe glanced towards Amira and remembered a different, rounder face framed by a hijab. Yasmin al-Garoub hadn't been from Dar-es-Salaam, but she'd been as observant, and a fellow Cobra pilot besides. He'd last seen that face in the drop before New Wessex, and last heard her voice calling for help before a Drac missile impacted on her head module. Until the final moment of transmission the remote sensors insisted she was alive, but the Dracs hadn't returned her in the prisoner exchange five months later and didn't list her as one of the deceased. So the AFRF's status hadn't changed on her: Missing in Action.

The fury briefly spiked. We're fighting here and not on New Wessex. Not on Vega. For all we know that bastard Ballymont kept her and others, didn't return them just out of spite. We should go back, we should make sure! We left them behind! I left them behind!

"Thinking of your old lance, Lieutenant?"

Paora's query forced Wolfe to breathe out. "Yeah," he said. "Had an instructor at RaqMil, Colonel Guinness." He knew they'd understand he meant Raquel Steiner Military Academy, the Donegal-based AFRF officer's academy Wolfe graduated from just half a decade before. "Military History and Tactics. None of you went, right?"

He was answered with shaking heads. Right. Alex was Ayrshire, Amira was Tamarind, and Paora's a mustang. "Colonel Guinness was in the Second Donegal Guards during the War. He rose from lance command to battalion command and spent most of the war seeing to companies. Told us all that he ended up with a loss rate of two hundred percent." Wolfe remembered the older man's quiet pain and grief at recalling his lost MechWarriors. "Commanded twelve MechWarriors at a time, lost twenty-four through eight years of Hell. You could see it in his eyes every time he had to share what happened. And he told us all we'd be the same. 'You might forget a name, you never forget the faces'. I haven't forgotten either right now, and I damn well know I won't forget the faces. Neither will you."

"We won, you'd think that'd feel good, I mean, it's better than…" Alex caught themself and stopped. "Sorry, Lance Loo."

Wolfe smiled painfully. "Guinness shared a quote from us, from old Terra. Before industrialized warfare. Says it was an ancestor of sorts, or had an ancestor who fought with him… anyway, it's something said by the Duke of Wellington."

Amira spoke up. "The man who beat Hitler?" She blinked. "No, not Hitler."

"Napoleon," Wolfe corrected. "Waterloo, 1815. A century before that mustached sassenach invented industrial mass murder. Anyway, Wellington won at Waterloo, beat Napoleon for good, became a great hero, but in the end, all he had to say was that 'nothing but a battle lost is half so melancholy as a battle won'. And that's what you're feeling right now. We're all still here, Charlie's still here, but the Three-Three Proctor, well, we've lost people. Comrades. Winning just makes it feel a tad bit better is all." Wolfe glanced down at his cooling food. "Just a tad," he repeated, as if trying to convince them of it.



Alpha Galaxy Headquarters
Alistairberg, Bremen Continent


Alaric stood once more in the heart of Seth Ward's operations center, a center that was now his, at least for the moment. Indeed, Alpha Galaxy Headquarters was effectively functioning for his own Beta Galaxy as well. Most of those in attendance were technicians serving as commtechs, with Chance Vickers and the adjutants overseeing their work.

While Alaric stood in what had been Seth Ward's place, his old place was now held by Loremaster Liam Ward, who did nothing to hide his displeasure at the position. He is certain to challenge me, Alaric thought of the older warrior. But without Seth as his backing, he will take time to work up the nerve. Unless I appear weak.

That was the tricky part. Withdrawal, no matter how wise, would be an admission of weakness so long as the Wolf Clan's warriors were still capable of fighting. Delta, Kappa, and Gamma Galaxies were still in decent positions with gains in territory or captured isorla, and Alpha and Beta Galaxies were combat capable despite their damages and lost warriors. Only Zeta Galaxy were the clear losers of their battles. Yet this is temporary. The Arcadians' reinforcements are closer every day to the final jumps. We must fall back to prepare our defenses. I must get hegira!

"This is not our way." Liam folded his arms while looking over imagery from Delta Galaxy. Dozens of captured Arcadian warriors were being openly lined up and moved into a DropShip. "You parade our isorla like a prize, as if it will make up for your retreat from the Triad."

"If you wish to question my orders, Loremaster, feel free to challenge me to a Trial of Grievance," Alaric replied. "Otherwise leave me to planning our next move."

"You only hold command because the saKhan remains on Gienah. Do not think you will not answer to him for your failure, Alaric."

"I will let the record of the battle speak for itself." He glanced at the time. Star Commodore Fahad confirmed overflights by reconnaissance, they have to have seen. Are they arguing the matter? Perhaps the Lyrans do not care to recover their captured warriors… but they are the weaker here, and leaderless, so the Arcadians will certainly have their way.

"Galaxy Commander." A commtech lifted his head. "We are receiving an open transmission from the Lyran GHQ. They wish to speak to the commander of Wolf forces."

Alaric allowed a brief smile to curl his lips before willing his mouth straight. "I will hear them."

Moments later a new image projected on the main holotank. Alaric recognized his distant cousins Roderick Steiner and Julian Davion immediately. Between them, in a red uniform coat with a platinum hawk-crested tiara on his head, was Nathaniel Proctor. Two prey who so narrowly slid from my claws, Alaric thought in frustration. Aloud he kept his voice neutral. "I recognize my foes. Do you call to ask for hegira?"

"No. Nor to offer it." It was the outsider king who spoke, his accent vaguely similar to Alaric's Star League English but with a distinct, if faint, burr. "What I will offer is a prisoner exchange, planet-wide, as we took many survivors from your best units in the fighting."

Alaric allowed his nostrils to flare. "Are you insulting us, then, insinuating our finest warriors are unworthy of you? Perhaps we should descend upon the Triad again and remind you of our strength?"

He'd sought to unsettle the younger man, but Nathaniel only showed a momentary confusion before speaking on. "It is not our way to adopt warriors as you do. Our custom is to exchange captives. I offer you the same."

"You seek an exchange of isorla, though yours is of lesser quantity to mine? I am certain I can make fine warriors of the bondsmen I claimed from your ranks, and I have other Clan warriors to replace those I lost," Alaric replied. From the corner of his eye he noted Liam Ward staring in bewilderment at him. "I have little interest in this arrangement you propose. Would you offer more? The machinery of the Lockheed factories Gamma Galaxy captured, maybe? Or we can have a truce as you gave the Falcons at Timkovichi. A chance for your Lyran allies to recover their strength and for your people to prepare their defenses against your enemies." Alaric grinned. "I am well aware of the vulnerability of your people."

There was silence from the other side. They are not fools, they know what I wish and know I cannot ask it. Yet they hesitate. Their reinforcements must be near indeed.

Just as Roderick Steiner's lips started to move, Nathaniel spoke aloud. "I can offer you more than a truce, Galaxy Commander Alaric. Hear and accept my terms, and you and your Clan will gain those worlds you call the Pentagon and the Kerensky Cluster."

Roderick and Julian stared blankly at the younger man. Alaric's control slipped for a moment, though he kept his jaw from coming all the way open. His eyes briefly glanced to where Liam Ward was staring in confusion. "Those are not your worlds to give, freebirth," Alaric finally said, choking back a hint of fury that this little lordling would dare to presume to offer the birthworlds of the Clans to them like they were his prize to grant. "Nor is anything known of their condition, there has been no contact in over half a century." As he said those words Alaric realized just what Nathaniel was meaning. "But you refer to your side of the anomaly, quiaff?"

"I do," the Arcadian ruler replied. "On our side of the Glass, the Pentagon and Kerensky Cluster worlds are uninhabited. Aside from some deep space expeditions no human being has set foot on them, nor are they known to be settled. You and your Clan could depart from your stolen worlds, traverse the Glass, and settle them for yourselves. My Federation can provide the supporting vessels and supplies you would need for the journey and settlement. It would be a new start for your Wolf Clan."

"It would mean abandoning the conquests we have won through honor and skill," Alaric retorted.

"It would. But it would mean life for your Clan." The younger man's expression hardened. "Because we are not going to let you keep your worlds. I meant my vow in my reply to your Khan's batchall. You can give those worlds up peacefully and rebuild your society on our side of the Glass, or we will reclaim your conquests by force until nothing of your Wolves remains. If you wish, consider this an offer of hegira to the whole Wolf Clan to leave the Inner Sphere behind."

Alaric's jaw clenched. His instinctive reaction was the snarl of defiance that showed on his face. His lips nearly parted to roar that defiance back, but thought came to hold his tongue in check for the moment. Our chance of winning this war is not great. We have made too many enemies in the League, the Lyrans, and the Republic, now these Arcadians. We will have to win every battle to survive. They can overwhelm us. Will overwhelm us. He swallowed. If we took this, the Clan would be spared that outcome.. We would regain what was lost. We would have a certain future.

His lips thinned. A certain future of what? Fighting and trialing amongst ourselves? A curiosity? If we stay, if we fight and win and outlast our foes with our skill, we could still become ilClan. The Arcadian King has enemies in his home Inner Sphere who might yet act. The League has distractions, the Lyrans' wounds will diminish them for decades. We need only hold and win for a few years, let the Republic grind itself down against the Combine and Capellans, and Terra might still be ours! We could become ilClan! I would become ilKhan!

Ambition versus survival. The offer would ensure the latter but sacrifice the former. But without ambition, without the goal, what did survival even mean? To be exiles to a different universe, with no other Clans to guide or trial against save former Wolves selected to form the hollow shells of new Clans? Even if he became Khan to such a Clan… that luster and honor was a mote against being the ilKhan who created the ilClan.

But only if we win… and we will. We are the Wolves. We can prevail against any foe.

"No," Alaric said, putting force into his voice. "We will not abandon the Empire we won by our claws and fangs, nor forsake our destiny to become the ilClan. You would pen us."

Nathaniel drew in a breath. "You condemn yourselves, then? We will defeat you."

"Only if you are stronger than us, and the Wolf Clan is the mightiest of all Kerensky's children," Alaric replied, investing his voice with the full haughtiness he could muster. "Do not presume to judge the future by the outcome of a single battle. But for a few seconds, two of you would be slain warriors listed upon my codex, and if you try to seize our empire from us, you will be on a codex before long. Now, if you have nothing else to propose, consider all your suggestions rejected. Your warriors will serve the Clan well." Alaric made sure to smile with those final words.

For several seconds nothing was said. Alaric watched his enemies closely. Julian and his Davion arrogance, Roderick's face a stone mask, and obvious disappointment on Nathaniel's face. He is no warrior, Alaric decided. Not at heart. How amusing Seth Ward would fall to such a man. I will not.

"Very well," Nathaniel finally said. "This is my final offer. If you agree to a prisoner exchange, and to take no bondsmen or material from those territories you've seized, then we, as the victors of the battle for the Triad, will offer the Wolf Clan hegira from Tharkad."

And there it is. Alaric pressed his hands together behind his back. "I will accept on the condition that the equipment we seized on the field of battle remain as our isorla for those victories."

"You can't," Liam Ward hissed. Alaric glared at him but said nothing.

There was evident discussion among his foes, and not just those on the screen. Alaric couldn't understand what was said as the voices were faint, but he recognized the matter was being considered. Finally the three men on the screen nodded. "Fine. That condition is acceptable."

"Then I will discuss your offer with my fellow warriors. Expect our reply shortly." Alaric turned and nodded to the comm tech who promptly ended the call.

"You would give up our isorla so easily?!" the Loremaster thundered.

"I would extricate the Wolf Clan's finest warriors from a strategic trap at a bargain price," Alaric retorted. "We have other prizes from our conquests besides, and have claimed many enemy machines as salvage from the battlefield. This would also see the return of trained and proven Clan warriors we would otherwise have to replace, making us stronger for the upcoming battles compared to the bondsmen we could claim from the enemy captives we have. And above all, we withdraw with our pride. Our enemy allows hegira."

Liam's eyes narrowed. "You goaded them into it," he accused. "That was your purpose from the start. You could not ask for hegira, so you manipulated your foe into it, like a chalcas Sea Fox."

"Call me that again, Liam Ward, and you will face my challenge," Alaric growled. "And we both know it will mean your death."

"Perhaps worthwhile if I took you with me," Liam spat. Yet despite his snarl he said nothing more. He calls me chalcas yet he schemes as readily, Alaric thought.

After a short pause Alaric turned back to the comm tech. "Assemble the other galaxy commanders," he instructed. "Our enemies' offer of hegira must be decided upon."



Alaric's image disappeared. The others all kept their eyes on Nathaniel, who knew he wasn't doing well in hiding his deep disappointment. "Well, it is done," he finally said.
"You'd really offer to let them plant themselves on your side of the Glass?" Martin asked. "They'd be a problem in the future."

"Maybe, or maybe not. It would be centuries for them to grow to the power of the Clans at their height, and the different circumstances could have changed them in other ways," Nathaniel said. "As a path it has more hope than the war we now face."

"True," Trillian agreed. "The question now is if he talks the other commanders into accepting our offer."

"For those who won big in the south, it lets them parade trophies," Jasek said. "And the others may just be happy to get away with whatever bits they could grab from the battlefield and the chance to withdraw intact. Zeta in particular is hurting."

"I have a question." The low rumble of Khan Patrik drew everyone's attention. He met Nathaniel, eye-to-eye. "This offer of populating the Homeworlds on your side of the Glass. Were you considering it for my Wolves as well?"

After a moment Nathaniel nodded once. "For a time, yes, back on my side of the Glass. But the more I was told of your people by Lady Trillian and Sir DeMarcus and Colonel Kell, the more I understood you would never accept, no matter how rich the support I offered to you. I came to fear I would impugn your honor if I pursued the idea, so I said nothing of it."

Patrik nodded with evident satisfaction. "Wise. We would never break the rede that Khan Phelan and his warriors made with the people of Arc-Royal and the Lyran Commonwealth."

Nothing was said for the moment. Eyes turned to noteputers and digital pads displaying information, with each having duties to fulfill as they awaited a reply. Nathaniel took the time to check the finalized casualty list of the Lifeguards and noted somberly the costs of their victory. Six MechWarriors were dead, as were over sixty other tank crew, aerospace pilots, and infantry, and the wounded list was over twice as long. The Lifeguards' material losses were firmly at the one quarter level and projected to require at least two weeks just to get the lightly injured combat ready and the equipment all repaired and rearmed. A month before they believe the unit will be ready for combat, with replacements recruited from the best of other units. His own personal lance would need a replacement for Rutgers who would need over a year of recovery and therapy. All of these dead. And more to come if Alaric's behavior today is any indication. Liberating the Wolves' conquests will be bitterly hard work to be certain.

"Transmission from the Wolves incoming," one of the comm techs said.

Jasek gave the nod. Alaric reappeared on the holo-image. Nathaniel met eyes with the man and felt something familiar. If I did not know better I would think he was a Steiner, he thought. "The Wolf Clan accepts your offer of hegira. We will propose the points where the prisoner exchanges may be made while our warriors prepare to depart." A faint grin crossed Alaric's face. "Bargained well and done, King Nathaniel. I suppose I shall be receiving a batchall from you in the near future. I look forward to our next battle. Perhaps you will make an excellent bondsman upon your defeat, assuming you survive." He made a gesture and the image cut out.

From his spot on the opposite end of the main holotank, Matthew Proctor-Steiner-Davion chuckled humorlessly. "Scipio O'Reilly couldn't match that man's arrogance, I swear."

Thinking of his long dead and familially distant cousin, Nathaniel shook his head. "Pride does go before a fall." As it might for me too, if I am not careful.

"I'll get things rolling on the prisoner exchanges," Jasek said. "I doubt there'll be more problems, but best that we keep everyone ready if something goes wrong."

"I don't intend to relax until the Wolves are jumping out, General," said Bridger. "Nor will my brother and our troops."

"If you have no further need of me, I would like to resume visiting the wounded," said Nathaniel.

"We'll call if something comes up, Majesty," Matthew assured him.

With a final nod, Nathaniel departed the war room.

Chapter 14 - The Shifting Tides of War



Royal Palace, The Triad
Bremen Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
25 June 3143


The monitors in the war room were all tuned to the same set of images. A host of imagers from holocams to armorcams recorded the scene of the line of gray-clad Wolf warriors marching through paired phalanxes of battle armor and BattleMechs. A second line came towards the camera, passing the gray line. The great majority of them were in some variety of blue or light colors, with a few reds and greens amongst the suits.

Seated near the central holotank, Matthew Proctor-Steiner-Davion kept glancing towards the image array suspended in holo-light over the tank. He was, for the moment, the only senior commander in the chamber. Jasek's Stormhammers were handling the allied part of the exchange so he was at their CHQ directing things, Roderick was in the field with his Steiner Strikers just in case Alaric did something unexpected. Nathaniel was off visiting the wounded of the Third Proctor Guards with the Bridger brothers. Lady Trillian was with General Maurer, Grand Duke Martin, and Khan Patrik meeting several leading legislators of the Estates-General.

I should be with the Third Guards' wounded too, Matthew thought to himself. They're my responsibility now. But he had the seniority over DeMarcus Bridger as a full general, making him the strongest candidate to stay in the Triad to direct the planetary defense. His eyes passed back over the prisoner exchange. Most were walking, if gingerly in some cases. "Status on the wounded exchange?" he asked.

One of the Lyran CommTechs dutifully called up an extra image. A few hundred meters from the main exchange, another party of armored infantry from both sides oversaw their medical personnel directing the exchange of those bound to chairs or beds due to their injuries. He watched one pair of personnel, a Wolf warrior and a woman in the red cooling suit of an Arcadian MechWarrior, passing by each other. Neither seemed to notice the other. That was no wonder as both were missing a leg and were still clearly focused upon that problem.

Clanners have limb regrowth tech, I hear. That stuff's expensive. Time-consuming. But I'll be damned if one of ours gives up a leg in service and doesn't get it back however they want it. He couldn't quite make out the woman's face, but she looked young, and her rank insignia's lonely silver bar was that of a second lieutenant. Might even be fresh out of an academy. Not much older than…

Without thinking he found his hand in his pocket, pulling out his noteputer. A tap brought the screen alive, and a few more finger swipes and another tap brought up an image. A smiling young woman in AFRF ceremonial reds sat framed before a Royal Federation flag. She looked smart and capable in her uniform and bore the ribbon of an AMSA graduate along with the double-looped silver aiguillettes of a MechWarrior.

A finger swipe changed to another image. The same young woman in the same ceremonial uniform standing between Matthew in his own, Matthew's wife Joanna, and their daughter Maria, who shared the girl's red hair and brown eyes. Matthew lingered on the image for a moment before swiping to another, taken a few moments later. A taller man with Steiner blond hair and blue eyes, but the same facial structure, now stood with them, clad in ceremonial uniform.

"Family?"

Matthew looked up in time for Julian Davion to settle into a seat beside him. Julian was back in AFFS duty camo and was fresh from a staff meeting with his senior officers. "It is," Matthew answered. "Taken last summer, just after I received the appointment to the Household Guards. We were at the AMSA graduation ceremonies in Ayrshire. I'd been invited to give the graduation address, but I would have been there anyway." He grinned. "My wife, Joanna, our eldest son Victor, and our only daughter Maria, with her daughter Guinevere. Gwennie's my first grandchild."

Julian nodded. "New graduate?"

"Tenth in her class at AMSA," Matthew said proudly. "She's joined Victor in the Arcadian Guards as a second lieutenant. A good unit with a proud history, she'll do well with them." Matthew handed Julian the noteputer so the other man could get a better look. "My mother gave us all those Davion cheekbones, and half of us get the red hair she got from Ian. Mix of Steiner and Proctor shows up elsewhere. Works out real well."

Julian examined the happy family, or at least the happy-seeming family. There was something in Maria's grin that made her seem almost out of place, and it was noteworthy to him that she was the only figure not wearing a uniform. And there'd been no mention of the father of her daughter. It's not my business, he decided, handing the device back. "You're all close?"

"As close as you get for military nobility, I imagine," Matthew admitted. "Well, except Maria. She took a different direction. But she loves Gwennie in her own way." His gentle grin turned somber. It reminded Julian of Harrison whenever Caleb had done something to disappoint him. "You have anyone yet? Family, I mean?"

"Not yet, no," Julian admitted, rubbing absently at the plain silver ring he wore. “As much as it’s bothered a lot of people.”

"Ah. My advice is, don't wait too long."

"War does have that way of putting a hand on your shoulder and saying ‘Hurry on’,” Julian agreed. “But, well, it’s never been that easy; I’ve been in and out of disgrace since my teens. Just ask General Falkenhorst over at the Nagelring.” He chuckled ruefully. “It hasn’t exactly made marriage a viable option, for all Aunt Amanda’s importunings. Though, speaking of chances not realised,” Julian’s voice turned somber, “I've not yet had the chance to thank you for the Narrows."

Matthew waved him off. "That was work. You owe more to that daredevil in the hovertank toting that big heavy autocannon. I've seen some top-notch hover drivers and she made them all look like first year cadets."

"Callandre’ll enjoy hearing that," Julian said. “She always loves to make an entrance.”

"I also owe you a bigger thanks for stepping in when you did," Matthew added. "Nathaniel's alive in part because your lance got there in time." The older man shook his head while before them the prisoner lines started to thin. The transfer was nearly complete. "What did you think of him? As a MechWarrior?"

"King Nathaniel?" Julian considered it. "He’s good. Solid reflexes, steady on his feet and doesn’t flinch. Some hesitation, but that’s normal for everyone’s first taste of combat; the difference between shooting targets and people. I’ve known some MechWarriors who never made the distinction, of course. Good soldiers, some of them, but not people you’d like to know socially. And he’s got a gift for up-close work; I wouldn’t want to try my luck against him blade to blade, that’s for sure. In a lot of ways, he’s better than he needs to be; fighting as a line MechWarrior isn’t his job."

"It isn't," Matthew agreed. "I'd love to pack him up and ship him back to Arcadia right now. He had his fight from the front and he can leave the rest to us. But he won't go. He feels personally responsible for this and thinks he needs to lead it to the end. That he owes it to everyone fighting this war. Just like his great-grandfather. Uncle Ethan was always going to the front." An old grief showed in his blue eyes. "Until the Cappies finally got him back in '10, on Nova Roma. Only good thing is they didn't kill him right there and we got him home before he died from the wounds."

"I think that’s a fairly common way of internalising our responsibilities," Julian said. "Reminds me of something Ian Davion, our Ian Davion, wrote; that, ‘What else is a Prince, but he who stands between his people and harm’. Words he lived by - and died by, in the end."

"Ethan would've loved that." Matthew nodded. "So the way I see it is I need to keep my little cousin alive through all this, whatever I think of the need to have him in the field."

"He's got the right stuff to do a lot of the work there himself. And he's got a lot of the right attitude, in anyone else. Quick-thinking, resourceful, willing to gamble his life if he thinks that's what's needed to get the job done." Just like a certain foolhardy young captain of Amanda's Own on Taygeta in '29, some imp of the perverse whispered at the back of his mind. "A natural talent for piloting as well."

"Talented? Hell." Fondness now showed in the grin that formed on Matthew's face. "I've watched that battleROM of him putting down Khan Ward half a dozen times. He reminds me of his grandmother. Jackie piloted a heavy 'Mech and made it move like a light. She could make her 'Mech dance. Put her in melee range and she'd have a sword in each of Gram's hands, cutting up an enemy in a storm of sparks and sliced myomer. And she was fearless, hell, she was reckless. She once called an artillery strike right on her head to take out an Azami company threatening her position, all while in melee range of the Azami company CO. And that wasn't the one she didn't walk away from!" The smile turned bittersweet. "It was hard to see her after the war. All that fire turned inward, burning her out on the inside in frustration and rage over the Peace of Dieron. She did her duty. That's one thing people never got. MORNING STAR was a mistake, but she did her duty in the end, she put the Federation ahead of her own feelings. It probably destroyed her, but her parents would have been damned proud. So would her son." Matthew drew in a breath and glanced towards Julian. "Sorry. I've been carrying that around for a while."

"I've read the briefing documents enough to get an idea," Julian said. "And I've seen that kind of bitterness before. My aunt - well, mother in everything but blood - Amanda Hasek, has her moments." And God knows, I'm starting to think she's been right all these years.

"Deserved, I'm sure. And against the same targets too." Matthew took the moment to check the images again. The wounded exchange was done and it looked like the prisoner lines were at their end. "Well. Looks like it went off without a hitch. Alaric got what he wanted and he kept his people under control."

