Chapter Eighteen
August 28, 2767
McMurtree Space Port, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
For what had become the busiest single location on Asta, the space-port was eerily quiet. Throngs of SLDF and DCMS troops surrounded the port—preventing anyone from approaching. And inside the port there was only Minoru Kurita and his Otomo, Stephen Cameron and his security detail, and a few high-ranking officers of the SLDF and DCMS. All others had been cleared from the facility. Gerald stood watch at Stephen’s back—just as he had always preferred, while Hiroyoshi commanded the detail in his name. Though Gerald was the titular commander—Stephen had insisted upon that—the bodyguard had taken Hiroyoshi to the side soon afterwards.
“Sho-sa, I’m just a non-com, a grunt. I served with Lord Stephen, and have followed him around ever since; will continue serving him too, as long as he will have me around. I never wanted to be an officer—much less commander of the First Lord’s detail. You, however, are an officer—and one I have come to trust. You decide how the detail functions, sir, and I’ll ramrod it for you. Just leave me with the close-in section, right?”
Gerald Howe had been so adamant—and sincere—that Hiroyoshi found he couldn’t refuse the request. He made certain that everyone knew GERALD remained in charge, then planned the protective details and wrote the orders—and had Gerald sign off. Hiroyoshi didn’t mind the extra work—he took it as a compliment to his skills, and a sign of trust that the Star League Marine would place Lord Stephen’s safety in his hands.
Of the twenty-four men and women assigned DEST Six when they were aboard the pods fired at this world nearly six weeks ago, six had never made it to the surface. Four more died during the two week campaign of sabotage in the lead-up to the invasion—one of those when he accidentally disturbed a nursing Ridgeback in the forest surrounding Hawkins. That left him fourteen men and women—including himself. To that he added the six survivor’s of Stephen’s security detail—giving him twenty men and women. The 3rd RCT had made an overstrength regiment, four battalions drawn one from each of Bradley’s four regiments, available—but those were line troops, not security protection specialists. So, Hiroyoshi had widened his net—picking the absolute best people with the qualities he wanted from the 3rd. And from the Astan volunteers who had stepped forward in droves. And a few select Draconis volunteers that had gained permission to serve the First Lord. Over the past three weeks he had assembled what he considered the minimum detail size—sixty men and women, plus himself and Gerald. Each had been chosen based upon his ability—not where he had been born, or his rank. And Hiroyoshi had ruthlessly stomped hard on any volunteer—SLDF or Astan or Draconis—who had not lived up to his standards.
He smiled; some he had even broken to the point they asked for a transfer. None of HIS boys or girls, of course, or Stephen’s original detail, but the new ones, yes, some of them had broken. Of course, he had three separate charges—Lord Stephen, Lady Marianne, and Lady Cassandra. Each needed their own detail, and that stretched his small command to the limit. Lord Kurita’s Otomo numbered the better part of a battalion—all experts in protective security—just to protect one single man. His force was barely larger than a platoon. So far, at least. He expected more volunteers of the right type to arrive and be judged by him and Gerald, to determine who would to stay and serve and who would be sent home. And—he sighed—soon enough the Star League will descend on this world in force. It is unlikely that I will remain as commander—in fact, if not name—of Lord Stephen’s detail. Kerensky would certainly assign his own people to this task; and Hiroyoshi found himself feeling sorrow that he would not remain so near such an incandescent light. It had been a rare pleasure, these last few weeks, to meet and know the man that was Stephen Cameron—and his family.
So, here he stood. On the outer perimeter of the security personnel, watching his troops—Gerald’s troops—as they diligently stood guard over their charge. Lord Kurita had asked for the space-port to be cleared; he had informed Lord Stephen last night that he had a gift for the ‘gallant Astan people’. Some of Lord Cameron’s advisors had worried over that, but not Lord Stephen himself. Nor Hiroyoshi. No, he had faith in his Lord’s honor, and his instinct told him this was no gift with strings. Late last night nine Mule class cargo DropShips had arrived and set down here—in the section of the star-port Lord Kurita insisted upon for the meeting today. Apparently, with his gift onboard.
Minoru Kurita walked side-by-side with Stephen Cameron, in the shadow of the DropShip Suribachi. Even the close-protective details of both men stood back—out of earshot. Colonel Bradley, General Anders, General Fuchida, and General Samasov stood at a respectful distance as well. Minoru looked up at the DropShips and extended his hand, “Here is my gift—the Combine’s gift to the gallant people of Asta who rose up as warriors against Amaris, and made my samurai’s task so much the simpler.”
Stephen smiled. “We thank the Coordinator and his people, the mighty and powerful Combine for his gift. I take it that it is NOT the DropShips themselves, Lord Minoru?”
“No, Lord Stephen, it is not. The gift lies within. Would you care to open it, on behalf of your people?”