"He's going to make a fight of it," Julian warned. "I've fought him, remember; up close enough to know there isnt any quit in him. If he's retreating, it means he's got an idea of how to fight us more effectively somewhere else; one that he's been able to sell to the rest of the Wolves, at that. And I don't think we have any idea what Alaric's likely to do when his back's well and truly against the wall. Lord knows, from what I’ve read that’s when his genefather was at his worst."

"I don't doubt it. We can worry about that later. For now, well, I do feel bad for whatever CommTechs have to answer to him." Fittingly, Matthew's smile took on something of a wolfish smirk. "He's not going to enjoy what's waiting for him at Tetersen, that's for damn sure."





Beta Galaxy Command Ship CWS Blood Fang
Zenith Jump Point
Tharkad System, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
3 July 3143



A solid "thunk" vibrated through the deckplates of the Blood Fang, informing Alaric that his ship had made its connection to the collar on the Victoria Ward. The WarShip was due to pay host to a command conference among all the Wolf commanders following their impending jump to Tetersen and was attaching their command vessels for that purpose. Alaric readied himself mentally for the trial that was to come. The death of the Khan left a power vacuum among the Wolf leadership with the saKhan still back at Gienah, but waiting until he returned there would only play into the hands of his foes. He needed to convince his fellow galaxy commanders of the strategy he'd spent the last week conceiving if the Wolf Empire was to rally from this stinging disappointment.

Verena kept her eyes locked on his. She knew his heart and his worries, but believed in him. Anastasia, still wearing the bondcord, was almost inscrutable in her quietness. Alaric wasn't sure he liked that; she was not the quiet type. And his mother…. she was uncharacteristically quiet as well, standing with the aid of the footholds to keep her from drifting from the floor in their weightlessness. He did not know if that was a blessing or a curse. Her advice often served well, but her outburst on Tharkad had been unwelcome, and his reaction, in the end, foolhardy. Just drawing near to her made Katherine flinch instinctively, as if he might strike or throttle her again at whim.

I cannot, I must not, lose control like that. Never again. My position is precarious and if we are to triumph I must keep my head. A light came up on the monitors. The jump counter was set.

"Well. That sucked."

Anastasia's words brought a snarl to Verena's face. Alaric glanced towards them both. "You make light of our defeat, bondswoman?"

"No. I said it sucked, I didn't laugh at it," Anastasia answered. Her contraction was not the usual carelessness, no. It was deliberate. "I was looking forward to being a warrior of a victorious Clan that had smashed the Lyran Commonwealth to pieces."

"Perhaps you will see to that in the end," Alaric said. It was mostly bravado, though he imagined not utterly impossible of an outcome if their enemies gave them the opening. "But I have greater concerns. The Arcadians are stronger foes than we anticipated, and the Lyrans will have space to recover. The Clan must prepare to meet their counterattack."

"You have other concerns, Alaric." Katherine spoke with some of her old haughtiness, but Alaric thought he detected some caution in her now. "Liam Ward hates you and will pin this defeat on you. He will use your acceptance of hegira as proof of cowardice and refusal to press on to victory."

"And I will use our information on the incoming Arcadian forces to show I acted to save our Clan from utter ruin," Alaric retorted. Before she could protest he held a hand up, the other still holding him to the central holotank. "Though you are right. He will try regardless, and I will need a strong defense to throw him off."

"You're a Clan warrior, Alaric," Anastasia said, as if he need be reminded. "You have countless victories on your codex. Thaddeus Marik, me, now both the Arcadian king and Julian Davion. In the end, warriors who win get respect, and Liam Ward's only a Loremaster for a reason. He's not been any good in a 'Mech for over a decade and the other Bloodnamed know it."

"You could challenge him," Verena suggested. "If he demeans you in Council, declare a Trial of Grievance."

"I will, if the timing is right," Alaric vowed. "But politics, even among the Clans, is rarely so easy, or the lives of the Bloodnamed would be even shorter." He stopped speaking as a voice cut over their speech, giving a one minute jump warning. Everyone on the bridge fastened themselves to footholds, handholds, or armholds in readiness.

The jump was like any other. That infuriating sense of dislocation, the sickness in the stomach and the head and that peculiar feeling of a full-body sneeze that came with being propelled across light years in an instant. The holotank displayed dissolved into static and snow for several moments even after the jump cleared and precious reality reasserted itself. Alaric glanced over the display as it finished resolving.

As he'd expected, Epsilon Galaxy's JumpShips and DropShips were waiting for him. Yet he frowned. There were too many waiting for him. And they bore battle damage.

"Signal from Galaxy Commander Niel Carns," a CommTech announced. "Requesting conference."

"Put him on." The commander of Epsilon Galaxy appeared, as did the other leading officers. Zeta Galaxy's Cooper was available once more, bearing the scars of his injuries at the Arcadians' hands, and Liam Ward represented Alpha Galaxy and the Golden Keshik. "Galaxy Commander Carns, what news do you have for us?"

"My forces inflicted damage on the Lyrans at Gibbs, but the enemy's defenses proved too strong to destroy the yards," Carns answered. "They had been reinforced by these 'Arcadians' in significant number, including naval support. Your diversion wasted my warriors and clearly cost us Tharkad!"

"An enemy you could not vanquish at Gibbs would have instead fought you at Tharkad," Alaric noted. "As the matter stands, Galaxy Commander, you did your duty to the Clan well, and your codex will not record failure."

Carns looked thoughtful, even surprised. I have given him the means to preserve his own record. His gratitude, if it comes, will be useful. "Unfortunately I cannot report success on Tetersen either. A strong force of what we presume were Arcadians landed and struck at our invading clusters from the air. The casualties were significant and our foes more experienced and capable than anticipated. With their growing numbers we were compelled to withdraw.

Alaric narrowed his eyes. The Thirty-First Wolf Guard Assault and Thirty-Fifth Wolf Battle clusters are skilled formations, they should have crushed a Spheroid force that did not enjoy significant numerical edge.

"How were some of our best overcome in this way?!" Cooper demanded. "Whom did you fight?"

"They bore the orange hawk of those who crushed Malvina Hazen's Golden Ordun," Carns informed them.

So that is where the Eighth Strikers were instead of Tharkad. The Arcadians must have been confident of holding. Or were willing to gamble. A possibility came to his mind.

Carns resumed speaking. "That is not all. Our JumpShips include the relay vessels from Smolnik and Thuban. Enemy forces were burning in toward both systems, in major strength. The Iota Galaxy clusters we left will not be able to hold them."

"Then we must rush forces to Thuban," Cooper said. "We must crush them!"

"And if we do not succeed in smashing them immediately, the next wave of Arcadians will crush us in turn," Alaric said. "We must choose a stronger defensive position for our next great battle. Let the clusters on those worlds resist as long as possible and die or withdraw having served the Clan by buying time. Chukchi is a better choice for our next defensive stand."

"You would give up Gallery as well?" Elisa Ward asked. Her voice was not hostile. Alaric knew she would be the one to see what he was considering.

"Aff. The Lyrans tried to make it a defensive point, and look how easily we ruined them. Nor can we easily maintain a defense on that world when the surviving Lyran forces continued to hide in the underground. Chukchi is more defensible. The solahma can sell their lives dearly and die for the honor of the Clan so we have time to prepare."

"The saKhan should be deciding this before you, Alaric," Liam Ward insisted.

"The saKhan is not here. We are. Nor is this my choice alone. We, the commanders of the Wolf Clan's strongest galaxies, must make this decision together. But be certain that we must act as the pack, in unity, or the Arcadians and Lyrans will take slay us separately."

"And those who break faith with unity will die in darkness," Yvonne Vickers of Kappa added. "Until the saKhan and the Clan Council can decide, I believe Alaric Wolf's proposal is sound and the right course for the Clan."

Liam Ward snarled, but said nothing while Elise Ward concurred. After moments of tense silence, Rand Connors and Carns did as well. Cooper, ever the fire-eater, was the last to concede. Now alone, and not even the proper commander of Alpha Galaxy, Liam Ward grumbled "Seyla" and affirmed his agreement. "Until saKhan Kerensky rules otherwise."

I know Garner Kerensky well enough to know he is no fool. He is a proud warrior, in fact. Though I will not let him become Khan before me. "Until then."

"Given the circumstances our meeting will be held another day, as we have little else to discuss," Liam said. "I will have a new conference arranged by tomorrow." The communication ended.

Alaric wordlessly left the bridge, pulling himself along via the rails and holds until he reached his office. He floated across to the chair and settled into it. The door slid open again and Verena stepped in. "I have sent the bondswoman and the old solahma away," she said. "Tell me, what will you do? We did not take Tharkad and the enemy is pressing us back even now."

"I will do whatever I must, as always," Alaric insisted. "Wars are uncertain, and those with greater will can yet win. The Arcadian ruler is not a warrior at heart, that much is plain. He and his forces can be defeated. If we do so decisively, we will still have a great enough empire to compete for Terra whenever the Republic's Wall falls."

He focused his eyes on her. They held no secrets, could not, given what they shared, physically and emotionally. Verena did not speak what was clear in her eyes. She did not need to. His battles were hers. Her battles were his. For the glory of the Wolf Clan and their own glory, their own ambitions, they would fight on.

Let the Arcadians come. I will best them yet.




Royal Palace, The Triad
Bremen Continent
Tharkad, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
4 July 3143


Trillian arrived last to the War Council. Maurer, Jasek, Patrik and Roderick sat with her and Nathaniel with his generals, Julian at a seat roughly between them around the round table. The holotank in the war room displayed the latest tidings from the Arcadians' fax machines. Smolnik and Thuban both blinked colors, contrasting between Lyran blue and Wolf amber, and Tetersen and Gibbs were back to solid Lyran blue. Over Smolnik she recognized the lyre and crossed swords insignia of the Brotherhood of Cincinnatus and suppressed a habitual shudder. The Cisglass mercenaries were not the same as the nationalist terrorists who'd tried to murder her cousin and her father and had helped the Blakists kill her grandfather. She'd personally negotiated their contract with the Lyran Commonwealth, after all.

Thuban had a pair of other marks marking different mercenaries from the Cisglass she'd also hired. One was a black bird head over a golden disc, representing the Blackhawk Aerospace Group, while the other was a skull on a red field. From history she knew it was the Gray Death Legion, destroyed during the FedCom Civil War in her Inner Sphere but one of the strongest mercenary forces of the other Inner Sphere. Founded just as the Kell Hounds were. It is strange how many ways our timelines seem to have mirrored one another. She glanced to Nathaniel and felt gratitude. I could never have afforded them without Nathaniel's grant from the House Proctor Trust.

But even more important were the icons now at Tharkad, Tetersen, and Gibbs. Multiple crowned hawks represented the arrival of the next wave of Arcadian formations. Yet more remained at Westerstede and would be coming up shortly. We have survived the storm, now we can take the offensive.

"Brigadier Laguna's latest report confirms the Wolves aren't moving to land on Tetersen again," Bridger said to the assembled. "They've probably done the math on the jump figures and know they don't have time."

"Do we have the naval resources to push?" Julian asked. "Between my contingent and yours, including your big cruiser, we could take a lot of them out in space."

"They've got three ships near or at the Sara Proctor's weight class, and our other ships are just a destroyer and corvettes," the older General Bridger replied. "Admiral Abdul-Jabbar thinks he can win but says it'd carry a butcher's bill. Given the state of your yards at Gibbs, we'd be out of offensive action for months, easy. And that's assuming we did win."

"We'll have to face them in space eventually," Nathaniel said. "But every week brings us closer to having more ships for the effort. Taking a risk now isn't necessary, I think?"

"It is not," Maurer concurred.

"Still, we don't want to sit on our rears," Roderick said. "The Strikers and Stormhammers are intact enough to head out. We still have some folks behind on Gallery who hunkered down in the caves, we get that planet back and we take out the Wolves' forward supply base and get those troops back fully."

Maurer nodded to Trillian. "Consolidating Thuban and taking Gallery would make an acceptable push until we have the Gibbs yards repaired."

"I will move on to Thuban, then," said Nathaniel. The others turned their heads to face him. "I'll establish a new headquarters there and prepare for our advance."

"The Arcadian Rangers are always ready," Brigadier Fraser assured him. "But I'm not sure the other units are ready."

"My people need time to get replacements and finish healing some wounded," the younger General Bridger said, referencing his Third Proctor Guards.

Nathaniel's distant cousin Allen Proctor nodded. "The Second's got some repair work to do too, but we can follow after you."

"Until then, you both can assist in the defense of Tharkad. Besides, my old unit is almost here, and the Proctor Heavy Guards are already at the jump point. That will give me a solid core of forces to meet any unexpected enemy strikes."

"I'll move ahead with you," said Julian. "I brought a solid reserve with me to fill in losses in the ranks, so the First Davion Guards will be combat ready by the time we're at Thuban, whatever happens."

"What are the odds the Wolves try to attack again, given what they've seen?" Allen Proctor asked bluntly. "We handled them roughly."

"We did, but they're going to start feeling desperate, and Alaric especially is going to be casting around for a way to secure his power," Julian said. "He already knows a lot about how we think. We can't underestimate him or assume we know what he'll do."

"Only going to get more true the more we win, I'd imagine," Matthew said. "Scariest wolves are always the ones backed into a corner."

"Your choices make sense," Trillian said. "Though for form's sake, King Nathaniel, I must hold a proper departure reception for you. The Court will expect it." She noted the way his lips stiffened. "Not that I look forward to it. But we must maintain what normalcy we can for morale reasons."

"I will, again, consider it just another duty I must perform for my ally," Nathaniel said with evident resignation.

"It will also make for more footage to send out," Maurer added. "The Commonwealth's morale will be greatly improved."

"It'll get home too, though maybe we should be careful how it's shown there," Nathaniel said. "I don't want the people think I'm just celebrating while the troops fight and die."

"Oh, the press officers will see to it, Majesty." Matthew grinned. "Besides, by the time that gets there, I'm sure everyone back home will have already seen you in action."

"Ah, right." Nathaniel grinned weakly. "They will want to show my fighting in the Narrows." Trillian noted the color seep from his cheeks. "Oh no, good God, Mother will see it."

"Hopefully an edited copy," Matthew said knowingly.

Probably not, Trillian imagined. Either way, she knows her son is risking his life, and it will hurt. I wonder how I would feel if I ever had a child doing this line of work. Though that is probably inevitable. She pushed the thought away to focus on the business at hand. "There are, of course, financial considerations," she began. "The Sea Foxes have presented their first invoice for transport of military supplies…"

Chapter 15 - The Folks Back Home


Royal Palace
Roslyn, Eastern Islay
Arcadia, Arcadia Royal March
Royal Federation
Cisglass Inner Sphere
18 July 3143



The holoviewer of the Royal Office displayed the scene in full holographic color. From his chair, Prince Peter Proctor-Steiner recognized Liberator, once his father's 'Mech and now his grand-nephew's, as it rushed through the thick of the fighting towards the looming form of a Wolf Clan assault 'Mech. Carrying PPCs. Royal-grade, given the punch they've shown, he thought, as if he were on the battlefield himself appraising a foe. The Clanner, missing their 'Mech''s left arm, fired three PPCs bolts that ravaged the pride BattleMech of House Proctor, blasting away the Paladin machine's left arm. The gait of the 'Mech shifted, wobbled, but did not fall, nor did it waver as the right arm of the Clan machine leveled on Liberator's cockpit. Nathaniel finished crossing the distance and with a single sweep of Liberator's right arm, he plunged a BattleMech-scale sword straight into the Wolf machine's cockpit. Peter knew well what the sudden crimson splash from within meant.

"This footage comes courtesy of an embedded team from our sister organization across the Glass," a Gaelic-accented anchorwoman of the Donegal Broadcasting Corporation said. "It is confirmation of earlier press reports of the death of Seth Ward, Khan of the Wolf Empire, during fighting in the Triad late last month. Analysts so far confirm this footage is that of High King Nathaniel, who was reported to have survived the brutal battle for the Triad with only minor injuries. According to correspondents the images shown here are sparking a wave of celebrations and renewed hopes among the beleaguered Lyran Commonwealth in the Transglass. For the first time in a century, a Wolf Khan has fallen to a non-Clan foe. We are still awaiting official response to the release of this footage-" A crossed out volume indicator appeared over the image, reflecting someone had hit the mute button.

That someone was seated across the way from Peter. Lady Sara-Marie Proctor, his nonagenarian second cousin and serving Regent of the Royal Federation, was dressed plainly as was her wont. Only the House Proctor coat of arms over her heart and the Regent's Seal hanging from her neck stood out. It was a contrast to the elegant white and purple robed suit favored by Lady Sophia Marik, Royal Secretary and now the Queen-Consort-to-be, with the purple Marik eagle embroidered on the left breast. Her pretty young face was drawn and pale. "He almost died," she said through tight lips. "God forbid it, but you saw that. Nathaniel almost died."

"He didn't." Peter said the words gently. He didn't intend to snap at the young woman. Sophia was one of a rare members of House Marik to not be current or former serving personnel of the AFRF, given her family's rule over the most fought over section of the Federation. Counting the three of us, only I have served. "And this is merely a visual confirmation for the citizenry, which is why the AFRF approved its public release. The public will see their ruler fulfilling his pledge and fighting the enemies of humanity from the cockpit of Liberator. It should do wonders for public morale."

"But hardly any for Queen Mother Sita," Sara-Marie observed wryly.

Peter pursed his lips and nodded silently. "No, I can't imagine she will be pleased to see this footage. God I hope her staff hides it from her, as impossible as it will be." Peter thought back to his childhood. The press could never get enough footage of his father in battle, even though Ethan was not so reckless as to continually go to the thick of fighting. Just those occasions when the Lifeguards and his command echelons were forced to fight by enemy troops served to electrify the populace. This will be on holovid projectors and telescreens across the Federation by tomorrow. Hell, it'll be out to Kilbourne before dinner.

"It's unlikely to do Senator Zento's temper any good either," Sophia said, referencing the Isle of Skye politician who remained one of the most vociferous critics of the intervention against the Clans. "I doubt he'll be able to get the votes to block the new set of AFRF appropriations."

"Even my cousin wants them," Peter observed. "Lord Arnold has always been keen on restoring more of our formations, and now that Parliament's taking the choker off he's not going to let his opposition to Nathaniel interfere. I just have to make sure he keeps some of them freed up to be Nathaniel's second wave if he needs it."

"Grand-uncle Kenneth is happily contributing," Sophia said. "Given the success of the subscription drives, he's told me he'll get two more Marik Regulars regiments active by year's end."

He'd be a fool not to, thought Peter. And I highly doubt he'll release us from Nathaniel's promise to not pull another regiment from the Principality of Atreus. Not easily, anyway. We'll need to figure out something, though, or we risk end up undoing all of the hard work Nathaniel and Lady Jessup performed in talking Robert Halas-Liao into drawdowns. Instead of giving voice to these thoughts, he said, "That will make providing reinforcements easier, should Nathaniel need them."

The skeptical look he saw on Sophia's face told him she'd already drawn the same conclusions he had. But it will still be useful. Even if we can't pull forces from the Atrean Principality, we could shift our reserves given their improved defenses. No, the real issue will be keeping the Command Staff in line, and Grand Admiral Stewart aside, Arnold continues to worry me, he is certain to try something…

"Perhaps it is best to move on to other business," Sara-Marie said. "Parliament may have adjourned for the year but the business of government does not end. Prince Peter, what has the Privy Council to say about the upcoming budget?"

"A great deal, cousin, a tremendously great deal…"




Several dozen meters below the Royal Office, in the subbasement levels of the Royal Palace, the same holo-image of Nathaniel's victory remained static on a televiewer. From his desk seat, Lord Arnold Proctor-Steiner, a field marshal in the service of the Royal Federation and the head of the Planning Staff for the AFRF, held his hands together in contemplation of the image. Mixed emotions came to him. A small, treacherous part of his soul felt disappointment that the Clan Khan had not rid him of that pacifist fool of a king that he and his people had been saddled with.

But despite his dislike, another greater part felt instinctive exultation at his distant kin's victory. The boy can fight, he thought. He has courage in battle and is clearly worthy of his family. He's upheld the honor of the Proctors and Steiners. Maybe the Clans will burn that foolish pacifist idealism out of him and he will come back understanding his duty.

Seated with him were two women, one in another AFRF uniform and the other in business attire suitable for her position. Neither were MechWarriors and so did not show the appreciation for Nathaniel's piloting that had come so instinctively for Arnold. Deputy Director Elisabetta Rinaldi of the Security Information Service, a daughter of the world Summer in the Isle of Skye, kept her usual reserve. Air Marshal-General Lady Juliana Steiner was rather less reserved and, Arnold thought, a bit too easy in the frown that she allowed to form. "If only that PPC had fired one more time," she muttered.

"Do not be foolish," Rinaldi said. "The death of our ruler would have made him a martyr and compelled his successors to continue the war from the popular furor."

"He will do further damage yet, beyond this pointless war," Juliana said, the scowl not leaving her face. "The window to crush the Empire before its naval expansion renders it unassailable is almost shut."

"It's gone. You know that," Rinaldi said.

"Not if we widen the circle," Arnold said. Seeing he had their attention, he thought back five months to the coronation of Nathaniel. "Princess Melissa reported some interesting stirring from the Federated Suns. They may be interested in contributing to EAGLE CRY if we can get it back on track."

Rinaldi raised an eyebrow. "First Minister Bao has been adamant about following Dieron."

"He might not last forever. And remember the Liaoists' agents attempted to unseat him in the last elections. The Empire's active efforts to foment Capellan nationalism among the St. Ives March may persuade him to accept our help in ending the problem."

Juliana nodded. "It would be useful. But could we guarantee it? You can never trust commoner politicians, there's no telling what calculation they would make to win votes."

To that Arnold shrugged. "At this point there is little we can guarantee. We lost that security when Jacqueline died. But I feel the opportunity is worth pursuing."

"Fair enough." Juliana folded her hands in her lap. "How goes the other preparations? With new formations being considered, it would be wise to ensure the right ones are favored."

"The Seventh Donegal Guards are due for restoration, as are the Ninth Donegal Cavalry," Arnold confirmed, smiling thinly. "And I think we may get a measure of sympathy from General Adamczyk if we bring the Third Royal Lancers back online as well."

"No." Juliana shook her head. "I think we would be better off adding another Arcturan Guards formation. Adamczyk isn't loyal to the cause and never will be, he's too Bolanese in his thinking. Perhaps even providing for the Lyran Regulars to be-"
"No," Arnold said. "It's too soon, that would tip our hands too quickly."

"It's overdue," Juliana insisted, frowning. "I's not like the damn Mariks can protest, they're getting two restored Marik Regular RCTs!"

"Raised significantly by subscription among the Atrean Principality populace," Rinadi pointed out.

"Yes. We would need to do the same to bring about the restoration of any Lyran formation."

"That will never happen in the current environment and you know it." The venom in Juliana's voice prompted a frown from Arnold. "Too many of our people are afraid of asserting their identity."

"It will change with time," Arnold said. "Just as much, the Federation's institutions must be reinforced for battle with the Empire before we begin any transition to rebuilding thee Commonwealth. This is a long term endeavor. It may not come in our lifetimes. I share your bitterness for that, I truly do, but for the time being we must put off our greater hope for more immediate concerns."

"Have you considered a replacement for Admiral Lougannis for Arcadia Theater Command?" asked Rinaldi. "The Command Staff will need to have a solid choice to avoid Prince Peter and Lady Sara-Marie's suspicion."

"General Proctor-Grimke, Alexander I mean," Arnold said. "He would've been commanding the Household Guards if not for Jacqueline's death, he's due a promotion and higher posting, and there's a number of loyal candidates we can elevate to replace him in commanding the Royal Assault Brigade." Peter will suspect him, but has no justification. That branch of the family is reliably a-political, whatever their views of Parliament. Alexander will sound the dutiful soldier and oh so dutifully further our own preparations for war.

"He's very Proctor, but also very anti-Imperial and a good ally against the Concert bloc in politics," Juliana noted. "I'll make sure the Aerospace Department backs the promotion over our own candidate. And his son Gerald would make for a useful commander of the Arcadian Guards when General Onassis is retired."

"Assuming she does. But there's a better candidate, I'll be talking wiith him shortly." Arnold leaned back in his chair. "And I believe that covers everything for now. It's best you both slip away now, before my yeoman returns from their lunch. The longer we're together, the more likely Peter finds out."