“It would be an honor, my Lord.”
“Then after you, my Lord,” Minoru said, extending his hand towards the lowered boarding ramp. Stephen’s detail had already swept the ship—it had been cleared of all people before the two leaders arrived.
Stephen walked briskly up the ramp, followed by Minoru, the generals, the colonel, and both their close-in details. Inside the cavernous cargo bay stretched far overhead. Scores—hundreds—of transport containers stood within, in a wide variety of sizes and shapes. Minoru gestured towards one of the largest and handed Stephen a control unit. Intrigued, Stephen toggled the device on and hit the button to open the container. The outer door swung wide, and inside, swathed in plasticene inserts—cut and shaped to fit on and protect the ‘gift’—stood a gleaming, factory-fresh Dragon class BattleMech, newly painted in the green, silver, and blue of the heraldic shield of Asta. The sixty-ton war machine towered nine meters tall, with the heavy limbs and squat body typical of such a massive construct.
“In addition to this ‘Mech, there are another three hundred and twenty-three, Lord Stephen. Plus, infantry weapons and body armor enough to outfit nine full regiments of infantry.”
Stephen, his eyes wide, looked at Minoru, and then asked, “Why, Lord Minoru?”
“We are allies, Lord Stephen. The Edict prevented us—somewhat—from raising troops; it did not prevent us from building equipment. These ‘Mechs—three full regiments worth—are from the storehouses laid up by my father before me; a mere trifle from those storehouses. You have volunteers here—many volunteers—on Asta, most with prior service and military training. But you have no equipment, other than hunting rifles and ancient Hegemony hand-me-downs. So, now you have ‘Mechs enough for one of your Star League brigades, as well as weapons, armor, communications equipment, supplies, medical gear, ammunition, spare parts—everything that you need to outfit nearly a full strength division of conventional troops—if you can cull that many trained volunteers from all those stepping forward.” He paused and turned to look at Stephen. His face hard and cold, but his eyes lit with an inner fire.
“We are in this fight, together Lord Stephen. Live or die, we shall do it together.” He looked up at the Dragon, his namesake looming over them both. “Let no one ever say that the Dragon failed to honor his word—just as you are making certain that no one can ever again say that of the House of Cameron. And with warriors such as these on Asta, Amaris shall tremble at our coming, Lord Stephen. Tremble and quake, and truly know what it means to fear.”
Stephen stared for an eternity at Minoru. Then he extended his hand—and Minoru took it.
September 1, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Stephen looked up from the piles of paperwork on his new desk as Gerald entered his new office.
“Morning, Top. Will you shoot me now, please?” he said, holding up nearly half of a ream in each hand.
Gerald smiled, and walked over to the coffee dispenser the house staff kept full and hot. “Java, L.T.?”
Stephen sighed and placed the paperwork back on his desk. “God, yes, Top. If I had known how much frakkin’ paperwork these people expect me to plough through in a day, I . . . I swear I’d almost rather have let the Rimmers nuke the bloody planet.”
“Well, L.T.,” he said as he handed a cup across the desk, “if you wouldn’t mind some advice from an old decrepit non-commissioned officer . . .”
Stephen snorted as he took a long pull from the cup of steaming black liquid.
“. . . then first of all, don’t worry about it. L.T., there’s not a bureaucrat born that’s not convinced that just one more piece of paper will make everything in life perfect. Problem is, each time they give us a shiny bright and new piece of paper that will fix everything, they don’t take away any of the old. What you need, if you don’t mind me saying, is a staff. One that will go through this mess and put what you really need to see on that desk. You’re getting lost in the weeds, boy, so stand up and take a look at the field.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be something about trees and the forest, Top?”
“Only on Asta, sir.” Gerald replied with a straight face.
Stephen snorted again. He took another pull from the cup, then cleared off a spot and set it down. “Yeah, I do, Gerald. But I haven’t had the time.”
Gerald was shaking his head. “L.T., you are still thinking like a junior officer. Damn, you should have kept the leg until we got you through staff college at least. You, sir, have things called MINIONS now. Dozens and hundreds and even thousands of loyal and enthusiastic minions. Well, not sure about the enthusiastic part. Colonel Bradley runs an entire Regimental Combat Team, right L.T.?”
“Right.”
“And he has a staff to help him do it. Doesn’t he?”
“He does. Top, I’m not sure . . . “
“Hey, you wanted the advice. Steal his staff.”
Stephen grimaced. “Top, I can’t just take the man’s staff! I’ve already landed on him like a load of bricks, when he was just trying to do his job.”
“So? He’s a Colonel. You’re a First Lord. Guess which outranks which. Seriously, sir, he has people trained in this bureaucratic snafu you are all snarled up in. And they all got guns; which means if it piles up too high, you can have ‘em shoot the bureaucrats. Win-win; for you at least, L.T.”
“Sat—Top get thee behind me,” Stephen said, putting his face down in his hands, trying to keep from bursting out in laughter.
“L.T., you are the First Lord of the Star League. Even if you think you hit Colonel Bradley a little too hard, well, he’s an SLDF officer. He damn well better be able to take it. He does want to help, sir. Ask him and he will tell you the same thing. If he doesn’t, then I’ll shoot ‘em for you, and you can ask his deputy.”
“Gerald, sometimes I don’t know when you are joking.”
“Was I joking, L.T.?”
*****************************************************
“Of course, sir, I didn’t even think about your lack of staff—or any of the personnel the First Lord normally has on hand to make sure he can do his job, without all of the minor distractions and disruptions.”
“Good, Colonel. Damn it all, when I call you Colonel I want to come to attention and salute. Can I call you Ezra?”
Bradley looked across the desk, really seeing Stephen for the first time. A junior officer, medically discharged before even beginning to climb the ladder of rank, never trained for the sudden and immense responsibilities dumped on his shoulders. He’s trying to learn, but his responses are those of a platoon leader, not a staff officer, he thought, not a First Lord. He is trying to do all this himself, and that’s partly my fault for not seeing the problem and helping him. “Yes, sir, you most certainly can call me Ezra.”
“Good, then, Ezra. I know what I want to do. But, I have no idea HOW to do it. And this paperwork, it’s just piling up and burying me alive. Marianne threatened last night to come in here with a flamethrower if I crawled into bed after 0200 again.”
“I think we can help out with that, my Lord. My staff is assigned tasks at the moment, but if you give me until lunch, I should have . . . “
“Just whenever you can, Colonel. I don’t want to overload you.”
“That’s my job, sir. And it’s good training, because I pass the workload on down the chain. That’s why God invented junior officers and enlisted men.” And Ezra Bradley smiled.
Stephen grinned back. “Well, you should join me and my family for dinner one night this . . .”
A raucous buzz from beneath the pile of paperwork interrupted Stephen. He frowned. He had asked the Branson House staff to hold all of his calls during this meeting. Picking up the hand-held, he held up his index finger to Bradley, motioning him to wait.
“Yes? What?!? By all means; when does he arrive? Thank you, Gretchen.”
Stephen shut down the phone and sat back in his seat. Ezra Bradley frowned; he did not like the sudden shocked look on the First Lord’s face.
Stephen looked up at Ezra, his mouth slightly open. “Commanding General Aleksandyr Kerensky just arrived at the L-3 jump point aboard the Combine vessel Amatsukaze. He will be dirt-side three hours from now.”
The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Moderator: LadyTevar
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masterarminas
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Nineteen
September 1, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
General Aleksandyr Kerensky stepped out from the armored hover transport that had met him and his staff at the spaceport. He nodded, seeing the alert men and women of the Eridani on the perimeter looking outwards—towards possible threats, not him. Good troops; he thought, concentrating on their job instead of him. Not everyone in the SLDF was so disciplined—a fault he had tried hard to correct over the last thirty years. Watching him—and his staff—disembark from the transport were a dozen or so armed men and women; including four wearing Kurita uniforms. DEST commandoes, he remembered from the briefing on the way down. Lord Minoru had assigned the remnants of a full strike team to Lord Stephen’s security detail. And THEY, and the other security personnel, were observing him closely. Good. A little paranoia was useful in protective security forces; he approved heartily of it.
The journey had taken only nine days, thanks to the command circuit Lord Minoru had laid in; though his staff had nearly had a fit of apoplexy when he announced he would be making the trip on the Combine ships. Even with her lithium-fusion batteries, it would have taken the better part of two-and-a-half months for the McKenna to make the same voyage. So, instead, he and his staff boarded his command DropShip—the Borodino—and transferred to Combine vessels at each waypoint. A task force built around the McKenna was following at their best speed, carrying a full strength Field Army of troops. But he had not time to waste. No, I must meet this man, my new First Lord. Meet him and make my own judgment of his capacity.
Colonel Bradley, the 3rd RCT’s commanding officer, stood waiting for him at the base of the steps. Kerensky casually returned the salute the officer sharply cast his direction, as a master sergeant commanding a detail to one side announced, “Commanding General, arriving!”, his troops snapping to attention and presenting their weapons in a flawless display of ceremonial drill.
“Colonel Bradley, a most impressive greeting,” Kerensky said.
“Thank you, sir. If you will follow me, please, General, the First Lord is waiting inside.”
*****************************************************
“First Lord Stephen Cameron, may I introduce to you Aleksandyr Kerensky, Commanding General of the Star League Defense Forces,” said Colonel Bradley.