"I am not concerned," Rinaldi said. "He can't speak about us without revealing his own participation in our deliberations, he would have to admit to Lady Sara-Marie and to King Nathaniel his role. It would be taken as betrayal."

"Maybe not, but there are other means he could use to stymie our goals, and the more obvious we are, the more likely he will risk bringing things into the open to save Nathaniel's fantasies."

"We'll deal with Peter soon enough," Juliana promised. She stood and departed first, after which Rinaldi followed.

Arnold returned to his work. A short time later his intercom let off a tone. "Sir, your thirteen-forty-five has arrived."

Right on time. "Send him in, Sergeant." Arnold set his digital tablet down and had his eyes on the new arrival the moment the blond-haired man stepped in. A brigadier's star showed on his crisp AFRF uniform, with the branch insignia of a MechWarrior joined with the insignia of the Arcadian Guards. It was a quintessentially Arcadian emblem, Arnold felt; a swooping hawk, wings bent in a dive, a sword in its talons and a broken set of manacles in its wake. The Pride of the Free, they call themselves. So typical of the Arcadian mindset. Maybe I'd appreciate it more if my parents hadn't ensured my upbringing was properly Tharkadian and Lyran. He noted the name plate on the uniform had properly scrunched the long, three-part name "Proctor-Steiner-Davion" down to fit on its ten centimeter length, making it barely legible to anyone without 20/20 vision and impossible to read from across the room. "Brigadier, right on time."

Given protocols a salute wasn't called for, but standing at attention was. "Brigadier Proctor-Steiner-Davion, reporting as ordered."

Arnold considered his younger cousin. Victor Ian Proctor-Steiner-Davion was the eldest of Lord Matthew's children, and the only one to develop a proper Steiner look. He was taller and broader than most of his family. The armored infantry's loss is the MechWarriors' gain, ha. "I called you here as an invitation, Brigadier," Arnold said. "Generals Robertson and Onassis are fulsome in your praise for how well you've handled your posting. Given your record, they're recommending you for early promotion."

The pride he expected showed. Not too hungry, not too self-confident, just the right mix of expectation and understanding of his own value. "I wouldn't want to replace General Onassis just yet, sir, though I've heard the rumors of her retirement."

"This would be regardless of her choice, Brigadier," Arnold said. "To cut to the chase, I'd like you to take some time with my department. The Logistical Planning Center needs a commander with some experience in maintaining a field unit and I believe you'll do admirably. Give it two years and you'll likely have a division afterward." Arnold watched the quiet frown cross Victor's face. He didn't let a similar one come to his own. "Not what you're expecting?"

"To be honest, sir, I wasn't at all expecting a non-field offer, or any promotion," Victor said. "And while I'll go where ordered, I have to say I'm not seeking a staff position at this time, nor am I at all certain I'm fit for one."

"Very candid of you, Brigadier. I like that." And I underestimated your desire to stick with a field command. With all you have to prove I imagined a promotion would be more preferable. Guess we'll have to hope on Onassis retiring. He was briefly tempted to make clear it was an order, but that would be too blatant. He hadn't gotten Personnel entirely on board for it and would definitely step on bureaucratic toes by pushing. "If you ever reconsider, let me know. You wrote some good strategic policy papers in Command School, and I recall your marks at Ayrshire. You'll fit right in with Planning."

"I'll keep it in mind, sir. Is there anything else?"

"Well, while you're here, you might as well give me an update on the Arcadian Guards," Arnold said. "With the Household Guards with His Majesty, your unit is now the primary capital defense force on-planet."

"Of course, sir. I'll be happy to go into details."

The presentation came from memory, and it was a good one. Arnold knew most of it already but didn't betray that knowledge. One of the best-fitted Federal units by far. Still among our best-trained forces too. Useful for our purposes if the Empire strikes, or if EAGLE CRY gets an opening.

"I don't suppose, sir, that with the force expansions the Guards will finally get their expansion?" Victor asked. "It's been talked about for decades. If not for the war and Parliament's cuts…"

"Nothing has come up as of late, Brigadier," Arnold said. And it never will if I have anything to say about that. The Arcadians dominate the Household and Royal Guards enough, they don't need their Guards formation to become its own corps.

"I understand. Do you have anything else for me, or am I dismissed?"

"You are dismissed, Brigadier. Keep up the good work." Arnold watched him leave. I'd hoped to get one of mine into that posting. But there are other units our people have under control, and Victor's a good soldier. He'll follow orders when the time comes.

So, uh, been forgetting updates to this, I'm three chapters ahead elsewhere. Here comes the first of those.




Chapter 16 - The Cruel Weight of Responsibility


AFS Hawk's Nest
Rawlinsburg, Snake River District, St. George's Continent
Thuban
Wolf Empire/Lyran Commonwealth (Disputed)
18 July 3143


The Operational Command Center aboard the Hawk's Nest was abuzz with activity. AFRF duty reds predominated, with a small grouping of AFFS green present, primarily around the central holotank. There, Nathaniel and Julian stood in company with the other commanders joining them for what had been dubbed as "Operation BACKHAND" during the burnout from Tharkad.

Most of Thuban was secure now, indeed had not even been fought over. From what Nathaniel had learned, hitting a world like Thuban with three crack divisions was considered overkill in the Transglass. Even back home it would have spoken of a fairly significant priority to the target or expectation of strong enemy resistance.

And they had certainly brought such crack forces. The Lifeguards alone were, losses aside, arguably a match for the cluster of Wolf solahma warriors holding Thuban's capital of Ickesburg. But Julian's First Davion Guards were also here in their entirety, as were Nathaniel's old unit, the Bolan Heavy Guards, and his father and great-grandfather's storied unit, the Proctor Heavy Guards. The battle for the Wolves was hopeless by all measure. And yet…

The frowning middle-aged woman on the holo, in her gray leather, gave nothing but a defiant snarl at Nathaniel's words. "We do not seek hegira. Either come and destroy us or leave this world to the Wolves." She promptly disappeared.

"She can't win." Those words came from Nathaniel's old division CO, Kashinath Gunaji. A Bolanese commoner and war veteran, Gunaji was one of the most respected officers in the Bolan Corps of the AFRF, and had won command of House Umayr's prize unit by dint of his service history. His hair was turning gray at the fringes and his beard and mustache were already primarily of that color, well kept by both AFRF and Bolanese standards. "This is insanity."

"That's solahma for you," Julian offered. "They're the losers of the warrior caste, the ones who were never skilled or bold or lucky enough to get Bloodnames at a young enough age. The only value they provide the Clan now is a warm body in a castoff machine that can hold ground or take fire that spares more valuable warriors, and their overriding goal is a glorious death in the hopes they'll at least get their genes used by the scientists for new batches of warriors."

"Well, they'll get that death." The commander of the Proctor Heavy Guards, Major General Katherine Tremaine, was a stocky and broad-shouldered woman. A native of the planet Concord, she had graying brown hair pulled into a regulation bun and a light complexion made pale by the months of travel to come from their Inner Sphere to this one. While she had the regular AFRF cover tucked on one shoulder of her duty reds, the other bore the sky blue beret of the Striker Corps, a reminder of Tremaine's long service with the Eighth Strikers before she was brought into the AFRF's premiere formation.

She ran a hand over the display, marking the buildings where the Wolf forces were focused. "But they're dug into some of Ickesburg's densest districts. If we attack there's going to be a lot of collateral." She leveled her eyes at Nathaniel. "We can try to limit it by holding back on some of our stronger munitions, though it's going to cost us in casualties."

"I understand." Nathaniel glanced towards Matthew, who frowned at the layout of the city. Snarling wolf heads on small generic 'Mech and tank markers showed where enemy machines of those types were in concentration, and small likenesses of generic armor suits reflected enemy armored infantry. "Any suggestions, General Proctor-Steiner-Davion?" He'd almost used the far quicker "cousin" but caught himself.

Matthew nodded. "General Tremaine's got the right of it. We've hit the limits of what we can do with fancy footwork; from here on out, it's going to get bloody. That said, we go in hard enough and fast enough, rip the bandage off as quickly as we can, that should keep it bearable. So I think it's time we break out the really heavy armor; Marshal Davion, you've got those superheavy assault tanks, right?"

"Destriers, yes," Julian said. "We've got two companies of them and this is exactly the kind of situation they were designed for; we call them 'siege-breakers' for a reason. And I can see what you're thinking, General. We hit them in a way that makes sure they don't get the glory they want, the word'll get out — the Sea Foxes'll make sure of that — and that should make others more likely to accept hegira in future." He considered the map table for a moment. "And since the only other ways we could do that are a protracted siege, or having the Sara Proctor turn her main batteries on the Wolf positions — neither of which is acceptable — it should work." Julian frowned. "But it won't be pretty."

"Better for the people of Ickesburg than dragging it out, though," Gunaji noted.

Nathaniel nodded. "I had hoped… well…" He sighed. Though the lights of the holotank showed simple facsimiles of structures, he knew the real thing contained people. Civilians, old great-grandparents and young children, people who would die just as quickly to one of his guns as to a Clanner one. If we send forces into that city, we will kill people. There is no avoiding that. But if we don't, the Wolves will just wait us out, and steal the food of the citizenry to avoid starvation.

Matthew must have seen his hesitation. "I suppose a siege might see their machines wear down over months, but our timetables won't allow for that, and there's no telling what the solahma will do if we don't come in. We rip the bandage off. That's the best way."

Nathaniel nodded quietly, feeling a cruel weight on his soul at it. "This is war," he said in a low, pained voice. "I knew that coming in, that a decision like this might come. Order the attack."

"Right away, Majesty."


Ickesburg


The GUSV — or "Goose" — brought Nathaniel and his entourage through the streets of Ickesburg. It'd been clear from their VTOL-borne arrival at the Bolan Heavy Guards' FOB that the city had been hammered in the assault, with columns of smoke and some visible flame prominent along its skyline. Some of that died down on the ground approach, but only some, and the undamaged outskirts of the city proved a deception as the damaged buildings and telltale detritus of combat increased. By the time they made it into the central districts, the driver was actively having to swerve around debris clogging up the road.

For Nathaniel, the sight brought not just memories of Tharkad City after the Wolf attack, nor the rubble he'd seen on Timkovichi. It brought him back to when he was just about six and watching the holovid news reports of MORNING STAR and the devastation it brought to Sirius and Procyon. I knew then that war was to be avoided, though I was too young to understand how hard that could be.

The driver was forced to change roads by the presence of a Juggernaut tank in Bolan Heavy Guard colors. The hundred ton assault tank was turned so that it sat across the road and presented its side and front towards them, showing the glacis plate was virtually gone from weapons fire, and one of the barrels on the turret had been blasted off. I wonder if the crew all survived. Beyond it, work crews in AFFS green were swarming over the even more colossal form of a Destrier with a gutted track unit, though it looked like the crew had come through unharmed. A moment before the sight disappeared behind a building, Nathaniel caught a glimpse of a fallen Hunchback in amber and gold

"Urban warfare." Gunaji shook his head. "I prayed to never see it again."

"I'm sorry for thwarting that, General," Nathaniel murmured. I gave the order. His eyes stayed on the passing buildings and street. Already the residents were coming out of hiding. Some seemed to approach for help before reconsidering,

"They didn't give us a choice, damn them," Tremaine said from her seat, fuming. "A damn waste."

The worst was yet to come. The destruction became more intense. Half-crushed buildings contained fallen BattleMechs. Tanks still fumed, even burned, and the blackened marks of ammunition explosions showed on some of the derelict wrecks and the surroundings. Bodies in mangled armor suits lay strewn in the streets or amongst the rubble, as the wounded had been cleared first. More and more he saw his soldiers, his old comrades, working with their 'Mechs and engineering equipment to clear the roads, dig through rubble, and otherwise give aid and comfort to the residents.

Eventually their progress was barred. The road was not yet cleared. Nathaniel dismounted the GUSV, signaling the others to do the same, and approached the nearest ruins. Looks like a mixed residential/commercial block. Oh God. He was unfamiliar with the ruined BattleMech in Wolf colors that lay prostrate across the broken structure, but it was clear what it had suffered.

"Almost no surrenders and not many more prisoners," Gunaji confirmed, stepping up behind him. "They were not going to give in."

"Like I said, all they have to live for is the hope they fight well enough to get their genes into the breeding program," Julian said. A hard look came over his careworn face. "We just didn't give them many chances for it."

"Regardless, the responsibility is on me," Nathaniel said quietly. In his heart and mind, the baleful, confused glare of a heart-broken six year old prince accused him of betraying a long-sworn vow to never fight a war.

An AFRF officer in a combat engineer powersuit stepped up. She looked not much older than Nathaniel was through her visorplate. Her armored hand snapped up in a salute. "Captain Gupta, Second Nagpur Sappers," she said succinctly. "Majesty, sirs, this is as far as we can safely permit you to go. Colonel Nayak's orders are explicit. We have too many potential UXOs and other explosive hazards beyond this point."

"Understood, Captain," Nathaniel said. Maybe we shouldn't have come. Maybe we're getting in the way. "I just… I needed to see it for myself."

"I understand, Majesty." Perhaps it was something in his expression that prompted Captain Gupta to quickly add, "It looks worse than it is around here. These were commercial districts the Wolves shut down as 'unnecessary'. The buildings appear to have been empty, though we're still—"

"Captain!" Another voice called out, in a Bolanese accent that Nathaniel thought was thicker Nagpuri than Guptas. "Heat signature confirms life!"

A brief flash of frustration and embarrassment crossed Gupta's face before she turned. Nathaniel, forgetting himself, followed towards a broken building with the ruined husk of a Clan Conjurer splayed across it. Already some of the suit-clad engineers were digging into the ruin, using the stronger myomer muscles of their suits to shift and remove significant chunks of debris. Yet the work might have continued for another hour if a colossal hand had not descended. A looming BattleMech, a Chieftain with hand pods, carried away a large pile of the crushed mortar and concrete. The MechWarrior dropped the debris into a pile while the other hand grabbed more.

Another thirty seconds passed before a leg was visible through the rubble. Nathaniel nearly held his breath as the final pieces of debris were removed. He dared not think his hopes, since they seemed so faint.

"Dead," one of the engineers said once the head was clear. Blood and gray matter were visible on the chunk of brick the suit-clad engineer held in his powersuit's hand. "Body is just warm."

Nathaniel closed his eyes. God, forgive us all, forgive me please. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he heard clearly the muffled sound that the shifting of debris had so far masked. His eyes snapped open. Without hesitation he rushed over, dropped to his knees in the dusty rubble, and forced his arms under the body. Around him others were in motion, the noise becoming clear to all involved, but it was he that found the source of warmth and felt the movement that created it. He pulled his arms free and let his eyes focus on the weight now wriggling weakly in his arms, as the crying of a terrified infant filled the air.

"Corpsman!" Nathaniel screamed. "Get a corpsman now!"

Gupta echoed his order and the call went out. Nathaniel's eyes focused entirely on the bruised little form shifting in his grasp. The baby was in a crawler suit that bore tears and cuts from being hit by debris, with more cuts visible on their pale bronze skin and across their fuzzy head. Screams of pain and hunger and terror continued, though weaker than most would expect.

"Unfinished Book," Julian breathed.

Nathaniel felt a grip clench around his heart, indeed his very soul. "This is my fault," he murmured lowly. "This child almost died, lost someone, and I caused it. This is on me."

"The Wolves didn't give you the choice," Matthew reminded him. "They're the ones with the blood on their hands."

"I still gave the order, knowing it would come to this," Nathaniel insisted. He tried but couldn't hold back the tears, not now. His soul ached. "All of this harm. All of this ruin. The responsibility is mine. I called for war, I called it holy, God forgive me. But this is what war is. Even if I didn't start it… even if it's for a good cause… this is what it is. It's what it always ends up being."

He said nothing more and waited for the corpsmen to come for the battered life wailing in his quaking arms. Indeed, he would say nothing more for the rest of the inspection.




Galbraith cavern-city
Gallery
Wolf Empire/Lyran Commonwealth (Disputed)
19 July 3143

The tightly packed apartment blocks of Galbraith's northern districts loomed large, putting Jasek Kelswa-Steiner in mind of the early-colonisation era tomb fields on distant Nusakan. Their shadows cast the street in twilight, obscuring the dimming solar lamps in the cavern roof high above; most of the street lights here had been shot out in earlier fighting, and the apartment blocks were quiet and dead; the Wolves had cut power to them long ago.

A Manteuffel assault tank ground forward, its pale off-white plating looking ethereal, ghostly, in the dying light. Troopers in Grey Death Infiltrator suits swept ahead of it, looking for mines. More followed behind the assault tank, clearing the way for the trio of APCs — a pair of MHI amphibs and a Hasek halftrack — screening the bulk of the infantry; two squads of Hauberk Commandos and a double-platoon of troopers in conventional battledress working a standard sweep pattern, rifles watching high and low for potential threats as the scanner teams did their work. Sniper and weapons teams shifted between overwatch positions with the unhurried speed of long practice. Bringing up the rear of the advancing company were a pair of lumbering Schildkröte tanks, screened by the last squad of Grey Death Infiltrators and a Hound. The seventy-ton BattleMech's long, heavy shoulder mount was up and ready, the eighty-millimetre autocannon panning for threats.

There was an overly precise consistency to the infanteers' dispersion, a rigid application of The Book that Jasek recognised, from his days in the RAF long ago. The sign of a unit still young in the Army List, without learning yet the thousand and one ways that how to apply doctrine in the field differed from the books. The Twenty-sixth Arcturan Guards were exactly that; newly formed and worked up, so recently they hadn't been ready to commit to the battle for Tharkad — not unless things had gotten much, much worse than they'd turned out.

But they are good, Jasek noted silently as he watched the video feed. Good and as well-equipped as possible. That, and the fact that the Twenty-sixth was the only full-strength unit in Taskforce BACKHAND was why they had the point.

Sudden gunfire cut across the image. Bright strings of tracer fire. The stabbing pulse of energy weapons. Snaking missile contrails. Lashing down from the nearest apartment block; shattering away armour, punching men and women from their feet. Shock reigned for a moment, as the Arcturan Guards absorbed the suddenness of the ambush.

Orders and training combined to counter that shock. Weapons fire lanced out at the unmasked Wolf positions; small arms, lasers and particle fire from the APCs' turret mounts. Chewing away at the building the fire had come from as medics and their squadmates dragged or carried the wounded into cover — Jasek caught one infanteer, of Elemental stock from the size of them, carrying two injured comrades to safety at the same time, and made a mental note to find out who they were and write them up for a medal. Autocannon fire walked destruction across the building's front, ripping away chunks of the facade and spilling them — and the Wolf support gunners sheltered behind — to the street in pieces.

The fire from above cutting off gave the infantry their opening, a double-squad storming in behind one of the Hauberk teams. More small arms fire, the occasional faint crump of grenades — once, twin javelins of shrieking particle fire as the Hound took out a particularly stubborn point of resistance — filled the next few minutes, before the job was done. As the clearance team emerged, bringing their casualties with them, the Guards troopers prepped to move out again.

"And that," Leutnant-General Sarah Regis commented softly, "is pretty typical of what we're up against. Small-scale ambushes; mostly no more than a Point or two of infantry. Haven't hurt us, much, but they're bleeding time. As you can see," she indicated the situation map across one wall of Arcturan Shield's ground operations centre, "there have been a lot."

Jasek nodded, The situation map showed the three tightly clustered cavern-cities the Arcturan combat commands were pushing into, tendrils of blue sweeping back tan Wolf controlled regions. Crimson contact markers speckled the whole display; few active, but the map looked like a plague victim's face with all of them showing up.

"How many casualties in the engagement we just saw?" Roderick asked. "We can't afford too many this early on. It's a long way from here to Gienah — or Skye," he added with a nod to Jasek, surreptitiously adjusting his jacket at the same time. Still not comfortable with a general's uniform; or, most likely, the insignia of the Tenth Lyran Guards on his shoulderboards.

"Fifteen." Regis' eyes flicked down to her noteputer for an instant. "Four dead, three wounded badly enough they'll likely rate medical discharge; the rest light wounds. As for casualties in general," she shrugged, "They're running about what we expected from the pre-assault planning, just disposed differently; more infantry losses, less in other arms. Fighting our way into the cavern-cities was cheaper than we thought; getting through them's proving harder. I admit I'm not happy about taking this many infantry casualties this early, though. Not to mention, where are the rest of the Crusaders?"

Jasek caught himself nodding along with Roderick at that. Neither of them knew Regis very well; she hadn't been first in line for the command of the Twenty-sixth, that had been Tammy Diaz, an old colleague. But Tammy had been badly injured in a Wolf bombing raid on the Nagelring, and had to retire from active service. So far, at least, Regis was showing she could do the job, and that was a good question to ask.

"Star Captain," Jasek addressed the fourth officer standing around the holotank, "Do you have anything for us?"

"No," Star Captain Khora shook his head. "We have taken bondsmen, but they did not know much. Just that Star Colonel Castus is preparing something deeper within the caverns." The dark-skinned Exile officer frowned for a moment. "Were I to guess — and I have always been lucky in games of chance," he commented with a roguish grin, "Castus is expending his conventional infantry to buy time to establish a redoubt deep within the cavern systems, force us to dig him out."

All of them knew what that meant; either a drawn out siege, or a grinding assault that, even in victory, was going to render their units combat ineffective. And that assumes we know where they are. The thought of what the Crusaders could do to units strung out searching all of Gallery's tunnels and caverns for them made Jasek shudder.

"Generals!" One of the staff officers manning consoles called, the situation map shifting even as they spoke. "Combat Command Charlie reports contact with friendly forces in Dalkeith cavern!"

The holotank shifted again, to the static-fuzzed pseudocolour of immediate battlefield imagery; direct feed from one of the Twenty-sixth's gun cameras. The newcomers — what looked like a ragged battalion, led by a limping Thunder Hawk — couldn't have had more than a bare dozen tons of armour left between them, and they looked like absolute hell. Most had grey plating mottling them from slapped-on armour patches, limping, broken treads or lift skirts slapping against the ground, smoke coming from too many engines. But they were still in ordered formations, the badges of their regiments still intact.

A comms feed from the survivors came through on the main tank, revealing the interior of a mobile HQ. Centred in the camera was a woman, one Jasek vaguely recalled from the staff meetings barely half a year ago. Older, grey-haired, wearing Donegal Guards recog flashes and a Kommandant's shoulderboards. The bandage over one eye was new though, definitely. Her haggard expression evaporated as the image cleared, and she snapped off a textbook perfect salute. "Generals. My God but it's good to see you. I — Hauptmann-Kommandant Katrin Voll, Eighth Donegal Guards and acting CO Gallery defence command, reporting."

"At ease," Jasek allowed himself a smile. "It's good to see you as well, Colonel Voll, and it's not just for a raid this time. The Commonwealth's back here to stay. Now, what do you need from us?"

Voll's eyes widened slightly at the abrupt promotion, but she concentrated on the practical. "Medics, repair teams, any spare parts you have. Ammo, we've got, but we've been robbing Peter to pay Paul for weeks on everything else."

"I'll get on that right away. Stand by," Regis said, stepping away from the holotank, calling for officers from the Twenty-sixth's B Echelon.

"We need information from you, Colonel," Roderick spoke up, leaning forward slightly. "Anything you have on just where the Crusaders've holed up."

"Um," Voll frowned, exhaustion clearly taxing her efforts to recall. "McMurdo Cavern, we think. That's definitely where they were concentrating, and it's the best place I can think of for the kind of defence they'd run. If there's nothing else, sirs, then I need to see to my people."

"Of course, Colonel," Jasek nodded. "Just let us know if you need anything else in the way of support. And," he unbent slightly, lent his voice a softer tone, "Tell your people, from me and from the Archon-designate, that we're proud of them. They've done good service for the Commonwealth staying alive and active this long. They'll be honoured for it, and there'll be every chance they want to get some back from the Crusaders."

"Thank you, sir." Voll saluted again, before her image shimmered out of being.

"Tactical, bring up our maps of McMurdo Cavern, please," Jasek called. The holodisplay rippled and reformed, into a pure nightmare.

"Hell and damnation," Roderick cursed, and Jasek felt like agreeing with him. McMurdo had been an industrial/processing and refinery cavern, before the mines that fed it had been played out in the days of the First Star League. Spoil heaps and long-dead factories and open-air machinery made it an defender's dream, creating an area of sensor shadows and ambush sites that an attacker could only grind their way through. And dozens of tunnels radiated outwards from it, like the tentacles of some deep-sea creature.

"We can't assault it. Not for any cost we could bear," Roderick continued, highlighting the tunnel dimension readouts. "It'd be a shooting gallery; couldn't use our numbers or any kind of cover. Hell, one reactor overload'd probably collapse the tunnel."

"And I don't think a siege is going to be a practical option either," Regis added, joining them. "To position blocking forces at each of these tunnels, and decent-sized reaction forces to support them — it'd take everything we have and then some. Especially with no way to use aerospace or artillery. Added to that, we don't know how much in the way of supplies they have, and there's the recyc systems to consider. McMurdo supported a mostly self-sufficient civilian population before the invasion; not a very big one, but big enough for the recyc systems to keep anyone going for a while." At Jasek's questioning look, she clarified; "I was stationed here when I did my staff rotation, in Supply." She frowned, studied the map for a moment. "Maybe we could drill out some of the tunnels, widen them or link some of the ones that run close together, open up enough frontage for a decent assault. There's heavy mining gear we could call up from Gibbs or Donegal that should do, surely."

"You know, if we had more time that might just work," Roderick commented thoughtfully, cutting off what Jasek had intended as a caustic rejoinder. "But we don't have the time. The closest boring engines we've got that could cut through Gallerian rock reliably or safely are on Hesperus, and have you seen them at work, Sarah?" That got a shake of the head, and Roderick continued. "Well, I have. Their top speed's about fifty centimeters a day, and we couldn't run them at that without probably collapsing the tunnels we're trying to widen."

"That's it," Jasek snapped his fingers, a solution clicking into place. "We collapse the tunnels — completely, or at least enough that the Crusaders can't dig themselves out any time soon, leave them to starve. We've got the engineers to get it done, and fast."

Studying the reactions was interesting; Roderick contemplative, Khora mildly shocked, and Regis looking somewhere close to mutiny.

The Exile officer spoke first. "Bloodnames of the Founders, that," Khora observed with forced calm, "is a cold way to kill."

"It'll do what we need doing, though." Roderick, ever concerned with practicalities above all else. "End this in days rather than months, and at a cost we can afford to pay."

"McMurdo was never fully evacuated." Regis's voice dropped to a rime-laden whisper that Jasek almost had to strain to hear accurately. "There are going to be hundreds of our people down there. Do you have any idea of the consequences of what you're suggesting?"

"Yes, Sarah, I do." Jasek very pointedly did not snap, or raise his voice. This wasn't a time for theatrics. "I've seen the Falcons and Liaos both use starvation as a weapon, I know precisely what I am ordering. I also know that we don't have the time to do this any way that won't kill most of those people anyway. If you have any better suggestions, by all means, share them."

"We challenge him." Regis's expression shifted to a determined, focused cast. "Single combat, anyone you want to put forward; we win, he clears out. Hell, I'll take on Castus personally. Just give me time to get my Battlemaster bombed up and for Star Captain Khora to convey the challenge."

"It would not work," Khora sighed. "Castus undoubtedly has orders forbidding him from accepting any such challenge, and in any case, we know his orders are to delay us. We could not offer isorla weighty enough to convince him to disregard them."

Roderick exchanged a quick look with Jasek — getting a nod of permission to reveal close-held information — before carrying on. "There are political concerns, as well, beyond the ones we've already covered," he explained. "This has to be a joint advance; us and the Arcadians, hand in hand. If we stay level, even pull ahead of them some, that's fine; but if we start lagging, if it looks like we need the Arcadians to achieve anything, that's going to cause problems. Widmer, for a start."

"What does the Margrave of Timbuktu have to do with this?" Regis asked, frowning heavily.

"He's been making secessionist noises." Jasek kept his voice low; enough to carry across the holotank, but no further. This wasn't for the staff — a discrete distance from their commanders — to hear. "Deniably, so far — and even quieter since his friend Vedet got thrown out — but there's evidence he's been stacking the Second Buena Guards' officers with his creatures. If Widmer thinks the LCAF won't, or can't, put him down at need, it'll be Bendler and the Sappir Archonette — so-called — in '27 all over again."

"I see." Regis's expression blanked, turning inwards and shrouding her feelings in a commendable display of self-mastery. "Thank you for that information, Generals. It does … clarify why you feel this course of action is necessary, and I will, of course, comply with lawful orders. However," a waspish edge overlayed the cold formality in her voice, "I am obliged to record, for the General Staff and in the Twenty-sixth's operational diaries, that I do so under protest, in this case."

"That is, of course, your prerogative, General," Jasek responded in the same coldly formal tones. Well, if I can't manage a warm working relationship, I'll take professional.

"We could make the challenge, at least," said Roderick. "We set the charges, then we make it clear to Castus that either he agrees to quitting Gallery if we win a Trial, or we bury him. God knows I'd feel better for at least trying."

"And what are we supposed to offer them to get this Trial? Because we can't leave them on Gallery, you know that as well as I dot," Jasek pointed out.

"I don't know." Frustration edged Roderick's voice. "Equipment, maybe; we've enough in the salvage yards that was never properly inventoried after the Jihad. Maybe one of us, if we stand champion in this duel; the Wolves've always gone for that."

"And if they refuse, we blow the tunnels," Jasek stated flatly. "Immediately. And I'm counting as refusal their trying to spin any haggling over terms out, or asking for what they know we can't give. I understand the desire to preserve civilian lives, we have to make it clear the Wolves can't expect us to balk if they hide behind human shields."

"In that case, General Kelswa-Steiner, with your leave, I need to get with my engineering staff and figure out how we're going to do this." Barely waiting for a dismissal, Regis turned on her heel and walked away, calling for her staff engineer.

Jasek looked after her for a moment, and everything that went into his makeup prevented him from calling after her, as he wished to, What else would you have me do?

Chapter 17 — Cornered Wolves


Getman Amphitheater
Getman, Lansky Continent, Chukchi
Wolf Empire
9 August 3143


Alaric entered the amphitheater like a predator. His steps were fierce and determined, his gaze hungry, and his mouth curled into an intent expression that was not quite a snarl. This did not reflect his internal state of mind but was a carefully-arranged presentation. His fellow Wolves had to see he was hungry, he was ready to fight, and be suitably impressed, cowed, or both. His eyes scanned the room and noted with approval that some of the others had indeed noted his efforts. He hoped it would sway them.

He knew nothing could sway the glowering figure on the podium. A lectern had been hastily decorated with a Clan Wolf flag sat in the middle, and there stood Liam Ward. As Loremaster he would direct the Council, as they had no Khan at present, though they had enough of the Clan's Bloodnamed to form a quorum for the Council given the majority of the frontline galaxies were present.

It used to be easier. Before Gray Monday, HPGs would allow for a real-time attendance of the entire Clan Council across Clan Wolf's holdings. Now, it was much harder to manage these things, not without altering the Clan's very way of life by removing Bloodnamed warriors from their frontline commands. Alaric had heard the suggestion mooted with approval, in hushed remarks and "jokes" by younger warriors. After all, they had Bloodnames, let them govern the Clan and give more billets for younger, better warriors to earn glory and their own Bloodnames. But none had dared to call for it publicly. Not yet anyway.

Warriors were still filing in when Liam brought the microphone towards his mouth. "Before we begin, trothkin, we must ensure only voting members of the Council are in attendance. I see at least one Unblooded warrior present." His eyes focused squarely on Alaric.

Alaric rose. "Loremaster, I am the commander of Beta Galaxy. While I cannot vote, the Council will undoubtedly wish my presence for planning our defensive strategy."

"And when it is ready to ask anything of you, Galaxy Commander, you will be summoned. Until then, you have no place here." Liam grinned. "Besides, your position is highly irregular as it is. Galaxy command rightly goes to Bloodnamed warriors, and perhaps we should return to that honored practice."

Alaric didn't rise to the bait. "I earned my position as a warrior, through Trials. Like any other warrior. Though we had little regard for one another, even Seth Ward recognized my talents in that way."

"And now he is dead." Liam gripped the lectern and leaned in.

"So he is. That means a Bloodright trial must be held."

"It will be. Until then, you should leave. If we summon you back, I will see to it that it will be to discuss the methods by which you extracted the offer of hegira from the defenders of Tharkad."

Alaric's nostrils flared, and it was not all for show. The insult rang in his heart. "Loremaster, if I were not too busy training for my forthcoming Bloodright Trial, I would call you to a Circle of Equals this very moment."

"Perhaps you should spend more time seeing to your command than preparing for a Trial you may not have earned." Liam sneered. "Indeed, had you spent more time preparing your warriors for battle, Tharkad may have fallen, and our Khan may have lived."

Alaric returned the sneer. "The warriors of Beta Galaxy are proud of their performance on Tharkad. Our codexes proudly display our victories, the most of any frontline galaxy. Together with Alpha Galaxy we blooded the best of the Arcadian, Lyran, and Davion troops, and made them regret their pursuit."

"The fact you had to combat pursuit shows what I mean! You were defeated, Galaxy Commander Alaric." Ward gripped the lectern tightly. The banter was clearly over. "You have no place here, and you never will. The Ward Bloodhouse does not reward failure!"

By all rights Alaric had more than enough grounds to demand a Circle of Equals. Better to bait the trap yet further. "The Ward Bloodhouse seeks the best warriors for its Bloodrights, and my codex is a list of great victories in battle. I have bested many of the finest MechWarriors in the Inner Sphere. I claimed Anastasia Kerensky as a bondswoman. Tell me, Loremaster Ward, that I would not strengthen our Bloodhouse and entire Clan with my genes."

At that point, he imagined Liam would back down or at least change his tactics. The moment Liam's face paled with rage, he knew he'd provoked him. "You are a chalcas fraud unworthy of your rank!" Liam thundered. "Your entire career has been from the influence of that ancient solahma that Vlad Ward burdened the Wolves with! On Tharkad you used dezgra methods to extract a hegira you did not earn, and I will not see you elevated further in the Clan! I will see to it that any member of the Ward Bloodhouse who nominates you for that Bloodright faces a challenge!"

And there. Alaric had more than ample justification to fight Liam here and now, and he fully intended that Liam would not be alive when the fight ended. But before he could bellow his challenge, the voice of Elise Ward rang out. "Alaric Wolf has my nomination, Loremaster, and if you wish we can go to our 'Mechs now."

All eyes turned to the commander of Gamma Galaxy. Alaric fought to keep the surprise from his face, but knew some showed.

"Galaxy Commander." Liam's voice betrayed his own shock. "You cannot mean to nominate Alaric for such a prestigious Bloodright?!"

"Why not? He is correct. His codex sings with victories far more than it laments defeats. He killed Thaddeus Marik. Julian Davion and Nathaniel Steiner fell to him. Anastasia Kerensky, a warrior whose genealogy is rich with strength and power, is his bondswoman after his victory over her. He is worthy of a shot at a Bloodname. That is the Way of Kerensky, is it not?"

"But he is chalcas! A base intriguer and manipulator—!"

Elise laughed. "He will fit well with the Council then. Intrigue and manipulation are but weapons in a Bloodnamed warrior's armory, quiaff? Unless said warrior chooses not to bid into the battle of politics, at least."

Alaric glanced back to Liam and was rewarded with the sight of a man stuck between apoplectic fury and complete shock. Neither of us imagined Elise would come to my support, did we?

"I regard this as a matter for the Ward Bloodhouse more than the Clan Council," Elise continued, "and wish to begin speaking on more urgent matters. Unless, of course, you wish to challenge me on Alaric's nomination, Loremaster?"

A few seconds passed, each undoubtedly devoted to considering his response. Finally Liam spoke. "Yes, we shall discuss the nominations for the forthcoming Bloodright Trials amongst the Wards. Let us move on to our business. The enemy has reclaimed Thuban and Gallery and will undoubtedly advance soon. We will now consider our defensive strategy."

He will yet cause trouble, Alaric thought to himself. But at least this hurdle is past. As the Council regarded the defenses, Alaric waited to present his plan. Garner Kerensky was said to be en route with reinforcements drawn from the new galaxies Alaric had helped form, galaxies meant for a plunge towards Terra when Tharkad's fall had seemed so likely. Now they would replace the losses taken in that failed invasion and, hopefully, provide a means to resist the onslaught building int he heart of Lyran space.

Alaric spared Elise another glance. She did not reciprocate. She is being prudent. We are not allies, will never be allies, but she understands better than Liam the threat our Clan faces, and our need for unity. She will turn on me just as readily if I threaten that.

Perhaps that will make her my enemy one day, but not right now. The future of the Clan, our Empire, and my ambitions lie in the balance. But there is a route to victory, I am sure of it. The enemy's leadership is weak. If we bite hard enough, it will make them reconsider their pledge to destroy us. I must see this brought about, or everything I strive for will be lost.



Arc-Royal


The sun of Arc-Royal was already over the horizon and shining through the blinds when Eva stirred. The haze of sleep gave way to the shifting of weight on her bed, and the sensation of warmth now pulling away from her. She opened her eyes to the sight of a foam pillow still containing the impression from the head no longer laid upon it. "Mmmm?"

"Marissa, you woke her." From beyond the foot of the bed, Dominic was already partly dressed, though he had yet to cover what was to Eva the appealing sight of his muscled chest and arms. Beside him, Rachel finished zipping her jumpsuit up, though her hair was still a disheveled mess.

Eva followed Rachel's eyes to where Marissa leaned over by the bed, picking up a discarded piece of clothing that she began slipping on. It was, like Dominic, an appealing sight, which brought to Eva's mind fresh memories of even more appealing moments. Marissa smiled wolfishly at Rachel and then Eva. "Ah, well, it will keep her from sleeping in. Liaison duty is lax enough, we would not want her to get so used to avoiding morning call that she loses her edge, quineg?"

"Way to rub it in," Eva muttered through her smile. She briefly thought about remarking about what else Marissa had rubbed, and how much she'd enjoyed it, but held back.

"Aff, Marissa knows how to rub many things," Rachel teased while working her hair into a band. "Now if only we could get her to not worry about contractions so much."

Eva snickered at the remark. Right. They don't have quite the same awkwardness we get about ribald jokes.

"It would seem I have much to learn, however, from the Arcadians' warriors," Marissa said. "For a Spheroid Eva is quite good at coupling. Very experienced."

Eva grinned and sat up. She was the only one in the room unclothed at the moment, and fully intended to take her morning shower before dealing with that matter. "And if my instructors at the Nagelring had found out how much experience I was getting, I would have been issued so many demerits for conduct I'd have been lucky to get a posting with the Dragoons. And if you are worried about my edge, I've already booked field time in my 'Mech today. I don't want to spend all my time smiling for holocams and shaking hands."

"Are you inviting us to a training duel?" Rachel asked, grinning. "We would not want to embarrass you."

"I am keeping sharp, no worries there. I'll be going back to the Sunhawks at some point, after all, and they will have expectations."

In unison, the codex bracelets worn by all three Wolf warriors lit up with red light. A second passed before the smiles melted from their faces. Eva glanced to her identity bracelet which had also lit up with red. "Not good?" she asked.

"It is a general alert," Dominic said. "Arc-Royal is under attack."



Old Connaught

Evan Kell stood at the main holotank in Defence Command, and beheld a situation that seemed born from his darkest nightmares.

Nestling in the lee of Thorwatch like a curse, more than a score of JumpShips — more flickering out of hyperspace even as he watched, at precisely staggered intervals — were already shedding DropShips. Fighters and NL-45 gunships swarmed off carrier decks, forming into a broad protective array around the vulnerable transports. And every icon burned the hateful jade of the Falcons. At least a Galaxy, his mind supplied, as type IDs flashed up on the tank's light-codes, probably more.

But that wasn't the worst of it, not by a long shot.

The worst hung between Arc-Royal and the Falcon JumpShips, the identifier CJF BC-01 stark beside it on the tank. Turkina's Pride. Battlecruiser, Cameron class, born in the waning days of the first Star League. Almost unbelievably ancient, armed with a weapons array that could immolate cities in minutes. Its very presence a lethal threat.

Evan forced himself to calm, closing his eyes for a moment and listening to the chatter of reports and open comms from the orbital forces.

"Meridian and Sunrise Batteries report twenty minutes to manned and ready status. Dusk Battery reports thirty minutes …"

"Thirty-second Interceptor Binary in the air, boosting for orbit in ten …"

"Voice of the Seraph here. Orbital guard squadron forming up for an attack run on that battle cruiser …"

"Battlestations Perseus and Andromache out of position, checking orbital angles …"

He opened his eyes again as Andromeda Brahe — in full cooling suit, neurohelmet tucked under one arm — and Commodore von Hammer joined him at the tank, their expressions mirrors of his own grim mien. "Status?"

"We got lucky, ground forces wise." Andromeda assayed a smile before continuing. "The One-Second Hounds and First Wolf Legion were running a counter-invasion exercise, so they're already in position. I've got reload teams with live ordnance en route to them now. And the alert came down mid-pay parade, so all the rest of our people are present and accounted for." Evan nodded. That was the most he'd been expecting to deal with for the next few days; the usual array of post-payday complaints from the military and civil police, and Old Connaught's Chamber of Commerce. Guess this'll teach me not to wish for more interesting work. "SaKhan Shaw has the First Strike Grenadiers and Thirteenth Wolf Guards mobilizing at Wolf City. She's also activated and armed the older mechwarrior and Elemental sibkos."

That drew a collective wince. It was logical enough — the Falcons wouldn't spare the sibko barracks their fury — and gave Arc-Royal's defenders the equivalent of another three Clusters of troops, but throwing sibbies up against Falcon veterans was going to cost. Heavily.

"Aerospace is not so good," von Hammer said, maintaining his eternal calm, level tone. "Without the battlestations' firepower, we can't stop that battle cruiser short of nuclear weapons. Those we have are being brought up from the arsenal vaults, but our first strike is going to have to succeed. With the strength of their screening elements, we won't have enough left for a second." He paused, considering the holotank briefly. "As for contesting a landing, we can at least stop them dropping directly on Wolf City or Old Connaught, probably cost them troops on the way in. However, with the need to maintain strength for an anti ship strike, stopping them is unlikely."

"Aspect changes in primary targets," one of the sensor techs called. "Here they come!"

It was like watching a rockslide, slow inevitability transitioning to crushing speed as the Falcons burned in. Sapphire and steel icons worried at the Falcon formation's flanks, but not enough — not yet — to punch through the phalanxes of fighters and gunships.

As transmission lag dropped below a brace of seconds, the visage of Isaac Roshak appeared on the screen. He was full-clad in Mongol black, of course, and wore the Falcon Khan's insignia with it. The blacks fitted him well, and it might even have been possible to call Roshak handsome, if not for the mocking cruelty writ plain on his face. "Evan Kell," he sneered. "Good, I need not wait for an underling to find you. I will be blunt; this is no batchall. All I require from you is to stand aside, as per our agreed upon truce."

"You got a lot of balls trying to claim the protection of a truce you're pissing all over," Evan snarled out. "Were you dropped on your head when you were decanted, boy?"

The muffled sniggers from the Defence Command staff didn't seem to affect Roshak any. "Ah, the famous Kell wit," he replied, not sounding amused at all. "In any case, I am not. My business is with the traitor Wolves, who were not included in that truce, and so cannot claim its protections."

"You must be dumber than advertised if you really think I'm going to just stand aside and let you butcher our allies," Evan snapped, determining to brazen it out.

"No, Colonel Kell, I expect you won't," Roshak's sneer intensified. "We will see how long your arrogance lasts when I burn Old Connaught to ash from orbit." With that, he cut the link.

"Well," Evan commented into the sudden silence, "it's good to know exactly where we stand. Release the First Legion from their deployments; get them moving back to Wolf City. Andromeda, once you've confirmed that's happening, get down to the transient barracks and hiring halls; get any units worth a damn ready for this fight. And someone get me Colonel Stefanidis!"

"We're trying," one of the staffers replied. "But he wasn't in his billet and we're still -"

"I don't care if he's balls-deep in the Andurien hiring agent, you get him here!" Evan roared. "And make sure he brings his damn Black Box with him!"



BattleMech Hangar Iota
Wolf City


Her plans for the day meant Eva's 'Mech was already prepped and her cooling suit ready for her when she got to the hangar. Marissa joined her and several other warriors on a technician-driven tram that drove them to the stalls. Her Paladin stood out among the Clan designs, in one of the reserve overflow stalls employed by Marissa's assigned trinary. Still have to decide on a name, she thought idly, a brief distraction from the very real issue.

A technician in Wolf insignia met her at the base of the gantry. "Everything is ready," she said. "I just finished swapping the missile bins, you'll be carrying live ammunition."

"Good," Eva said. She looked back up at her machine, still colored in the sky blue and white of the Strikers. The orange-and-yellow toned hawk on a yellow sun disc was prominent on each shoulder, and over the heart the crowned white hawk bearing a quill and a sword - her family's traditional insignia - now rested on a shield of bisected red and blue. The Defiance V1200 Variable-Focus PPC mounted in the OmniPod space below was mirrored by twin SRM launchers, six-salvo ones, on the left side of the chest, while the sternum bore a Defiance P6M pulse laser. A similar laser was mounted beside the hand pod on the left arm while the right arm had the larger Vickers-Armstrong Mk. 16 extended range laser. Maybe I should have asked for a different loadout since I'm not fighting alongside a vintage AWS-8Q this time, but it'll do.

"It has been a challenge to keep your weapons prepared," the tech confided, taking a spot in the gantry cart to control the cage that would lift Eva to her hatch. Eva stepped beside her and listened as the cart rose steadily. "I had to hand-machine a focusing lens for the chest laser since it was not able to take one of our pulse laser lens. But I promise you, everything checks out. Fight well and come back alive, warrior."

"Thank you, and stay safe," she said as they reached the hatch. She pulled it open and clambered in. A twist of the wheel slid the hatch lock into place and she went to the typical procedure, working by rote in attaching the medical sensor wires to her suit's ports for them, hooking up the coolant lines, and attaching the neurohelmet. Once she was strapped in, she pulled the lever to her left. Inside her 'Mech's belly, hydrogen slush flooded into a sphere, magnetic fields activated, and a miniature star was born. The Paladin came to life around her.

After the initial startup, "Bitching Betty" issued its challenge. "Provide checkphrase."

Most MechWarriors went with something simple. The name of a favored childhood pet. A lover. A beloved lost relative. A word they liked. She recalled her ancestor, Sir Alexander, admitted to her parents that he was more pretentious and typically went for flowery prose (which his wife Lady Raachel reportedly laughed at hearing). Some just went with a default alphanumeric passcode they could remember. She'd typically done that.

Timkovichi changed that.

"Be brave," she said to the computer, or rather, to herself, while in her head the Jade Hawk of Stephanie Chistu appeared as a phantom through her cockpit ferroglass, preparing to administer the kill shot. "You're supposed to be dead anyway."

"Checkphrase confirmed. Voiceprint recognized. Reactor online, sensors online, weapons online. All systems nominal."

A green light outside her cockpit told her the final gantry braces were retracted. She gently set her 'Mech into a walk. Light wand-wielding technicians waved her into line behind Marissa's new 'Mech, a Warhound from Eva's side of the Glass. The line didn't come close to stopping. They've been training for this kind of thing since they were adolescents, Eva reminded herself as she stepped out of the hangar.

In the distance, the first explosions were already hitting, and the drive trails of descending DropShips were visible in the air. The fight was already beginning. A voice with a Clanner accent spoke through her comms. "Sunhawk-One, you are on sibko barracks protection detail with Star Commander Marissa."

"Sunhawk-One confirms," Eva replied. She double-checked the road map on one of her displays and followed Marissa back towards the warriors' residential district. The icy fear formed slender fingers on her heart. She drew in a breath and banished it. Be brave, you're already supposed to be dead. Be brave…

Chapter 18 — The Mongol Way


Turkina's Pride
Arc-Royal System, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
9 August 3143

The bridge of Turkina's Pride was quiet.

Isaac Roshak hadn't been sure what to expect when he took his place on the flagship's bridge, but the calm serenity and perfectly measured sounds of orders passing from Star Admiral Jaclyn Binetti to her subordinates and equally measured responses were not it. There was none of the chafing strength or constant challenging remarks he was used to among the warriors of the Ninth Talon, and it felt strange.

And yet, he considered, watching the vast holotank's interplay of icons and track markers, there is much to be said of the Naval Forces' ethic of war. To witness the crew of Turkina's Pride, almost three hundred warriors and techs working together as smoothly as the fingers of a single hand, and grasp the power embodied in that, and the warrior at the apex of it, was intoxicating.

And, though it was far more cold-blooded than he liked, Binetti's methodically arranged layered defence formation was working. Lyran and Traitor Wolf fighters and assault DropShips snapped and clawed at the formation's flanks, with pack tactics worthy of their namesake, but so far none had penetrated the screening groups around the vulnerable troop carriers. The first of those, burning ahead hard, were already in orbital drop positions or on their way to the ground.

"Deployment status," Isaac called out. It looked to be going well, but he couldn't read the holotank's notations well enough to be sure.

"First landing group is at eighty percent deployment, with acceptable losses from antiaircraft fire," one of his aides, seated at a repeater console, responded. "Fourth Dragoons and Eleventh Velites report contact with elements of the First Strike Grenadiers at the dezgra Wolves' main battle armour plant. They are pushing them back and should have the facility and worker barracks secure for stripping within the hour."

"Excellent." Isaac smiled despite himself. That was better than even their best estimates "And the Ninth Talon?"

"Advancing on the primary sibko barracks. They estimate contact with the defenders in minutes."

A feral snarl of satisfaction came from deep within Isaac Roshak's chest. He had learned well from the Chinggis Khan; to kill an enemy, you had to strike at the heart of them. The sibkos were that for the Warden Wolves; their past and future, coddled and protected because their death was the death of the Clan. And it would rob the Wardens of their discipline; drive them berserk with grief and rage. Thus, they will hurl themselves to destruction on our talons or in the fires of the Pride's guns, and the Kell Hounds with them. The loss - the utter annihilation - of their greatest defenders would break the Lyrans' morale beyond any repair, and so does victory flow into our hands, because we had the will to act.

His expression shifted unconsciously, to a smile like something out of the deep oceans, at the thought of the Lyran court's reaction to the news.

A sensor tech happened to glance in Roshak's direction at that moment. He paled, before hurriedly bending over his console; sure that nothing the Exiles could summon would be a fraction as terrifying as the Khan's expression.





Sibko Barracks, Wolf City


Strings of tracer fire reached up into the skies over Wolf City, and Eva found her mind filling in the clattering sound of autocannon fire as Marissa led the way towards the sibko barracks. And it's a good thing she is, Eva thought, finding streets she'd been able to navigate easily on foot much harder to keep track of in a BattleMech moving at full speed.

Overhead, a pair of interceptors flashed past, too low and too fast to tell much beyond their red-and-black Kell Hounds paint scheme. Corsairs, she thought; fast, viciously lethal dogfighters, the same on both sides of the Glass.

Assembled in the wide, open plaza in front of the sibko barracks, were a 'Mech lance and a pair of battlesuit Stars, clustering protectively around a group of transports being boarded by uniformed figures too small to be anywhere near to adulthood. A training unit, got to be, Eva thought, watching the way the 'Mechs moved; stiff and cautious, as though still unused to the speed and power of a real 'Mech rather than a simulator, not the easy confidence and surety of the veteran Wolf warriors she'd seen. At that, the 'Mechs themselves, the kind of eclectic mix you always got in academy units; Wolfhound, Gunsmith, Arctic Wolf and Horned Owl, ancient and modern, Clan and Inner Sphere built.

The Horned Owl stepped forward, aiming its forearm-mounted lasers in threat.

"Halt, and identify yourselves!" A young woman's voice, strident and tense; trying so hard to seem unafraid that she sounds terrified.

"Star Commander Marissa, of the First Legion." The cool, flat syllables spoke volumes about how unimpressed Marissa was. "I assume, pup, they still teach rank and unit insignia in the sibko, quiaff?"

"Kyra, be calm." A third voice; age-worn but still solid as a rock, cut across the channel, accompanying another 'Mech moving out of the barracks' attached hangars. And this one did move like a veteran was piloting it; Tundra Wolf, seventy-five tons and bristling with missile systems. "And you, Marissa, I thought I had taught you patience long ago. Do you need to step into the ring with me again as a reminder?"

"Neg, Pack Leader, I do not," Marissa laughed shortly. "Eva, allow me to introduce Pack Leader Idris, who taught me in my ill-spent youth."

She wasn't familiar with the name, but the voice was one of many she remembered, barking orders during the sibkos' training exercises whenever Eva ran into them on the practice fields or in the mess, a voice she associated with a stern, yet kind, face of ebon skin framed by gray-white hair. "Pack Leader," she said respectfully.

"Lieutenant," the older voice replied simply for acknowledgment.

Eva waited until Marissa slotted her into one of the perimeter positions. She was flanked by a machine she initially took to be a Strider Hawk but which her Wolf-provided warbook tagged a Vulture, with a loadout similar to the machine she was more familiar with. Fire support for the formation. She took the opportunity for a quick sip of water; just enough to cut through the gummy texture in her mouth at the thought of what was coming.

"Hurry up and wait" proved to have not much wait to it as the last of the sibbies - the eldest looking like they were fourteen, the youngest maybe ten or so - were chivvied aboard a collection of stripped down APCs, cargo trucks and civilian buses. Even by her chronometer, which always seemed to move at ten seconds per minute, showed only seventy seconds passed before the first hostile blip showed on the tactical scanners. Enemy 'Mechs were approaching, coming from the city's outskirts, carrying multiple squads of their battle armor troops with them. She turned her machine in that direction and watched them stomp through one of the parks that provided recreational and physical exercise space, their black figures backed by the smoke arising from the rest of the city.

The Vulture's LRMs opened up. A moment later Eva's finger tensed. A beam of sapphire light instantly formed, melting armor in white-hot globs from one of the winged forms. Others came up behind it, fifteen in all. Overstrength company, or a trinary. We're not that outnumbered but that's counting the trainees. She triggered her PPC, hoping to cause at least some damage despite the increased range reducing its penetrative effect, but that proved moot as her target evaded the shot. A tree struck by the particle blast burst into flames.

The engagement began in full. It was every bit the fight Eva expected. Gauss-fired slugs and their sonic booms, the bright amber and emerald tracers of autocannon bursts, and the sapphire and azure light of laser and particle fire devastated buildings, roads, land, and BattleMechs. With her heat well-managed Eva went weapons free with the VF PPC and her large laser, adding fire from her smaller lasers as the enemy drew close. Her lasers and those of Marissa's Warhound flayed open the chest of a Jade Hawk before it could draw too close. Alert lights on her machine warned of gradual loss of armor integrity from assorted missiles and autocannon shells that impacted on her 'Mech, but the Falcons' fire was not focused on her just yet. They were concentrating on Marissa and her Star, as evidenced when a large Lyran-made Gotterdammerung in the Wolf colors collapsed under the barrage of an entire Star, its right leg cut cleanly through at the hip. The pilot defiantly fired everything they had left until a Shrike - its very form sending a chill down Eva's spine - unloaded both autocannons into the cockpit and left crimson splashed over the ruined ferroglass.

The loss of the 'Mech briefly opened a hole in the formation and the Falcons took advantage, two of their winged machines maneuvering to fire on the transports behind Eva. One of the smallest enemy machines, coming up as a Gyrfalcon on Eva's systems, darted close enough that she managed an SRM lock and fired. Missiles pelted the short black 'Mech, and her lasers opened up its flank; its autocannon lashed back, and for a moment she thought they'd missed wide.

"Dezgra spawn of a Blakist!" Idris roared, and Eva realized why when, glancing back, she was greeted by the horror of flames flicking from the burnt-out husk of one of the buses. She knew in her heart and soul that her nightmares would include the charred forms within for the rest of her life, if only because of their small size. A cry of fury rose from her throat instinctively as her crosshairs spit once more over the murderous little Falcon machine, and this time she triggered everything. Her heat warnings shrieked in alarm and the shutdown sequence would have commenced if not for her override. Even as particle backwash briefly distorted her electronic displays, thermal scan told Eva what she'd felt the instant she hit the triggers; her last volley flew straight and sure, a lance of lasers, missiles and charged particles stabbing right into the Gyrfalcon's heart. White heat flared for an instant as engine shielding came apart in a mist of semi-molten shrapnel, then died as emergency failsafes smothered the star within. As dead as the children it had just murdered, the Gyrfalcon began to slump forwards - and then every one of the Wolves turned their full fury against it, pouring out grief and rage and hate in a hurricane of weapons fire that dissolved the machine like an ice sculpture thrust into a blast furnace.

The defenders of the transports tightened, Marissa's Wolves howled over the comm lines, and the shooting intensified. Another of Marissa's Star went down to concentrated enemy fire, but the trainee sibkos defiantly took the place of the fallen Wolf warrior; their battlesuit squads clashed with arriving Falcon Elementals in a savage, intense brawl that would have been the main event in most battlefields she'd seen, but here formed a sideshow to the 'Mech combat. The Horned Owl threw itself before an exposed bus and paid for it, a blitz of gauss slugs coring it through laser-scourged armor; Eva saw the Gunsmith sprinting forward, pulse lasers blazing in challenge to the towering Onager responsible as a battlesuit team pulled the trainee Kyra clear, before combat drew her attention elsewhere. That damned Shrike was too close for comfort, but that ensured her PPC was at optimal range for damage when she fired it. Marissa's weapons joined her and the Falcon pilot went down, the winged machine's head a smoldering ruin from two pinpoint laser strikes.

Eva turned to other targets, took more fire and delivered reply in azure lightning and spears of sapphire and emerald light, joined by the contrails of SRMs whenever one drew close enough for a target lock. Time was measured in salvos more than seconds, and after several of those had passed, the tactical situation brightened. The Falcons had attacked too heavily, and the weight of the defenders' fire, reinforced by another Star from Marissa's assigned Trinary, now forced them back. The surviving buses continued on, further and further from the Falcons with each second as the Wolves pressed the surviving Falcons backgradually broke off the fight. It's not that easy, Eva thought while surveying her displays. Armor's a bit scored but no penetrating hits, integrity's yellow or better… oh no.

More enemy 'Mechs, this time with extra battle armor, were coming up. More to the point, another two Stars worth of Falcons were maneuvering through the adjacent district. They'd have a clean shot at the transports, with only the trainees and the old veteran Pack Leader to protect them. They're out to slaughter them. Children! What do I do? How can I…?

The realization came. Fear followed, instinctive fear running in icewater through her blood, telling her she'd likely die. She took in a breath. You're supposed to be dead anyway. Be brave. "Marissa! I'll get them!" She pushed her 'Mech into a sprint, driving the Paladin past a hundred kph as she darted around a barracks residence gutted by the fighting.

"Eva! What are you doing?!"

"What needs to be done," Eva said in a voice that shook only in her own mind, before switching to an open frequency. She thought of every bit of Clanner vocabulary she could remember before shouting into the mike. "Hey! Plucked Mongols! I'm talking to you! I'm Dame Eva Penton-Vallejo, I beat your bloodfoul Chinghis Khan and left her a crippled chunk of flesh! Any of you dezgra surat shit-for-brains want to take me on, come and try! I'm a worthier target than helpless sibko brats, or is that all you're good at shooting at, chalcas genetrash?!"

Eva wasn't sure how well it'd worked at first. Not until her systems shrieked warning of multiple weapon locks. She turned away from the transports, took a potshot at the lead Falcon 'Mech with the laser on her right arm, and pushed her Paladin into another run.

Not all of the Falcons followed, but at least a Star took off in pursuit, whether from her insults or just who she was, Eva would never know. Missiles, gauss slugs, laser beams and PPC shots, all descended around her, and her return fire was hardly enough to deter the pursuit. She twisted, turned, used every building she could for cover, and the Falcons left rubble in her wake from their efforts to hit her. LRMs rained down and blasted chunks of armor from her machine wherever they successfully struck. A PPC blast scourged the left shoulder of her 'Mech, and a Gauss slug claimed most of the armor over the right hip. Another Gyrfalcon got close enough to pepper her with laser shots before it took a PPC blast, which at this range was every bit as lethal as a Clan or Royal-grade ER PPC, leaving a hole in the machine's armor that her SRMs brutally exploited. The machine spewed smoke and flame before collapsing, unable to fire again.

Fire came from everywhere, not all at her. She pushed her 'Mech threw another group of Falcons, ones busy fighting a unit of Wolf-crewed tanks and 'Mechs. She took an opportunistic shot into the rear of a Falcon Jade Hawk that blasted through weak rear armor and partly damaged the engine, saving a reversing Demolisher in the process. The tank crew rewarded her by turning their turret slightly and unloading a full heavy autocannon burst into one of her pursuers, tearing the Eyrie's entire right flank apart. More weapons locks shrieked and fell away as she darted around another set of smoldering buildings and made for what passed for safety: the DropPort ahead. A DropPort that was outside of the Wolf enclave border, and supposedly, one the Falcons had said they would not cross. Eva wasn't so sure of that, but given her growing battle damage, it would be welcome to get out of the shooting, and she'd hopefully bought Marissa and her comrades the space needed to get the rest of the sibbies clear.

To make sure of that, and keep the pursuit going at least a bit longer, she turned to face her pursuers. She fired everything as quickly as she could without putting her machine straight over the shutdown line, a furious volley that mostly struck the evacuated buildings but beneficially tore the arm off a Jade Hawk trying to close the distance. Her original pursuers were down to just two, but the signatures behind told her that other Falcons had joined them. Keep going. Get over the border, dare them to cross, get repair if you can. She felt her 'Mech shudder as another gauss slug smashed into it, splitting through armor and tearing open one of her SRM launchers. She fired her laser at the offending machine, scored more armor from it, and continued her flight. The cargo rail line to the DropPort led straight for the cargo terminals and the transport hangars.

Her Paladin shook once more, a tremor from the force of a PPC blast that blew through her rear armor and blasted open a heat sink. A glance at her scanners gave her confirmation: the Falcons had crossed the enclave frontier. They were not giving up their pursuit. Get to the DropPads, maybe a ship there will be armed and combat ready, I can get some fire support. Just need to buy time! She fought to keep the Paladin up, managing it with difficulty as an LRM salvo descended. She felt the 'Mech's weight balance shift as armor was blown clear by the missile warheads breaking the plate, compromised as it was. She passed by a tarp-covered form, a LoaderMech, and adjacent shipping containers. I hope the workers evacuated.

Her systems screamed warning and her 'Mech's right leg froze up. Shit! Laser hit on the hip actuator! This time she couldn't quite keep the 'Mech standing, though she managed to prevent a complete fall by tipping it into the ferrocrete structure opposite the inactive LoaderMech. She turned, extended her right arm, and fired the limb's laser at the onrushing Falcon 'mech responsible for her damage. The shot struck armor and not much else; it was going to get another clean shot at her, and with all the damage Eva knew she was in trouble.

"'Mech power-up detected," the soft voice of the battle-computer echoed in her ears, and Eva turned to the icon on her displays. For a moment, as the tarpaulin was hauled away, she thought that — in an act of suicidal, desperate courage — the dockworkers were bringing their giant LoaderMechs into the fight. "Get clear!" she shouted into her mike. "You can't—"

The tarp fell clear. Eva gasped in instinctive surprise at what was, patently, not a LoaderMech. Not a LoaderMech at all.

It was huge. Not huge in the way a DropShip was, built at a scale the human mind couldn't easily encompass; the triple-legged thing was built at BattleMech scale, but bigger; Eva glanced at the mass estimate readout. A hundred and thirty-five tons? Her mind screamed at her a half-remembered detail in her memories, but her instinctive thoughts came first. That can't be right. It looked almost demonic; night-black, limbs and squat, disc-like body wreathed in paintings of fire and bone, exemplified by the laughing, flame-wrapped death's-head encompassing the cockpit.

Her machine's warbook couldn't identify it either, but it was showing up something similar. A prototype, from a decade ago. Poseidon PSD-V2. Class: Superheavy. Not the same, but maybe a relative.

But… that was supposed to be a Republic design, her memory cried out. How did it…?

Her systems flagged the behemoth in blue on her HUD display. The IFF code was reading "Friendly". It proved unnecessary as the machine made its allegiance clear in a stupendous display of firepower. The Falcon 'Mech aiming at her died in seconds, coming apart under the hammer blows of twin heavy particle cannon and a tidal wave of Streak-guided armour-cracking short range missiles.

"'Mech power-up detected," her machine said once more, and a short distance away, a sibling of the monster 'Mech arose from under a tarp; similar black-and-bone colour scheme but without flames, its weapon armatures a clawed manipulator arm and a massive gauss rifle assembly. Yet more blue indicators came alive on her proximity sensors, reflecting multiple startups of 'Mechs, fusion-powered vehicles, and battle armor suits.

"Dame Evangeline, a shame to meet you again in these circumstances." The voice that came over the comm-link scratched at her mind with familiarity. It was someone she'd briefly met on Timkovichi, one of the many there who'd congratulated her on beating Chistu. She tried to recall the name, but it proved unnecessary. "Brigadier Huyten here, Republic Armed Forces. Fall back through the cargo terminals, we've got an MFB deployed and ready on the other side and you'll want to be in your best for when more Falcons turn up. The Ares can hold things going here."

"Acknowledged," she answered, not quite believing what she was seeing as the two superheavy Ares 'Mechs and their arriving supports started unleashing Hell itself on her pursuers. Huyten's OmniMech was among them, though it took her a moment to recognise it; the Doloire wasn't wearing the Lucky Stars' midnight blue with swatches of stars across shoulders and lower limbs anymore. Now, it wore gold-trimmed white, a new insignia emblazoned across one side of its torso. The Terran globe, wreathed in stars and wrapped around by twin scrolls; one bearing a motto, Ad Securitas, Per Unitas. The other proclaiming allegiance to anyone who looked at it.

Republic of the Sphere.

More hostile-coding icons reminded her that this wasn't over by a long shot. Better fall back and get some field repairs, because this fight isn't over.




Old Connaught


The live feed from Brigadier Huyten's people confirmed the initial reports. Evan considered it, taking the opportunity to shoot a nasty glare at Major Aria Sanderlin, in full Republic uniform and with two Kell Hounds infanteers standing close by. Not under arrest - not quite - but not at liberty either. That led to another sharp look at the verigraph laid out on a nearby console. That was the kind of complication that he did not need right now. Still, there was no question of its legality; the thumbprint accompanying In my name, and by my command, Jonah Levin, Exarch was enough for that. Next time I see Huyten, I'm either going to congratulate him for his balls, or boot him squarely in them. Maybe both.

"We have anything yet?" Evan asked Stefanidis. The Arcadian shook his head, continuing to watch the Black Box's inactive printer. Goddamned Blackout.

"Colonel Brahe's moving towards the enclave." Nadia Allard glanced up; with Brahe in the field, Nadia was now running things at his side. Evan fervently wished he was out there too and Martin was in here having to make these calls. "The Hounds will join Huyten and engage on your order."

"Neg." The voice of saKhan Shaw had slight electronic distortion, more from the interference of the Falcons' attacks on Wolf communications than usual electronics difficulty. She shook her head fiercely. "It is the excuse Roshak is waiting for. He will annihilate Old Connaught and many other cities, that I am sure of."

"Goddammit, Miriam, we both know the lying bastard's going to come after us as soon as he's finished with you," Evan snapped. "Far as I'm concerned, we're in this either way, and I'm sure as hell not gonna leave you out to dry."

"You must do as honour dictates, of course, my friend." Shaw's expression softened a little, almost smiling. "And I know better than to try and stop you. But my warriors and I can handle the Falcons. If you must get involved, then look to our civilians and sibkos. Even if we fall, their survival means the Clan can rebuild. We have done so before. And now," she finished, glancing at something off-screen, "I must go. I am about to become quite busy, I think."

"Dammit, Miriam, don't do anything stupid," Evan protested, but Shaw had evidently muted the line and was already turning her attention to other matters. A nod at a comm-tech returned her to a small corner icon on his holotank, bringing his view back to the map of the enclave and its surroundings. "Put that bastard Roshak on," he ground out, in a tone that could've chewed through 'Mech armour. He glanced towards Stefanidis and tried to will that damn black box to come alive, but it did not answer that silent demand.

More than a minute passed before the likeness of Roshak once more loomed on the holotank. Evan didn't give the bastard a chance to speak. "Your boys just crossed out of Wolf City, so. You got one last chance to get the hell off my world before I hit you with everything I've got."

Had he been dealing with another kind of Clanner, all sorts of excuses might have come. Roshak merely sneered. "I will deal with any warriors who overreached later, but for now, I have bandits to finish slaying. You know the price of interference."

"Way I figure it, you're gonna try that anyway; I've got nothing to lose, boy," Evan shot back. "Besides which you know damn well that if you do, the Arcadians're gonna be after your head; and not even you're stupid enough to think you can take them."

"Will they? They are fully engaged with the other Wolves, and we know their strength for this war is limited. Aff, we know much of how little strength they can direct at us, and that merely holding the anomaly is taking up one of their precious battleships. I do not fear any strike by the Arcadians for some time, Kell. And you and yours would be dead either way. You have nothing that can truly stop my Pride and her guns. Interfere and you will face them." Roshak grinned. "Though I may yet spare your curs if you were willing to give me suitable isorla. Atocongo, perhaps, would be suitable. Or Arc-Royal itself. It will be ours at some point, anyway, but I may be persuaded to let your pets live as bondsmen…"

By that point a gentle whirring sound came from across the room, too low for Roshak to hear over the line. Evan glanced through the holographic image of Roshak and to the table where Colonel Stefanidis was looking over a fresh printout. The Arcadian officer glanced Evan's way. There was a smile on his face when he nodded once.

Evan nodded back. Roshak stopped mid-sentence, but before he could ask anything, Evan made the tradition throat-cutting gesture. The commtech promptly obeyed. Stew on that, Roshak. What I'd give to be a fly on the wall of your command center…




Turkina's Pride


Evan would have been sorely disappointed at the lack of fury from Isaac Roshak on being so abruptly ignored.

In truth, he'd already put the Kell Hounds from his mind, concentrating instead on the gun-camera footage coming in from the lead elements of the Ninth Talon. The seconds of radio signal delay caused some occasional interruption, given the sheer amount of data being broadcast to and from the planetside troops, and all the incoming holo-images were shot through with the distortion common to battlefield imagery but there was clarity enough to see the facts. New, unknown BattleMechs and battlesuit types, wearing the colors and insignia of the Republic, alongside others that he remembered from Stephanie Chistu's abortive strike on Timkovichi, as the mercenary "Lucky Stars". And not just any Republic troops, he thought, feeling a unfamiliar chilling flush - that, in another, Isaac would have called fear - at the two unknown giants ripping the Ninth's forward Stars apart, their very best; Stone's Brigade. Isaac forced down an instinctive this cannot be ruthlessly; it clearly was, and he had to deal with it.

So, there is a hidden way through their unbreakable shield, their 'Fortress Republic'. We must know it. Compared to that, even the presence of the Arcadian freebirth who claimed the kill on the Chinghis Khan, the one who had so narrowly avoided her rightful death at his hands on Timkovichi, was almost inconsequential.

Together, these facts made his course unalterable.

"Shift the Twelfth Talon and any elements of the Velites and Dragoons that can be spared to support the 9th," he ordered. "I want captives from those Republic forces, and I will personally endorse the Bloodname nomination of the warrior to slay the freebirth who besmirched the Chinggis Khan." The secret path through the Wall will be known to few, and difficult to extract. But the Watch is thorough, and Spheroids are weak-willed when put to the test.

"My Khan! Emergence signatures at the solar L1 point!"

The announcement drew surprise from Isaac. Who would use such a point? Why? "Show me!"

The Pride and her assorted escorts and supporting ships all shared networked camera drones and hull-mounted scanners. Together these allowed for magnification just sufficient to show the distant patterns of ghostly blue fireflies heralding an incoming jump.

"Founders' blood," swore the sensor tech. "This is the most massive signature I've ever seen."

Bursts of faint blue light gave way to multiple JumpShips and DropShips, not too different from those in Isaac's forces. Within moments of the jump a number of the DropShips fell away, their fusion engines coming online. But Isaac's attention was primarily on the mammoth form at the apex of the formation. A number of smaller DropShips fell away from a WarShip of such obvious size it reminded Isaac of the hawk-bowed Arcadian WarShip he'd seen when burning away from Timkovichi. The weapons mounts were even more plentiful. This vessel was visibly larger than that Arcadian ship, so large he pondered that even the famed Leviathan of the Bears would not reach its size.

On its bow was no hawk, however, but rather, a silver-gray sheened wolf's head with the right eye socket closed under a visible scarline, its teeth curled into a ferocious snarl.

Others from beyond the anomaly! Arcadians… no, the Sea Foxes' data was clear. But if not them…?!

As the seconds became a minute, then two, Star Admiral Binetti's went to work preparing for a naval action. The radio chatter grew in intensity and confusion as multiple signals were registered, and Binetti hotly demanded they be identified. Isaac listened in quiet fury as channel after channel proved to be drowned out. Over the speakers, there was the steady, ominous beating of war drums.




Salome Ward Kell Memorial DropPort
Old Connaught


Eva's battle-scarred Paladin now stood in the midst of mobile gantries and their affixed vehicles, with half a dozen figures swarming over the OmniMech. She knew better than to openly call Huyten's MechTechs and insist on a status update; his people were clearly worth their money, and already her systems confirmed most of her ruined armor plate was at least patched, if not completely replaced with fresh slabs. One Tech was busy buried into her 'Mech's chest installing a new heat sink and two more were on the light gantry platform fitting a bundle of myomer to her new hip actuator. They'll have me ready to go soon, Eva reminded herself. Then maybe I can get back to Marissa and her warriors. I don't want to lose her… not like this. She tried not to think of that all-too-likely prospect.

"We're almost done, Lieutenant." She couldn't place the accent of the Techs' crew chief, but she was getting used to that. "Watch your left side; no time to fully replace the armour there, so it's still gonna be weaker, call it two-thirds normal strength. The hip actuator we can't replace, but you got lucky, it was mostly the myomer connectors that took the hit, and we managed to get our connectors working. Just don't push it too hard before you get a proper replacement from your stocks."

"Hopefully the Falcons will let me," she replied. Almost there. Almost.

After several seconds Eva noted something was up with her comms. While the tight-beam connections she had with the Republic forces' MFB and command network showed no issues, regular frequencies were going active one by one. Someone was transmitting on a broad range, drowning out most of the possible bands. Only those frequencies used by the Wolves and Kell Hounds were being spared.

"Lieutenant, Huyten here. We've got new signatures in system, according to Kell Command, but why the hell are they blanketing all the comms?"

A suspicion arose in Eva's mind. She held her finger over the scanner, jumping between frequencies, hearing a variety of choral chants and drum rhythms until a familiar drum beat and words reached her ears. The words themselves were not in English, but she remembered what they meant as a rumbling, accented baritone voice had translated to a curious little girl fifteen years before.

Lo, there do I see my father.
Lo, there do I see my mother,
And my sisters, and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people,
Back to the beginning—

Eva felt her heart soar in elation at what they meant. "They made it!" she shouted.

"Who?" Huyten asked, or rather, demanded.

"It's the Einherjar!" she replied. "Rasalhague's here!"

Chapter 19 — Hel's Cold Embrace



Turkina's Pride
Arc-Royal System, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
9 August 3143

Isaac Roshak's hands clamped down unconsciously on the the safety rail circling the Pride's main holotank, fury choking his voice as he beheld the ruin of his masterstroke. No no NO! His plan had been working; the dezgra Warden Wolves crumbling, the Kell Hounds soon to follow; even the intervention of Republic forces, whatever new technological toys they brought, not enough to turn the tide. But this new foe, called forth as if from the depths of Hell to spite his Clan…

There were times when Isaac was tempted to embrace Spheroid beliefs about malignant spirits.

For a moment he gave serious thought to ordering Binetti to commit to full acceleration towards Arc-Royal; to use the Pride itself as a missile and smash Old Connaught from existence. That would be an emphatic enough statement.

No, that is the rage talking. I am a warrior of Clan Jade Falcon, not some mindless Hell's Horse. Think, Isaac, and do it quickly. My Clan counts upon that.

He forced out a calming exhale, studying the tactical plot for the surface engagement. Yes, there was room to work with, but anything to be done had to be done quickly.

“Initiate Plan Cloak,” he told his aides. They looked on in uncomprehending shock for a moment - the plan for full-scale withdrawal had been done because it was necessary, but none had expected to use it - before scattering to their stations as his command sank in. “Star Admiral Binetti.”

She looked at him, evidently expecting a peremptory and impossible command. Isaac restrained himself carefully; rage would not help here.

“Fight your ship, Star Admiral,” was all he had to say. “Priority is defense of our JumpShips and extraction of as much of our ground forces and isorla as possible.”

Binetti raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“You do not come into a ground engagement and tell me how to deploy my warriors,” Isaac allowed, conceding to a specialist in their area of military expertise.

“I do not,” Binetti agreed quietly. “I suspect I would be quite bad at it.” Then, louder, her voice raised in command; “Helm, cut main drives, prepare for end-over and full acceleration; begin jump calculations. Gunnery, rig for main battery firing.”

Isaac settled into his chair, ensuring the shock frame was locked tightly into place. He had given his orders, now there was nothing to do but wait; wait, and endure the sustained gut-wrenching sensation as Turkina's Pride's manoeuvring thrusters flipped the battle cruiser around.

Icons crawled across the holotank with glacial sluggishness, and Isaac found his hands clenching reflexively into the positions they would have taken on his Shrike's control sticks. Everything in a naval action took so long, with no single warrior beneath the commanders able to influence matters. At least in a ground battle he would have been able to take his ‘Mech and kill something.

The thought occurred that this was what powless meant; to be robbed of mastery of yourself, dependent on others’ decisions and the capricious whims of chance.

“Aspect change in enemy capital ship,” one of the sensor techs reported, breaking the flow of Isaac's thoughts. “We have turnover and deceleration burn!”

“Damn. I had hoped they would hold off longer,” Binetti murmured, so softly Isaac wasn't sure anyone but him had heard her, before raising her voice again. “Missile crews, initiate engagement. Slow rate, just enough to keep them honest.”

“So,” Isaac asked softly as the first missile icons began their journey across the plot, “what was your plan?” He didn't truly want to know, but asking at least felt better than sitting in silent ignorance.

“My hope was that they would try to cut the angles — burn between us and our JumpShips,” Binetti said, highlighting a potential vector. “It would bring them into range sooner, but only for two, perhaps three, salvoes at extreme range, and the acceleration needed would cost them crew casualties. As it is,” she highlighted another vector track, “They have committed to a stern chase. Slower, but more likely to bring about a decisive engagement.”

“Will they succeed?” The thought of dying helplessly did not appeal to Isaac.

“Perhaps, but I doubt it.” Binetti tapped a data-stylus thoughtfully against her chair's armrest, considering the engagement dynamics. “That battleship has a great deal of velocity to make up, and limited overtake if they do not want their gun crews incapacitated by acceleration trauma. They may reach engagement range but we should be able to jump clear before they can bring their full firepower to bear.”

“And, if you are wrong?”

“If I am wrong, my Khan, then very probably, we die.” Binetti shrugged. “I was not aware ours was meant to be a safe occupation.”

Isaac frowned at the rejoinder, considered for a moment rebuking Binetti for unseemly levity. But there was no point; and she is right. All warriors die, sooner or later. With no outlet for his frustration, he went back to watching the holotank, as if he could will the incoming ships to explode with the power of his hate. It was a woefully insufficient outlet for his feelings, but the only one he had available.




Old Connaught

“Get me status on that battle cruiser,” Evan Kell ordered curtly. “I want time to bombardment orbit, now.”

The icons of the Rasalhague flotilla were already painted on the holotank, light-codes updating rapidly as more sensor imagery filtered through the battle-management system. Someone had possessed the presence of mind to paint them in a light snow-gray colour, and translucent spheres of green, orange and crimson pulsed around both capital ships. Dotted plotting lines spanned out across the map, showing potential vectors and intercept points.

“Turkina’s Pride, least time to orbit is one hour forty-five minutes, assuming zero-zero over Old Connaught,” Leutnant-commander Donnelly called out in explanation, her hands flying over her plotting console. “Sleipson least-time to intercept in that case is two hours and fifteen to zero-zero.”

Evan Kell felt a curious serenity descend on him. Half an hour. Not much, in the scheme of things; about the length of a ‘Mech engagement, but now the gulf between survival and death, if Roshak truly was as insane as he seemed. No, Evan decided after a moment’s thought, not insane. But quite possibly vindictive enough to want Wolf City and Old Connaught laid waste, even if he dies under the Sleipson’s guns afterwards. It hadn't taken much longer than that for the Saber Cat to reduce Edo to a blackened scar on the face of Turtle Bay ninety years ago; and the firepower of the battle cruiser grinding towards them dwarfed the Jaguar destroyer's in the way his Daishi's did a Locust's. Speaking of which …

“Civil defence, sitrep.”

“We're doing our best.” The CD rep was one of the few civilians in Defence Command; a very young man wearing a rumpled business suit, a rather bad attempt at a mustache, and the fixed expression of someone doing their damnedest in a situation they knew was utterly beyond them. “My people are getting everyone they can into shelters - thank God for the Underground.” There were emphatic nods at that; the stations of Old Connaught’s underground rail had been built as bomb shelters for exactly this kind of situation. “Evacuation — we just don't have the time, or the resources.” He took a deep, steadying breath, then went on. “Roads are jammed, and the only things left on the tarmac with their engines warm are a pair of K-series DropShuttles and a Seleucus. Their crews are throwing out everything but the bulkheads to try and fit more people in, and there's other ships trying to bring their drives up in time,” breaking every safety regulation in the book to do it went unsaid but clearly heard. “We're doing all we can,” the CD rep finished.

“That’s good enough, son. Just keep at it,” Evan replied, giving the younger man - I really have to learn his name - a hopefully reassuring look before turning to the holographic images of Andromeda and Commodore von Hammer. They were both in full combat rig; Andromeda in the cockpit of her Archer en route to Wolf City, and von Hammer strapped into his Eisensturm on the traffic over at Kirk Field. “Status, both of you.”

“I’ve got a full regiment of the Hounds and about a brigade’s worth of mercs heading for Wolf City,” Andromeda reported. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes, and most of the mercs are willing to do this for O&M plus ammo costs.” She laughed briefly. “Hell, Colonel, if they weren’t willing to fight the Falcons, they wouldn’t be here.”

“We have two nuclear-armed squadrons on the tarmac and ready to launch,” von Hammer cut in. “With enough escorts to punch at least one through to the Pride. These vultures will have to work for their meal.”

“And if there should come a thousand swords to bear my bones away,” Evan Kell quoted softly, poetry a thousand years old, “belike the price of a jackal’s meal be more than a thief could pay.” Then; “Alright then. Andromeda, I’m not going to run your battle from here. Kurt, you launch at the Pride hitting t-minus forty-five to orbit. That should -”

"The bitch has flipped!" The shout cut across the whole of Defence Command, drawing every to the holotank, and the shifting bearing markers for Turkina’s Pride. “Sorry, sirs,” the sensor tech who’d called it in carried on, shifting to more formal reporting, “Aspect change in enemy battle cruiser. She’s end-overed and is commencing burn away from Arc-Royal.”

"Well, looks like Roshak doesn’t have the stomach for an even fight. Kurt, stand down the nuclear attack squadrons, but keep them at five-minute alert for now. Everything else, commit to ground support over Wolf City. Andromeda, press them hard. I don’t want those bastards getting off Arc-Royal if there’s any way we can stop them." Every Falcon we take down now is one we won't have to fight later, and might just keep one more Wolf civilian from being dragged off to whatever hell awaits them in the JFOZ.




FCRS Karl Sleipson


In the armored heart of Karl Sleipson, blue-and-black uniformed personnel sat in battle harnesses at the myriad stations that provided the data demanded for modern combat operations. The holotank in the center of the chamber was fully lit up, displaying a three-dimensional section of space that included Arc-Royal. Angry amber icons marked with ghostly Jade Falcon insignia clustered both on and over the planet, as well as the vicinity of the planet's lunar L1 point. A final group was in transit between the planet and the L1 point. Various eyes noted the change in direction.

One of the uniformed techs spoke out. "Konteamiral, primary enemy naval force is burning to intercept us before we reach their JumpShips."

"I have eyes," snapped Konteadmiral Otto Lundsen. A man of pale tan complexion, a thin wiry build, thinner wolf-gray hair shaded from black, and an even thinner patience, Lundsen motioned sharply. "Order the Combat Element to cut the deceleration burn. If they want a fight I shall give them one, and the crews know to endure."

They obeyed. Lundsen noted the understanding in the eyes of his senior officers. We will have to burn harder towards the engagement, and that will be trying on the crews, but this will ensure we make an intercept. The enemy will not be escaping this fight. He turned his attention to the broad-shouldered figure beside him. "Generalmajor, if you wish to join your troops, I suggest you head for your command ship now, or you will not arrive on time."

"I will in a minute," the man rumbled. Though their rank was fairly close, Lundsen was firmly the subordinate to Generalmajor Lars Skafte. The former MechWarrior and Einherjar veteran bore not just his rank insignia but the sigil of the Free Communal Republic, the Nordic Cross laid under the paired heads of a wolf and a dragon-snake, marking him as the personal representative of the Gothi of the Republic.

Lundsen said nothing, indeed, had no time, as the connection completed. The holographic likeness of a grizzled man of Kell features appeared. "Evan Kell here, Colonel, Kell Hounds, and acting regent. Your timing couldn’t have been much better. I was worried you weren't ready to jump yet."

"Konteadmiral Lundsen drills his crews well, and we kept a battery charge just for something like this," Skafte said. "How goes the battle?"

"Roshak's taken a welding torch to the truce, even his version of. He may not have ordered his boys to chase Dame Eva outside of Wolf City, but they’ve done it and he's doubling down, especially since we've got an… unexpected complication. The Hound are going to hit the Falcons full-on in about ten minutes, especially with their bit big guns out of the equation. As for the Wolves, they’re giving it everything they’ve got, but they're losing people every minute this goes on." Evan frowned. "We'll send you the images if you want. The damned Mongols are out to kidnap or murder everyone in Wolf City."

"Save your bandwidth. I've sent an advance force of Einherjar at high-G burn. The remainder of the Einherjar and the Eridani Heavy Cavalry will join the battle as they make orbit." Lars grinned wolfishly. "We have studied these 'Mongols' during our long journey, and we look forward to sending the murderous cowards to Hel's cold embrace. I will see you soon, Colonel. Skafte out."

Evan replied "We're waiting on you, Generalmajor" before his image disappeared.

"I leave our foes' naval power to you and your crews' skill, Konteamiral," Lars said. He motioned to his staff and departed the Sleipson's command center.

"Make ready for the Sigurd Minamoto to separate as soon as the General is aboard," Lundsen called out to his crew. "Standby for high-G deceleration burn."

Affirmatives answered him.



FCRS Raoul Valder
En Route to Wolf City


The hour of high-G burn after so long in micro-G were a toll that no training could ever fully adjust for. It was in preparation for such a burn that Vicekorpral Myron Hemswick of the First Einherjar Rapid Assault Battalion had joined his squad in suiting up. Now they stood in a common support cradle for six soldiers, their Jomsviking battle armor suits easing somewhat the pressures of the gravities pressing down on them. The passage was an ordeal physical and mental, as the time-honored need to "hurry up and wait" left them aching for anything, even the deadliness of combat, to get away from the monotony of the wait.

By the halfway point of the voyage, the entire platoon had found an outlet. One by one, they took up songs taught to them in the training camps and on drill marches. Metal ballads, old chants passed down across two thousand years, everything that anyone could remember coming one after the other. It would be added to the other songs and such being broadcast over the enemy's comm channels, an Einherjar tradition to remind their foes of their approach, like the Vikings of old singing shanties at the oars of their longships.

They were on a fourth repeat of the old shanty "My Mother Told Me" — trading between squads for each verse, while the others kept time with the slap of armored hands against thigh plates — when the bay lights suddenly came on. The flash of red had every member of the platoon tensing up, even as the gravities pressing on them subsided slightly. The singing stopped and Lojtnant Mendelssohn's voice crackled to life. "We're on drop approach. Standby for release!"

This is it. Myron swallowed and, by clenching his fingers, triggered his suit's systems to provide one more readiness check. The SRM launcher on his back was loaded and ready to fire its salvo, and the BA-PPC built into the left arm showed green capacitor charge and all functions clear. His vibro-axe was secure on the back mount, ready to be wielded by the right hand. Power charge was maxed and would remain so until they were released from the support cradle for the drop. Jump jets flashed functional. Feather until final ten meters and then full shot, he reminded himself, recalling the drop training he'd endured upon assignment to the Rapid Assault Battalion. Start too early or too late, I'll break my legs if I'm lucky.

The light turned yellow. Once more Lojtnant Mendelssohn spoke up. "Einherjar! The Falcon butchers are beginning a withdrawal with civilian captives. Check your fire, but at a clear shot, send these butchers to the icy hand of Hel!"

Myron joined the chorus of affirmations at the order. A counter showed on his HUD, telling him the estimated time to the appropriate drop point. Thrumming and the occasional hard thud was heard through the bay. They were taking fire, but the DropShip's armor was holding. Steady. Steady.

The light turned green.

The lateral bay doors slid open. The cradle released. "Go go go!" Mendelssohn called, and Myron ran for the bay doors. Ahead, a crimson sky of smoke and flame spoke of a war zone like any he'd seen in the holovids and battleROMs of the Fourth Succession War, with lances of light and tracer fire lashing skyward. Training kicked in and he jumped almost as a second thought, not quite comprehending it until he was in free fall. His HUD lit up with active reactor signatures and life signs below. The computers installed in his suit received their data directly from the Valder, and the HUD started flashing red, green, and blue silhouettes over his enemies, comrades, and allies respectively.

Throughout the descent he repeatedly clenched his pinky and index finger, triggering the jump jets for bursts to keep his descent speed under control. The moment the altimeter verified he was in the final ten meters he held them in place, maintaining thrust that carried him to the ground. The impact was painful and rattled him within the suit, but everything confirmed he'd landed safely.

There was no time to gain bearings. The Valder's crew had dropped them right on top of the enemy. Immediately in view were figures wreathed in red and blue by his HUD, the latter in civilian clothes and being herded by the hulking battle armor troopers in red. The nearest registered Myron's presence, but got no opportunity to act. The sapphire beam of Lojtnant Mendelssohn's laser slashed a glowing scar across the breastplate of the enemy trooper's suit. Support PPC isn't good for the civilians, not with the particle backwash. Myron dismissed the particle gun's targeting cursor with a practiced blink, drawing his ax and beginning a lunge in the same motion. The Falcon must've caught the move in their peripheral vision, starting to twist aside with blinding speed; but not fast enough as Myron planted the smile of his ax squarely in their breastplate. Their twisting motion tore it back out, leaving a bite almost a handspan deep in the armor, deep enough to draw a brief trickle of blood before the thick, tar-like HarJel plugged the breach. What it absolutely did was fix their attention; completing the turn, the Falcon warrior unleashed a punishing hail of fire from their machine-gun. Myron staggered as the heavy-caliber slugs battered at his armor, raising welts of orange and yellow across the damage readouts and bruises across his skin even through the padded undersuit. He lashed out with his ax, a crude underhand blow; felt it connect, shearing through the machine-gun's barrels. The Falcon took an instinctive step back to gain room to bring their claw into play. This gave Mendelssohn an opening to put a laser bolt into the wound his ax had opened, blasting it wider and stunning the Falcon with pain. Myron put his full armor-augmented strength into a solid overhand blow, placing the smile of his ax right into the crown of the Falcon's helm; splitting it from there to the jawline. Mendelssohn's laser flashed again, into the split faceplate; decisively cutting the enemy warrior's personal thread of fate.

This foe was not the only one to fall. Myron's HUD reflected his comrades were readily overwhelming the foe at this spot, aided by their allies. He leveled his support PPC at a distant target, another battle armor trooper firing into rubble. The shot was a partial hit, scourging armor from the winged suit's back and neatly breaking off a wing tip. The foe staggered and other shots brought them down before Myron could get another shot off.

A movement in red caught the corner of his eye. He turned to see one of the enemy troopers closest to a gaggle of blue-wreathed figures in jump suits and civilian clothes. The winged suit's arm came up, revealing the nozzle of a flamer, and Myron prepared himself for the shot before realizing what the enemy trooper was doing. A furious "NO!" erupted from his throat as his index and pinky fingers clenched inside his suit. His jump jets fired as he leaned forward, propelling him in a short but significant hop toward the enemy trooper. To his rage and horror, they didn't turn.

The flamer fired.

There was a scream and one, then two, of the civilians were ablaze. The Falcon trooper's arm shifted, but they didn't claim another, as Myron landed right in front of them. The flames instead enveloped his Jomsviking suit. The sheer heat of the plasma fire seeped through his armor plate and filled his chest and shoulders with its sting, as if he were barechested and mere millimeters before a roaring flame. Yet his armor did hold, and more to the point, the civilians now behind him were free to flee for safety. Wordless fury erupted from his throat as he swing his right arm down on the Falcon's weapon. The first blow missed the nozzle, instead tearing but not breaking through the limb armor. The Falcon tried to move, tracking the arm towards Myron's visor, but he got his left arm up and gripped the offending weapon with the armored fist of the limb. Holding it steady allowed the next swing of his ax to crush the flamer nozzle. He pulled the arm back while the Falcon's own left arm up came up in a wild punch at Myron's head. The impact didn't break through the armor or visor, but it left him spinning for a moment, allowing the Falcon to jump backward and try to get range.

With colors still in his vision from the blow, Myron lifted his left arm and fired. The BA-PPC's azure bolt caught the Falcon mid-air and sent them off course, flying wildly backward until they hit the ground. Myron rushed after them and arrived just as they started to recover. "To Hel with you!" he shouted while swinging the ax down on the Falcon's head module.

Maybe the armor was weakened by an earlier shot, or something was pushing the myomer muscle powering the blow beyond its usual strength, or the edge of the vibro-axe simply found the right spot. Whichever was true, the blow didn't just crack the helmet, but struck clear through the Falcon's visor as well and found the trooper's flesh-and-blood body within. A spray of crimson and gray erupted from the cleaved head of the Falcon suit, splattering blood and brain over Myron. The enemy trooper stilled and fell over.

My first kill. I always wondered how it would feel. His mind flashed back to the flame consuming those civilians and his soul burned with eager satisfaction. You are avenged.

The presence of a shadow drew his attention. A large winged BattleMech in black and emerald loomed over him, directing its fire at a machine his systems identified as an Arcadian Warhound. "Squad, salvo!" ordered Sargent Toyama's voice. Myron reacted immediately, focusing his attention on the black wiinged 'Mech and squeezing his ring and middle fingers together. The SRM launcher on his back fired. Ten more missiles joined from around him, then another twenty-four as an entire squad of his comrades with Jomsviking Model II suits unloaded one of their salvoes from their larger SRM4 back-mounted launchers. Some of the missiles missed but the Falcon 'Mech took multiple hits, staggering it and allowing for the amber-colored Warhound to fire a surviving arm's laser weaponry into the exposed chest of the winged Falcon machine. The identifier — Shrike — finally came to Myron's attention even as the machine toppled.

But there were more Falcon 'Mechs, and Falcon troopers, and more of those blue-wreathed figures in their cloth and leather jumpsuits and clothes. With the heat of the murderous flamer still tingling on his chest, Myron checked his systems and moved to rejoin his squad on the attack.




JFWS Turkina's Pride


As a MechWarrior Isaac Roshak found naval battle supremely frustrating. He had no power here, no ability to do anything about the fight, even in terms of giving orders he was reliant upon the aerospace warriors in charge of his flagship. All he could do was watch on the holotank as the red indicators of the interlopers thwarting his victory continued to exist in defiance of his rage. He wanted nothing less than to burn their homeworlds to ash, to annihilate all they loved and cared for, to leave a ruin to remind the Spheroids of the fate that properly awaited his foes. Instead, he could only watch.

From the distant void, crackling bolts of particle fire that would dissolve a 'Mech at contact slammed into the Turkina's Pride once more, and her weapons lashed out in furious retort. The range was still long enough to keep it from being decisive, but from the date reports he could overhear, the Falcon flagship was not winning this battle. One of their escorting Pocket WarShips fared worse. Two bolts of PPC fire from the enemy naval vessels struck amidships and cracked the vessel open, tearing it into two pieces. Another precious vessel lost!

A radio call came from Arc-Royal. Wanda Helmer's visage reflected she was still at her command post, the DropShip Hunter's Gaze. "My Khan, the first interloping forces have arrived. Their numbers are not great but they have already severely disrupted our operations in that sector of the city. Gamma's collection forces are pulling back. Mine must as well, and we must be quick. If the remainder of incoming enemy ships arrive they may shoot us down as we make orbit."

"You have my permission to withdraw with honor, as much isorla has already been claimed," Isaac said. "Have your best warriors, your best Mongol warriors, be the ones who board first, and get every bit of that isorla with them. The other formations can prove their skill and loyalty by how well they hold off the Spheroid pets and their masters in their escape."

She nodded. "Understood, my Khan!"

Barely had the image disappeared before the entire ship lurched hard. Star Admiral Binetti met his demanding glare. "Hull penetrations, frames twelve-fifty to twelve-fifty-four, my Khan. Our main armor is still mostly intact, but that was dangerously close to one of the aft naval autocannon magazines; another series of hits like that may ignite them. And we have no options to break off engagement that do not leave the enemy a large engagement window to strike at our JumpShips."

Aff. And I suspected such would likely happen. It is why I prepared. "Star Admiral, give the authority. Release the Black Feathers."

Binetti, as committed a Mongol as he, nodded fiercely.

All while the battle continued, and more precious ships were lost to the enemy fire, the fighters quietly gathered. From the JFWS Mongol Talon came the aerospace fighters and their specially trained pilots, with their special payloads. Two-score, double Binary strength. Painted the black of the void around them, their engines flared like captured stars as they plunged down on the enemy like the Clan’s namesake beast; accelerating as swiftly as Clan science could allow them to survive. Enemy pilots broke off in twos and fours to intercept, but a shield of Falcon interceptors turned their blows aside. And speed was the Feathers’ ally; even as more incoming fire hammered at the Pride, Isaac Roshak could see the track markers slash through the interlopers’ aerospace screen.

Defensive batteries woke to full and dread life as the Feathers closed on the WarShips and their range-fields came clear. Neon-bright laser beams, particle cannon lightning-arcs, the bright, brief flares of missiles and explosive cluster shells tore at space. Triple spotlight beams of capital-class lasers joined that array as one of the battleship’s escorts managed to manoeuvre clear enough for its main battery to engage, and Isaac felt like cursing as icons began to vanish from the plot; blown apart, simply annihilated by the capital-class beams, or crippled beyond ability to launch their payloads, it didn’t matter. Each one gone was another chance to survive this lost before it could be used. Fire! Fire before you die, dammit!

As if hearing his unspoken command, the survivors’ icons blossomed and multiplied, spawning more than a score of Alamos boosting for the flagship. The Feathers broke away; the enemy's attention drawn away from them and onto the inbounds. More weapons fire split the void, joined by the ripping tracer-strings of antimissile arrays as the range dropped. Isaac ground his teeth as missile icons began to vanish. Was this it, every gamble he tried fallen to nothing against this Hell-spawned foe?

Newborn suns blossomed in Arc-Royal’s cis-lunar orbital space, half a dozen detonations centred around the Rasalhaguan flotilla. For a moment, as radiation milked out the sensor displays and the brilliant glare washed out visual, Isaac let himself hope for annihilation.

As the glare faded, the form of the enemy battleship pushed through the dissipating mist of plasma. No, it hadn't taken the direct hits that no material could withstand, but Isaac could see plainly it hadn't been for nothing. At least two of the heavy Pocket WarShips were gone, and one of the destroyers fell out of formation, crippled, main drives dead, and shedding life pods and smallcraft. The wolf-headed WarShip had seen two proximity initiations that inflicted clear damage on their broadside and forward weapons mounts. He could see the track markers of rescue craft already maneuvering to assist; weakness.

"Enemy capital vessel registering decreased deceleration. Telemetry indicates one of the Alamos detonated off their aft quarter; must've caught one of their engine pods," one of the naval techs reported.

Isaac recognized what that meant, could see it play out on the main holotank. The enemy WarShip's already narrow margin of overtake had been cut still further; this left their window of engagement too tight to achieve much "Formulate new calculations, will our troops make it to their JumpShips before the enemy can adjust and intercept?" Binetti asked.

A few moments passed. "With a twenty minute margin, Admiral. There is a four minute window in which the enemy will have extreme range effective fire possible, but at their current deceleration their velocity will be too great to maintain firing range for longer, and it will be hours before they can change their heading effectively at their velocity."

"Then we shall make good the escape," Isaac said.

"Aff. Though our losses are severe, and that may worsen. The JumpShips will need to be carefully covered, and we may lose some in the enemy's brief engagement window anyway. As for our combat forces, over a third of the NL-45 contingent are gone, and half of our Pocket WarShip fleet are either lost or so damaged that extensive repair will be required. Aerospace fighter losses are over a third of our bid warriors, including the Black Feathers. They will not be able to launch another such attack on the enemy fleet, and as things are, we will not survive another battle like this."

"There will be more Black Feathers, Admiral. Every solahma, aerospace pilot or not, will be interested in the glory of dying for the Jade Falcons in this way." And more than a few of the waverers in the Bloodnamed might accept this death to save their genespawn from a Trial of Reaving.

A thought seized Isaac. "Put me on. A live transmission to our foes."

"Aff, my Khan."

It took little time for one of the comm techs to confirm they were transmitting. "To the interlopers, I am Khan Isaac Roshak of the Jade Falcon Clan, the new Chinghis Khan. What you have seen is but a small example of the fire that awaits you if you make war upon my Clan. If you strike at us, prepare for death, for none will survive our talons, and all measures will be taken to defend our rightful conquests." He motioned for the transmission to be ended. Let the Spheroids quake at that, knowing that every system will see our atomic fire.

He turned his attention to the ongoing evacuation from Arc-Royal. He was going to lose troops, that could not be avoided, but at least the dezgra Wolves would take generations to recover, and from their machine toolings and captured lower castes, the Falcons' means to make war would be improved. Let this strike and the Black Feathers show our resolve to our foes, to die and to kill all of them as we do!

"We have an incoming signal, my Khan." The comm tech lifted her head. At his nod, she flipped a switch to play it.

"I am Generalmajor Lars Skafte of the FolksArme. Do you think we fear a few nuclear warheads? If that is the fate carved for us in this war, then so be it. Valhalla awaits the brave and true. For you and your Clan, there will be nothing but death and Hel." The signal abruptly cut.

Isaac glowered at the holotank. That glower slowly transformed into a snarl. Spheroid bravado. They lack our genes, our upbringing, our strength. They will break in the end. They always do. Not that it matters. I would rather us die screaming to the enemy than live the life Stephanie Chistu and Beckett Malthus would have foisted upon us, which would lead to death anyway. The Mongol Way is the only way worthy of us, and if we are to die, better to die fighting as Mongols than any other death.




FCRS Sigurd Minamoto


Lars' impatience finally faded as Lundsen appeared upon his holotank. He is angrier than I. "Report, Konteadmiral."

"We've lost three batteries and twice as many gun crews, and our flight deck's outer doors were welded shut. We cannot launch or recover fighters or smallcraft until we get explosive charges down there to blast them clear. Worse is that the shock damage disabled our Number One engine.”

“For how long?” Lars could feel, even through the screen, the frustration radiating from Lundsen despite his usual stern, controlled demeanor. If the Konteadmiral had climbed out on the Sleipson's hull and hated at that moment, Lars was sure that hate would've erased the whole Falcon flotilla from existence.

“It could be damage to the liquid helium tubes or maybe the plasma manifolds. The best case scenario if it's either of those would be that we have to take the whole engine system offline for hours. As it is, I would have to overfire our remaining operational engines to maintain our firing window, and I am not convinced it would be worth the crew casualties or exacerbating the structural damage from those nuclear strikes."

"I leave that decision to your discretion," Lars said. He knew better than to try and meddle with a naval commander's decision, even if he felt dissatisfaction at it. We are denied the early victory, then, though the enemy has certainly felt our wrath in this battle. "What of our other ships?"

"The Susquehanna has been completely crippled, and the Altenmarkt took severe radiation casualties due to armor failure. Between the nuclear attack and the combat beforehand, we have six crippled or destroyed picket ships, and we are still counting aerospace fighter loss from the engagement. The rest of the Expeditionary Fleet weathered the nuclear strikes with minimal damage. Were it not for the engine damage, the enemy's destruction would be assured." The sheer bitterness of that last sentence oozed from every syllable.

"Very well. Complete the engagement as you deem best. And Konteadmiral?"

"Yes?"

"Circulate the notice to all vessels." Lars' expression curled into a furious glower. "Atomic weapons lockers may be accessed in all future engagements."

Lundsen nodded. "It will be done."

We should have had them ready for this one. The thought came to him quickly and brutally. But it is so easy to fall into routine, and we were complacent by these Falcons not using atomics on the Arcadians.

Lars turned his attention back to the holotanks. Even now the 119th Eridani Strikers, of the Eridani Heavy Cavalry, were joining the First Einherjar's Rapid Assault Battalion in the fighting on Arc-Royal. Enemy DropShips and aerospace fighters continued a fierce engagement with his advance forces, fighting to withdraw with their stolen lives and materials. The enemy's numbers and defense were enough that he knew some would break away, though not all, as the imaging clearly shown what looked like a modified Union-class ship breaking up in the atmosphere as explosions consumed the fiery orb's guts. Going by the reports, the enemy may have had captives aboard. Captives who are dying alongside their abductors. A pity. I do not wish their deaths, but perhaps this is more merciful than the fate they awaited in the enemy's cruel hands.

His mind flashed back to all the labor camps, the prisons, that his Einherjar and other comrades had liberated during the war. All the broken bodies of his countrymen he found. The cold fury built in his heart, and he felt that old lingering desire to throw himself and his 'Mech at the Dracs once more.

When the appointed day and hour comes, the Dracs will rue the day they let Kori Kurita betray her grandmother's vows. But we fight one war at a time. These Falcons will die first.

20 — Aftermath



Wolf City, Wolf Clan Settlement Zone, Gutheim Continent
Arc-Royal, Donegal Province
Lyran Commonwealth
Transglass Inner Sphere
9 August 3143


Arc-Royal's sun was low in the sky, casting twilight hues of crimson and orange over the smoldering scene of Wolf City. What light remained for Eva showed her a sight out of a nightmare. They were in the laborer caste residential district, and the apartment blocks that had housed the Wolves' laborers were now a host of broken and battered blocks of concrete. Whatever wood had gone into their construction was mostly burnt away now, and entire apartments were open to the air from where everything from weapons fire to rampaging BattleMechs had gutted the buildings.

Eva brought her 'Mech to a stop in the vacated ruins of what had once been a community center, but which now barely counted as a standing structure. She lowered her machine onto one knee, making sure to use her good leg to avoid taxing the damaged one, and put the Paladin on standby mode. When the hatch opened, a miasma assaulted her nostrils, stinking of explosives, ozone, and a host of other scents left by the fighting. She tossed the rope ladder out and clambered down to the ground. Pulverized concrete and the wreckage of furniture met her combat boots. Her eyes turned towards the figure a scant thirty meters away.

Standing below her armless, savaged Warhound was the familiar visage of Marissa. She was in her cooling suit, her hair matted to her head despite the faint wind drifting through the ruins. In the twilight Eva had to draw close to see how pale Marissa was, in defiance of the MechWarrior's sunburn that showed just how far she'd pushed the Warhound's heat profile. Marissa heard her approach and turned to face her. The Wolf warrior's expression was deceptively emotionless, but in her eyes, Eva saw the intensity of emotions warring beneath that mask. Dried tear streaks were visible down her cheeks, testament to a momentary loss of control long overcome. "You are still alive. Good."

"What happened with Pack Leader Idris and the sibkos?"

"We lost no others among the children. Pack Leader Idris was gravely hurt ensuring it; the medtechs are not sure he will live out the night. Many others fell with him. Most of my Star are among the wounded or slain." Marissa swallowed painfully. "But the sibkos live, and hope remains for the Wolf Clan."

"Thank God," Eva breathed. Her worries had not proven true, though she felt grief for Idris. She'd not gotten the chance to really know him, but it was clear he meant much to Marissa. A shame I may never get to know him now. "Dominic and Rachel?"

"They live, though Rachel is gravely wounded." Eva felt relief at hearing it, though she said nothing about her desire for more details. Seeing Marissa's eyes drift away, Eva followed them. In a day that was already guaranteed to sear itself into her soul for the rest of her days, she was confronted with yet another unforgettable, unforgivable, sight.

It had evidently been a communal park for the laborers, but now, it was a charnel house. Bodies were strewn everywhere. There were some Falcons present, in shattered 'Mechs and broken battle armor, but far more of the fallen were in Wolf gray and amber, many civilians. Those remains were the most horrific. They had been charred by flamers, carved by lasers, torn by bullets, mauled by vibro-claws, crushed by 'Mechs. Some had been covered by sheets or tarps or whatever could be found, and a few were still moving in some way, surrounded by medtechs in an assortment of colors. Not only were Wolf medtechs present, Eva noted some in Republic dark blue and grey and Kell Hound red and black, a few even in the blue and silver of the FolksArme's medical staff. Eva recognized amongst them power-armored soldiers in the insignia of one of the Eridani Heavy Cavalry regiments, identifiable by their prancing black horse on a yellow disc, framed on a silver shield. The nearest of them watched quietly while a Rasalhaguan medtech finished applying a medical shot of some kind to a patient before laying a black slip over the prone figure's chest. The mutilated Wolf laborer relaxed and stilled.

Eva's fists clenched. "Why?" she asked in a hoarse voice.

"Their last DropShip lifted off without them," Marissa said. Her voice sounded calm, but strained in that calmness, as if she could not dare to give it any more lest she release the dam of emotions roiling within her. "They thought nothing of a death in battle, and fighting our warriors to glorious defeat. They spent their last moments trying to slaughter the laborers they had failed to take as isorla. By the Founders, such… how could the Way of the Clans have given rise to this?! This is… is… dezgra!" She spoke the word with such hate that it was clear she dearly wished to have a harsher one, but Eva did not think any word in any language could contain the meaning Marrisa sought. "The civilian castes are to be left alone! That is what Nicholas Kerensky and the Founders handed down to us! The warriors fight and kill other warriors, we do not slaughter unarmed laborers! Chalcas genetrash, it is dezgra!"

As Marissa raged, Eva noted that they were not alone. Around the two of them, indeed around the park, more and more warriors, hulking Elementals and regular MechWarriors and even a couple limping aerospace phenotypes, had gathered. In their faces, she saw that same blank look. That pale rage that could find no outlet, as there was no curse so strong as to give it justice, no scream so loud as to vent it from the soul.

With fists clenched, Marissa threw her head back. In the twilight Eva saw the tears returning to her eyes, flowing down to the sides of her face. Her lips puckered and a loud howl erupted from her throat.

One by one, the other Wolf warriors around them took up similar cries. It stirred in her the memory of her first night in Wolf City, just a few short months ago, when the warriors in the Salty Solahma had cheered her as the warrior who brought down Stephanie Chistu and Malvina Hazen. But these howls… she could hear the agony in them, the keening of mourning for their lost, the hate at the thwarted invader who had spitefully taken so many lives.

The Wolf Clan had won, but it would never celebrate this victory. It would not forget this day of slaughter, nor would it ever forgive.





Old Connaught

Crack!

The vicious straight-armed punch caught Darren Huyten—fully clad now in the uniform of a Republic Brigadier-General — across the jaw. To his credit—as much as Evan Kell had no desire to extend any such thing to the whatever-the-hell he actually was—Huyten took it well, rolling with the punch and staying on his feet. He waved back one of his officers, an infanteer of obvious Elemental heritage, dabbing at his split lip with a handkerchief for a moment.

“I take it,” he commented in dry tones, “this finishes the dramatics, Colonel Kell?”

“That depends,” Evan ground out, biting off each word as he struggled to keep his temper restrained, “on how much more lying to me you’re gonna do.”

“I haven’t lied to you, and I’m not going to start,” Huyten replied. That got Evan pointedly indicating Huyten’s RAF rank tabs. “I haven’t lied,” he repeated. “I didn't tell you information you didn't need to know, and which would've screwed up my mission if you had known them. Those are different things. Would you be any happier if you'd known,” Huyten asked quietly. “Would it have changed anything?”

“No. No, it wouldn't have, damn you,” Evan said eventually, reluctantly; each word like having a tooth pulled. “But in that case, why drop the charade now?”

“I don't know the details — wouldn't have been let outside the Fortress if I did,” Huyten said, still in those infuriating calm, level tones. “But, given the … momentous event over Timkovichi and its consequences, Exarch Levin believes that it may be possible to arrest, perhaps even reverse, at least in part, the strategic calamities that have befallen both our nations. My orders, now, are to do all that lies within my power to ensure that the Lyran Commonwealth remains a going concern.”

And I can believe as much or as little of that as I like, Evan thought, giving Huyten a slow, cautious nod. At that, it was probably true, mostly; he'd never met Jonah Levin, but Trillian had, and her assessment had been that Levin was as honest and honorable a man as his position allowed. But that was a decade ago, before the Fortress; and there was also Trillian's ominous note that she believed Levin “to be capable of almost anything he believes is necessary to protect the Republic”.

The door slid open. Colonel Stefanidis entered with a couple of his staff. Trailing behind these red-uniformed Arcadian officers, Eva Penton-Vallejo stood out. Her superiors were in their "duty reds", as Evan had heard them called, while she was still in her red cooling suit BDUs. There was still a small speck of dark liquid at the corner of her mouth that was self-consciously wiped away a moment later, hinting at a swiftly-consumed mug of coffee to fortify the MechWarrior after her battle. She stood to attention and saluted Evan and Huyten along with her superiors. It was not a picture perfect salute, but it was better than most Evan had known from any soldier fresh off the battlefield.

Evan wordlessly returned the salute, as did Huyten. "Good to see you still breathing, Lieutenant," he said. "Word is there's a lot of young Wolves who made it because of you."

She nodded quietly, but gave no verbal reply. But there was no denying the emotions showing in her eyes.

"We saw a Rasalhaguan DropShuttle coming in," Stefanidis said. "General Skafte's probably just behind us."

"My people know to bring him straight here."

The door opened again. Miriam Shaw entered with a star captain of the aerospace phenotype at her side, also still in her cooling suit and looking fatigued in that restrained way that Clanners allowed it to show. Her eyes snapped to the presence of Huyten, and his visible Republic uniform. "I see the mercenaries were not mercenaries after all."

“Say, rather, not mercenaries exclusively, saKhan,” Huyten replied. “It was a necessary subterfuge to achieve the first part of our mission, put aside now the need for it has passed. Your own Watch employs similar rules where needed, as I recall.”

Miriam gave Huyten a long, considering look before nodding acceptance — showing she trusted him about as much as Evan did — before she turned her attention to Eva. "Thank you, warrior, for your courage. The Falcons would have slain far more of our sibkos had you not provoked so many to chase you."

"I just wish I could've saved the ones who didn't make it," Eva said.

"A regret you share with all of my warriors. Your part today will be remembered, I will ensure the Loremaster sees to it."

The door opened again. This time Kell Hound officers entered first, followed by the broad-shouldered form of General Skafte. He wore the dark blue duty uniform jacket of the FolksArme, with green of an undershirt showing beneath the silver-trimmed collar. Evan led the assembled in saluting. Skafte returned it. "Colonel Kell. And Brigadier Huyten, is it?" He grinned thinly. "I had been told there was a mercenary formation from the battle on Timkovichi taking part, but it seems you were more than a mercenary."

"It does happen," Huyten said. "Though the Republic is not the only republic that does such, going by what I've read in ConcertWatch. If General Takeda-Suvorova is coming with you, I imagine she's got some insights about 'Stasia's Cavaliers'."

A low chuckle came from the Rasalhaguan. "Perhaps."

Evan recalled briefly that the unit in question was on the Cisglass MBCB's lists of mercenaries, but had not been seeking contracts lately. General Takeda-Suvorova… Anastasia Takeda-Suvorova, right. Guess Huyten was reading more of the reports than I was.

"You lost some folks to those nukes, I imagine," Evan said. "Not used to them on your side?"

"They are… not unheard of in naval warfare," Skafte said. His grin took on an edge that Evan found appropriately wolfish. "We used similar weapons to break Galedon's naval blockade of Rasalhague in '13, and they cost us a third of our fleet when we attempted to wrest Irece from them six years later. But they are rarely used on the whole."

"Roshak'll use them on you land or space, be sure of that," said Huyten. "Malvina used them on land targets before, after all."

"We are not unprepared for that either, and he will not live to regret the choice. Though he will not live regardless." Skafte turned his head briefly to the holotank, showing the positions of the various Rasalhaguan vessels. "The damage will force us to be more cautious, but we have other ships and troops moving up. If Roshak thought he was delaying the wave cresting over his Falcons, he was utterly wrong. COMINTERSTEL's forces will keep our timetable and commence operations within the month. My counterparts from Sudeten and Ghastillia should be here in the next week for planning to be completed." Skafte nodded to them. "I imagine the truce, such as it was, is now over, and we will be glad to have your forces' support."

"My Wolves hunger to avenge this dishonor," Shaw vowed. "We will bid all we can to destroy these dezgra."

"The Hounds'll be around wherever you need us," Evan promised. He glanced towards Huyten. "I can't speak for our Republic friends, though."

"We're here to ensure the Lyran Commonwealth remains intact," Huyten said, for Skafte's benefit. "I admit that personally, I would much rather be fighting the Liaos, but we're committed to this fight. So here we stay."

For the first time, Skafte's stern eyes were fully focused on the Arcadians. "I already know your forces are devoted to fighting the Wolf Empire," he said.

"We are. But we're more than happy to help coordinate," Stefanidis said. "And even if our fighting forces aren't coming, the aid and supplies are. And I'll see to it we get more now that there's rebuilding to do." He nodded to Shaw, who inclined her head back.

Skafte turned his attention to Eva who, despite everything, still kept herself standing at attention. Wouldn't do to underestimate that one, not after what she did to Chistu. "Lieutenant Dame Evangeline Rosa Penton-Vallejo," Skafte said, his voice rumbling softly with each word. "An honor to meet you, at last."

"The honor is mine, General Skafte," Eva replied politely. She drew herself up a bit more. But there was something in her eyes Evan couldn't place.

"I have much experience with the bravery of the Eighth Strikers, and it's good to see that your regiment still provides such examples of it. I'm sure many of my MechWarriors will be eager to speak with you on your battles, when you inevitably run into them. I know I am." Skafte turned to Evan and glanced on to Huyten and Shaw. "Colonel Kell, Brigadier Huyten, Khan Shaw, I would like to speak informally now. Not with military protocol. Would you humor me?"

"I've got no objection," Huyten said, clearly curious.

"I'm fine with it," Evan concurred. "You've done enough for us I'm not going to quibble about protocols."

"Aff, no objections," Shaw echoed.

"Ah. Thank you."

Skafte turned away. Evan watched, with growing surprise and astonishment, as the burly Rasalhaguan rushed up and set his hands on Eva's shoulders. "Ah, little Eva! I am so proud of you!" he bellowed before pulling the young MechWarrior into a familial bear hug. "So very proud!"

A brief, relieved smile crossed the exhausted young woman's face. "Thanks, Uncle Lars."

Evan glanced towards Huyten, who looked just as surprised and put off, while Shaw seemed more bemused than anything. Stefanidis grinned, as if he were in on the secret.

"Ah, but you are not so little anymore, nej? No more lifting you up, my back is not so strong anymore!" A chuckle rumbled from him. "Your parents spoke to me by HPG before I went through the Glass. They are so proud of you, little Eva, and they miss you so. They want you to come home when this is over."

"I will. When this is over. After. I…" A sniffle came from Eva, which soon become a low sob. "It was so horrible. All those people, there were children, and they were killing them! I saw them destroy a whole bus of them, I—"

Skafte set one of his hands on her head. "I know. I have seen such too. Too much. I know the pain, and I wish you never had."

Evan lowered his head. "It's always terrible," he said from experience.

“I fought in the Capellan Crusades, and saw the aftermath of the massacre of Liao. Such things are a wound to the soul,” Huyten agreed in sombre tones, “and it's to your credit, Leftenant, that you can't look on the like of it unmoved.”

Eva continued to sob into Skafte's shoulder, visibly working out the day's stress, her grief and anger and horror, in the arms of someone she clearly knew as family. He grinned softly at the others. "Back in the war, the Einherjar were called into battles alongside the Eighth Strikers. I met Eva's parents, Charles and Tina, on the battlefield. We saved one another's lives several times. Later, I was wounded in the fighting on Yamarovka, just before the Dieron ceasefire was called. My superiors assigned me to the embassy in Roslyn as an attache while I recovered. I met my old comrades after they settled on Arcadia, and we became friends in peace as well."

"And they told me you were a special uncle," Eva added quietly. "My Uncle Lars."

"Hell of a coincidence you're here now, then," Huyten said, with the air of a man who didn't like the idea of coincidences.

Skafte barked a laugh. "No coincidence at all, Brigadier. My time on Arcadia made me known for supporting close ties between the Communal Republic and the Royal Federation. It may have even cost me the election to become the new Gothi. But Gothi Magnusson is a fellow Einherjar from the war. He values that friendship as strongly as I do. So he asked me to be his military advisor after he won the election, and now has named me commander of our expedition."

"Makes sense, I suppose," said Evan. He watched Skafte release his adopted niece gently. Eva remained more relaxed, not quite returning to military attention. "Best to have someone willing to work with other states."

"And someone able to shout as loudly as the Sudeteners' Vanguardists," Skafte laughed. "They do not work as well with other forces, outside of our own. But we will go into finer detail later, when Limkomandanto Marcos and General Everjois are present. Until then, this day has gone long enough I think, especially for you. My staff will see to our troops' landing arrangements."

"I agree," Evan said. Huyten nodded. "Meeting's over."

Chapter 21 — Complications


TUS Arkady Roslov
Nadir Point
Tikonov System, Tikonov Prefecture
Grand Union of Tikonov
Cisglass Inner Sphere
16 August 3143


The jump points of the Tikonov system were among the busiest one would find in the Inner Sphere. A capital system for a Successor State was always going to have a multitude of vessels coming and going, but given its place in the inner core of the Inner Sphere Tikonov was a commercial hub like few others. It was the mid-point for trade between the COMINTERSTEL and Lyran states on one end and the Federated Suns and Kilbourne Concord on the other. At any given time the JumpShips crowded the approaches to Gagarin and Kozhedub Stations, seeking recharges while docking and undocking many more DropShips. Space was vast by its very nature, but here, it could be surprisingly cramped.

Thus the Ruslov and its accompanying ships maintained a distance of two thousand kilometers, more than enough to allow the gathered vessels to continue their experiments without needing to worry about space traffic matters. The JumpShips of the formation were together while nearby DropShips, a combination of vessels outfitted with the finest sensor technology that the Inner Sphere had available and flotillas of Tikonovite and FedSun combat DropShips, maintained a vigil well out of jump field range.

The Ruslov was the center of the formation, a former Rubinsky-class destroyer of the Tikonov Union that had been crippled by Kuritan forces during the intense fighting at Albalii. For over twenty years the ship had been kept in mothballed reserve, too badly damaged to warrant the costs of complete restoration to service but too intact to warrant scrapping as happened to so many of his sibling ships. In the mothball yards over Ashkilov, the vessel had long awaited a purpose worthy of bringing him back to life. A purpose that, had in the past year, been found.

The Ruslov's reactivation had been done in limited fashion, with spaceworthiness, internal power systems, and drives meticulously restored, but the weapons lost in his final action were not replaced, and his armament of naval lasers, missiles, and paired Naval PPC batteries on the quarters was only half-strength compared to remaining siblings. Such firepower was not deemed necessary for his new purpose.

In her Command Information Center, Captain Jasper Pugachev floated quietly on his foot-hooks at the holotank central to the chamber. Harnessed crew remained seated and attending to stations, providing the data and direction to keep the three hundred thousand ton WarShip operating. The ship was the effective flag vessel for twenty WarShips and JumpShips of varying size and class, the majority of them Tikonovite with one Azami ship and three from their strongest ally, the Federated Suns. The more significant presence of the Suns was here with him, in the personage of Doctor George Sato of the New Avalon Institute of Science. A scientist was not a normal part of a WarShip's contingent, even in Tikonov, but for Ruslov's new purpose, Sato was one of the best people for the job.

The last batch of test data flowed over the holotank facing Sato. Pugachev required these final summaries, much to the grumbling of the researchers. No more tests would be done until he was sure of their safety. "That anomalous surge towards the end of the test charge is the only thing of note so far," Sato noted to Pugachev and the coterie of jumpsuited physicists arrayed around him. "As always, it seems to vary in intensity, like a feedback loop into the jump engines."

"Should I suspend the testing, then?" asked Pugachev, knowing the answer to come but saying it anyway.

"There's nothing dangerous at this level," Sato assured him, holding a finger up towards the holographic light and the display. "I get this is for the record, but I admit I'm getting tired of having to constantly restate this, Captain." When Pugachev frowned in response Sato sighed. "Calling it a 'surge' is a relative matter. Mild feedback into jump engines is a part of the physics, and always has been. But it's usually rated in the microjoule range. We're just seeing an increase into the millijoule range. Compared to the megajoules that typically course through a jump engine during a jump, this is still comparatively microscopic. It's simply an interesting anomaly at this stage."

Sato undoubtedly found it convincing, but Pugachev wouldn't allow it to be. He glanced towards the engineering officer overseeing the testing, Commander Paul Tourville. Tourville nodded. "Again, for the record, I've worked jump engines most of my career, Captain, same as you. And from an engineering perspective, Doctor Sato's right. I'd say dumping a noteputer's entire battery charge into the system would have a greater effect upon a drive than this feedback, and by several orders of magnitude. Though I do want to keep an eye on things."

A new analogy, Pugachev thought, though he not speak.

Sato gave a reply instead. "Yes, the effect has gradually increased since testing began, though not in a linear fashion."

"You mean the feedback goes up and down? Increases and decreases?' Pugachev asked.

"Mostly increases, but not in any appreciable way, and there have been dips where it'd drop again before going back up." Sato again gestured towards the data. "Honestly this might be the result of simple hyperspatial variance. Random shifting, so to speak. We're certainly clear to begin the next test when you're ready. We're adding another five seconds to the charge-hold time."

Pugachev sighed and nodded. "Very well." He keyed the intercom. "All ships standby to begin jump engine test."

The affirmations flashed on the holotank as vessel after vessel affirmed readiness.

"Begin."

"Aye, Captain, commencing test jump. Five… four… three…"

Normally this was done with a new or repaired jump core. A charge was gradually built into the core to test for failure, until the test either succeeded and the charge was dumped back into the capacitors or a helium tank seal blew somewhere. They'd done the test a dozen times in the past three days alone, ever since Ruslov had finished her refurbishing tests and joined the test fleet that had gradually formed here at Tikonov's nadir point. This would be the thirteenth. An unlucky number for us. But not for the others, at least.

"Test cycle commenced on all ships. Core charge is now at five percent and growing steady. No issues found," Tourville said.

Pugachev nodded and watched quietly as the charge gradually built. They'd been allowing the charge to build closer and closer to one hundred percent through the testing. This test would stop at eighty percent. I wonder if they will push to a hundred or decide to stop this? I do not wish to blast a hole in the cosmos because the scientists think it will be interesting!

The percentage went up at standard pace. His ship and the others were scanning constantly, looking for the slightest sign of something out of the ordinary. The combat DropShips were undoubtedly already on standby just in case. Pugachev quietly envied them; at least they weren't actually part of this, just watching. Like one hole between realities isn't enough, honestly we should leave well enough alone.

"Fifty percent. Fifty-five percent."

Sato gestured towards the holotank displays. "Do you see this, Tourville?"

"I do." Tourville, and Pugachev, noted the numbers coming to life along a diagram of the drive. "We're getting anomalous feedback again."

"Standby for emergency core dump," Pugachev ordered his people.

"Seventy percent. Seventy-five percent. We are now at eighty percent. Engineering is now cutting power transfer and ending the test."

"The feedback has gone up. It's at eight hundred milliwatts this time," Sato said.

Pugachev didn't like the sound of that, but at least this whole thing was over. Until the next time.

Confusion flashed across Tourville's face. "Wait. That can't be…"

"What?" Pugachev demanded.

"The core is at eighty-five percent now," Sato breathed in shock. "The core is still drawing energy."

Pugachev slammed his finger on the nearest intercom key. "Engineering, suspend test! Do not transfer power to core!"

"Captain, it's not us! All power transfer has ceased!"

"Not possible! Make sure!"

"They're right, the capacitors are filled up with the test charge," Tourville said, his hand indicating them on the diagram. But the jump drive was glowing a bright green and the number had just gone past ninety percent. "The core is still taking a charge somehow!" He glanced at the fleet readouts. "All ships are reporting core charge has continued past the test ending!"

"If we're not charging the cores, what is?!" Pugachev demanded.

"I don't know, Captain," Tourville replied, a certain franticness starting to show on his face. "Engineering is trying to dump the core but the capacitors are already near their limits. Core charge growing!"

Pugachev watched in disbelief as the Ruslov, as well as the other vessels, continued to build core charges from seeming nothingness. "Doctor Sato, what have you done to my ship?!" he roared.

"This isn't physically possible," Sato said. "Unless…" Realization crossed his wizened face, making it pale. "It couldn't…"

"What?!"

"Hyperspace itself," he breathed. "Somehow… somehow the mass tests caused some kind of connection to hyperspace, and our jump drives are drawing energy from it!"

"Then we've got a problem, because core charge just hit one hundred percent!" Tourville shouted. "The cores are going to blow if we don't do something with this energy!"

"Dump it!"

"Capacitors are already fully charged, sir. There's nowhere for this to go.. Nowhere but—"

"—where it came from," Sato said. "Captain, we and the fleet must jump."

Pugachev almost roared disagreement but stopped. Magical energy from nothing was beyond him, but he well knew what you had to do with a fully charged jump core. You either made your jump or you let the core explode, and even if that didn't misjump you in the process, you probably still lost your ship to the explosion. Holy Christ please let me see my family again, he thought desperately before nodding. "Astrogation! Select point two hundred thousand kilometers from Gagarin Station! Commence emergency jump!" From one point to the other, and still close enough for help if we need it.

"Aye, Captain, relaying to ships… jumping!"

Throughout his life, Captain Pugachev had made numerous jumps. The first ones in your life were always the worse, according to common space travel knowledge. That was where you most likely experienced jump shock, and everyone grew to know and expect the wave of nausea and wrongness that came from throwing a ship light years away. Eventually it was something easily dealt with.

None of that prepared him for this. He felt like his body was being forced through a sieve. Every part of him threatened to pull apart from the rest, and sheer agony gripped him and kept him from screaming. Misjump! flashed through what he was certain would be the final thought to cross his mind before the end.

Light returned. Reality came with it. The agony subsided as Pugachev beheld his CIC once more. Pugachev noted a couple of his crew were motionless, as if nigh-unconscious, as were Sato and a couple of his people. Tourville wretched, hurling globs of vomit into the air of the holotank, before turning his pale face towards Pugachev. "Captain…?" he asked weakly.

"How in God's name are we alive?" Pugachev asked, his voice hoarse from the suffering. "Ship status. Give me our status!" His eyes went towards the diagram, dreading the confirmation of his ship's violent rending by a jump core detonation.

Instead it was quite clear the ship was intact. The core itself had not been destroyed, though warning lights made clear that two seals were completely blown.

One officer spoke up from a station. "Captain, we're starting to get status reports from every deck and department. Multiple cases of jump shock being found. Engineering reports blown seals on the drive. It's inoperable."

"But intact." Pugachev glanced at Tourville. "The rest of the fleet?"

"Here. We didn't lose a single ship," Tourville confirmed. "First reports coming in… jump shocks, blown seals. Looks like the Tigress Temptress had a partial core rupture from the overload, but the hull's intact."

"Good. Hail Gagarin Station, we'll need hospital ships for the wounded." Even if we're now on the wrong side of the system… wait!

The suspicion that had crept into Pugachev's mind soon made its truth known as he checked the system traffic monitor. The scanners and astrogation systems had spent some time updating given the jump, but they proudly showed their new location. To his astonishment, Tikonov itself hung in space. The navigation system helpfully projected the distance at twenty-nine hundred and twenty-eight kilometers. Barely out of the exosphere… how?!

"Captain… we have something on the aft monitors."

Pugachev brought up the display from the Ruslov's stern-mounted cameras. Beyond the spindly forms of the other JumpShips, the blue light of a jump field persisted, marked by the telltale fireflies that accompanied jumps. The same as the Atocongo Anomaly.

"We can't raise Ashkilov Station, Captain," another tech said. "We're not getting nearly as much as the normal radio traffic we should."

"Prepare a message drone. Send it through the anomaly, with full status updates included," Pugachev ordered. "And I want our fighters launched, a full CAP, now!"

"Maybe we shouldn't be hasty," Sato said. "Launching fighters could be seen as a sign of impending attack?"

Pugachev shot a frustrated look at the scientist who had caused him such pain and headache. "We just appeared out of nothing within an hour's burn of the atmosphere! They might just attack us!" He turned back to his officers. "Get me their planetary traffic control! And signal a mayday and drive failure!"

"We're already receiving a signal—"

"Put them on!"

An authoritative female voice with a hint of what Pugachev thought was a Tikonovite accent spoke. "- I repeat, unknown vessels, this is Tikonov Skywatch. You are in violation of sovereign Federated Suns territory. Identify yourselves immediately or we will engage you."

With his head still spinning, Pugachev answered, "I am Captain Jasper Pugachev, commander of the Ruslov, a vessel of the Tikonov Union Navy, speaking for my fleet. We have misjumped and suffered drive failures and jump shock casualties. I am declaring an emergency and am only maintaining defensive posture."

"....Tikonov Union Navy?" There was a burbling undercurrent of noise for a moment; whispered conversation just out of the pickup's reach. Then: "If that's Daoshen Liao's idea of humour, unknowns, then it's stupid and in bad taste. The Tikonov Grand Union hasn't existed for almost eight hundred years. Try again."

"We are not Liaoists!" Pugachev snarled. He regained composure to his voice before continuing. "We are…. we are from… it will take an explanation. Let me speak to your commanding officer, please."

"...Stand by."




Planetary Defence Command
Tikograd (Transglass)

"Well now," Aaron Sandoval commented quietly, watching the interplay of track markers on the main holotank. "This is an interesting turn of events, isn't it, Marshal?"

Phillip Rahm looked up from the display where he'd been monitoring the Tokonov Martial Academy Cadre's deployment. He scowled at what he'd evidently read into Aaron's expression, thick copper-red muttonchops seeming to flare in a manner amusingly reminiscent of a Caselton plains lion's threat display. "You're going to talk to them, then?"

"Without a terribly compelling reason for me not to, Marshal, that is my intention, yes." Aaron carefully hid his smile at Rahm's bluntness. The commander of the Eighth Crucis Lancers was a good soldier, but he had almost no sense of humor. Nor did he have much sense for politics beyond the necessities of his rank. "Whoever these people truly are, they're potentially a useful ally. Ganesha, Lord of Wisdom, has an elephant's trunk; you can't grab it once he's passed you."

"A fair point," Rahm acknowledged, scowl softening fractionally. Good to know my judgment of men's still sound; Rahm wasn't Hindu himself, as far as Aaron's intelligence staff had been able to determine, but he had spent almost his entire life in Islamabad Combat Region, the old United Hindu Collective area. And it'd be a strange man indeed who wouldn't take on something of the place after being there so long. "And if you're really confident this isn't a Liao deception - a distraction from an attack on Chesterton …"

"All things are possible, but it's not the way I'd put money." This time, Aaron did let himself smile; his parsimony was notorious enough that even Rahm would get the joke. "Unless this Captain Pugachev is a much better actor than I think they are, they were genuinely offended at the implication of Liao sympathies. And anyway, old Sun-Tzu might have thought that way, but Daoshen doesn't. I've fought him for a decade now, Marshal; and he doesn't care what the other guy may do. To his mind, it doesn't matter; what matters is what he is going to do to them."

Those had been long and hard years, each feeling like a decade in its own right, with victory and loss in equal measure. It hadn't been, Aaron was honest enough to admit to himself, any of what he'd expected to be doing when he was elected world governor of Addicks. Unfinished Book, that was sixteen years ago now. All I wanted was to make it easier for those who wanted it to gain full citizenship, and deal with that corrupt hypocrite Bannson; from that, all his other ambitions had been born. Now Bannson was dead, hunted down by thuggee fanatics after Ki-linn grew tired of indulging him; and the burdens of leadership are still mine.

"Well," Rahm commented, seemingly unaware of Aaron's internal musings, "at least if they do turn hostile, we're as ready as we can be." He indicated a secondary map screen, showing the Tikonov garrison's deployment. "With the Third Suns Lancers holding New Moscow, the Academy Cadre and Combat Commands Able and Baker from my Lancers here, Fourth Suns Lancers and CC Charlie as mobile reserve, we're covering everything critical." Rahm frowned for a moment at a cluster of smaller icons, in and around Tikograd. "I could wish for the mercenaries to be steadier, though."

"It's a bit late to be summoning the Rangers from Ulan Batar," Aaron replied drily as he stepped into the comms pickup's field. "Stand by for full visual transmission. Let's put a face to that voice," he said cheerfully to the comms officer; a young woman, local from her colouring and from the name Drubetskya on her uniform jacket's breast. His affected breezy confidence seemed to hearten the command staff; at least, defused an incipient tension. And it was always easier to grasp the nature of a person if you could look into their eyes.

Aaron took a moment to adjust his uniform — as ever, the plain, unadorned Field Marshal's dress he preferred for working days — as the link initiated. The main comms screen shimmered, reformed into the image of a WarShip's CIC. Aaron's mind instantly cataloged a dozen facets of layout, uniforms and insignia that convinced him these newcomers were truthful and we have another Timkovichi anomaly, but the bulk of his focus was on the man centered in the feed. Captain Puchagev, I presume. An older man, maybe a decade beyond Aaron's own mid-forties, tanned dark by the light of a dozen stars, clean-shaven and graying hair cropped close to his scalp in the manner of military spacers. Hard eyes that missed nothing as they took in all of the Iron Citadel's command center, with a gridwork of wrinkles at their corners speaking of a long time staring through an EVA suit's glare shield.

This was an enlisted spacer, once, Aaron decided quickly, and a rigger, unless I miss my guess. That put him on guard instantly; it wasn't impossible for a solar sail rigger to make it to a commission or even ship command, but it spoke of formidable drive and self-mastery, and more than a little luck. This is not a man it would be easy to fool.

"Captain Pugachev," Aaron said, quickly adopting a respectful, man-to-man demeanor. "You requested to speak to the commanding officer. I am he; Field Marshal Aaron Sandoval, charged by His Highness Caleb Hasek-Sandoval-Davion to defend Tikonov. I believe," he assayed a small smile, "that we have a great deal to discuss."

"Yes. My vessels will remain at station and continue our recovery from the jump shock, we will make no moves towards orbit without your clearance." Pugachev checked something outside the display's field of vision, with a faint voice that Aaron couldn't quite make out giving a report. "For disclosure, I have sent a drone back through the anomaly to report on our situation."

"That is acceptable," Aaron nodded. Courteous of you to let me know, at least. "This has a certain unpleasant congruence, Captain; to the events over Timkovichi and the formation of the," he made a point of checking a noteputer proffered by an aide; actually the Third Suns Lancers' ammunition stores, but it was for the look of the thing. What a game of shadows and mirrors power is, "Looking Glass event."

"Yes. We are aware of that anomaly."

"From your reaction to arriving here, I presume you weren't trying to create a new one?" Aaron deliberately inflected that lightly, as a joke, but I damn well hope you weren't. The thought that others were trying to do what the Arcadians had by accident, especially given the borders in the other world, well, strategic nightmare didn't even begin to cover it.

The reply that came wasn't necessary given the frustrated scowl on Pugachev's face. "No, this was not an intentional action. We were part of a scientific study to determine the threshold at which such anomalies formed so to avoid this. But something went wrong."

"An accident, then. One that could be of use, to both our nations." Aaron marshaled his recall of Trillian Steiner-Davion's summation of what lay beyond the Glass; making sure the Sea Foxes got a copy here, quickly had cost more than a 'Mech battalion, but every penny was well-spent now. This Tikonov Grand Union are allies to the Federated Suns on their side, and I doubt they'll like Daoshen anymore than they do their own Liaos. Something could be made of that. From what he'd read, the Halas-Liaos were cold, could be viciously cruel at times, but they had it under much better control than Daoshen or Ki-linn did. "I won't ask you to commit your government to anything, Captain, but I would request that you convey to them my formal offer of open embassy and negotiation. There is a great deal to discuss and share between us, I think."

Including if the Federated Suns now have a new neutral border, or a dagger at our back. Or maybe even an ally.




Celestial Palace
Imperial City, Wuhan Continent
Sian, Sian Commonality
Oriento-Capellan Empire
17 August 3143


The transport VTOL hovering over Robert Halas-Liao's head drew his attention, the distinctive profile of a Dragonfly infantry carrier model by Ceres now marked in the red and gold colors of the First Sian Dragoons. Its pilot demonstrated his training with a precision mid-air turn and banking maneuver, moving the craft onto the ferrocrete helipad just outside of the Palace of the Scions, where the craft settled into place and quieted its engines. Attendees at the pad moved into place, arms presented, as the side door slid open. The sole occupant stepped out. Ordinarily, one did not ferry mere lieutenants about by VTOL in such a way, but the passenger was not a mere lieutenant. Xiaoli Halas-Liao, Princess-Imperial of the Oriento-Capellan Empire, had her hair pulled tightly into a single pony-tail going down her back, exposing part of her temples. Robert felt instinctive approval at his daughter presenting herself with that traditional Capellan MechWarrior's hairstyle. For all her bothersome mouth, she at least shows discipline in her presentation.

She walked up to him and saluted promptly. He deeply nodded in recognition, the formal and appropriate means for the Celestial Wisdom to accept the dignity offered by his MechWarriors. "Father, I came as soon as the field exercises were complete."

"So I was told by Colonel Rusk. I have had your gown prepared for you in the Imperial changing rooms, and the bath is ready."

Xiaoli nodded, though he could sense her displeasure. While he doubted she minded the bath, the formal gown of the Princess-Imperial was an elaborate garment to wear, and not at all to her liking. But this was to be her first formal session of the House of Scions, and the sheng and baraduc in attendance would find anything less to be an insult.

Yet, it would not hurt to give her a boon. "I have read your evaluation reports, and I am quite proud.. Your performance in last week's war game with the Dynasty Guards reflected well on your skill at leading a lance."

The distaste disappeared. Very briefly he could see satisfaction, even joy, before some combination of discipline and pride made it return to that neutral expression. "Thank you, Father."

Her eyes shifted to his right, as if something had come into her vision. Robert turned and recognized the uniformed Maskirovka aide approaching at a hurried, if steady, step. He bowed deeply to them. "Celestial Wisdom, Lady Chen insisted I give you this and receive your reply." Upon straightening his back, the Mask aide handed Robert a noteputer.

He looked it over. Event at Tikonov confirmed by agents. New Anomaly has formed and confirmed to link to the Transglass Inner Sphere. Request orders.

Xiaoli knew better than to try to read the noteputer, but there was no denying the curiosity in her expression. "The meeting begins shortly and you should be prepared," he said to her, keeping his voice firm but not stern. "We will discuss matters later."

She nodded and departed for the building. He gently smiled in her direction for a moment. I know that fire still burns within you, my little one, I am just glad we can direct it towards something more constructive than rebellion from your duties. He glanced again at the device, considering what it meant and what he needed to do. Or rather, what he felt compelled to do. He extended his arm and returned the device. "Inform Lady Chen and Lord Cheng that the time has come. Commence Project Heavenly Mirror."

"At once, Celestial Wisdom." The man accepted the noteputer and left.

Robert glanced back as the Dragonfly lifted off, its work done. As its beating rotors sent air that gently beat across his face, his thoughts turned to the enormity of what they were doing, and the potential consequences. This is a risk, as we cannot be sure how the other side will react. But now two of the Empire's most keen foes have potential access to allies from beyond, and we are already painfully isolated. The risk must be taken if the Empire is to survive.

Annnd, the Orient-Cappellans' dicking around with spatial anomalies brings the Terran Overlord Government into the mix.

For the glory of Fifth Rome and Caesar Juliannus!