Stephen stood from behind the massive—and hurriedly cleaned—desk. Not a scrap of paper was to be seen in the office and the wood work shone. He walked around and extended his hand towards Kerensky as he took stock. About Lord Minoru’s age, he thought, considering the man. Shorter than he imagined, but filled with vigor that belied his height and years. What little hair he had remaining was a silvery-grey, but his body was solid, his handshake firm.
“It’s good to finally meet you, Sir,” Stephen said.
“I believe, my Lord, that I am supposed to call you that, not vice versa.”
“Well, I seem to have a penchant for not doing things the exact way others want, General. Can you live with that?”
“I believe that I can, Lord Stephen.”
Kerensky sat in one the chairs arranged around a coffee table as Stephen gestured, and then sat himself. Thom Pappas came in, carrying a silver service tray with two pots, a sugar bowl, and several china cups. Placing it on the table, he took one of the cups and poured Stephen a steaming cup of coffee, and handed it to him. Turning to Kerensky, he asked, “Coffee, Sir? Or perhaps, Astan Tea?”
“Tea, please, Sergeant Pappas. Thank you,” he finished as Thom handed him the sweet, hot beverage.
Taking a sip, he sighed with pleasure. Astan Tea was the closest blend to that of his native Russia of any grown and brewed on nearly 3,000 worlds. Once the supplies for his samovar ran out, this was what he would be drinking for the duration of the War. Sweeter than he preferred, but still excellent—unlike that English tea most of the high court favored.
He took another sip, using the movement to observe Stephen Cameron. The First Lord was watching him—and smiled in recognition that Kerensky was doing the same.
“You’ve traveled a long way, General, so I will not keep you waiting. Why are you here?”
Kerensky sat back, and considered his answer. Lord in heaven, he thought. He sounds just like Simon, twenty-five years back. Confident in his own competence; self-assured and yet, lacking that patronizing air so beloved of the Court in Richard’s time. He smiled, “I had to see you for myself, Lord Stephen. I had to know whether or not I served another Richard. That is the first reason.”
“And are you, General, serving another Richard Cameron?”
“No. No, Lord Stephen, I do not believe so.”
“Good. I really hope that I do not present that particular impression to anyone.”
“Did not care for Lord Richard, much, Lord Stephen?”
Stephen grimaced. “No offense meant, General Kerensky, I know you were his regent, after all. But, he was as big a failure of the dynasty as any since Conrad McKenna; perhaps even more so than Conrad. The League is dying, General, and Richard is the cause of that. Perhaps we—you and I and a few others—might manage to resuscitate it, but unless we change how things are done, the seeds of our destruction have been laid. We WILL reap what we have sown, unless we plough the old seeds under and start over.”
“Yes, I was told that you gave the SDS plans—for the ground facilities, at least—to Minoru Kurita. And that you plan on doing so with the other Council Lords.”
Stephen nodded, a grim look on his face. “We promised them that, General. And I will give the SDS technology not only to Davion and Steiner, Marik and Liao, but to Calderon, Centrella, and Avellar, as well.”
Colonel Bradley and Colonel Hall—Kerensky’s aide—both winced at the thought of the Periphery having those systems.
Stephen waved his hand over both of them. “They don’t see it, General, but I do. And I believe you do as well. We can’t go on like this—using the people of the Territorial States like we own them. Eventually, we will have to give them their rights—the same rights we ensure for the citizens of the Hegemony—and let them choose whether or not to stay. If we don’t, then we will be fighting uprisings across the League for the next hundred years—and still lose the Periphery in the end. If giving them the technology to defend their worlds makes them feel more secure—and willing to talk about their other grievances, then it is all to the good. And our idiotic polices have to change. Already, water purification systems and fusion power generation stations have begun to fail throughout the Inner Sphere and Periphery—the factories that produce their components are all in the hands of Amaris. Minoru and I have been talking about that and some possible solutions, but that is for a later day,” he said, with a sad little smile.
“Today, General, we have more pressing concerns. Amaris.”
Kerensky took another sip of that excellent tea and nodded. “You are correct, Lord Stephen. And that is the second reason why I decided that I must come here. You stated in your message to me that you intended to declare Asta as the Star League’s capital-in-exile until the Court of the Star League on Terra has been recovered, did you not?”
“I did.”
“As much as it pains me to say so, you cannot remain here. You and your family must move somewhere safer, Lord Stephen, for the time being, at least.”
Stephen leaned forward, began to speak, then forced himself to stop. Calmly, Stephen, calmly. This man is the Defense Force. What he decides is what they will decide. Yelling at Kerensky will only complicate matters.
“General, I will not leave Asta. As of this moment, Amaris has taken and occupied all but five core worlds of the Hegemony—one of which, Carver V, is still actively resisting his efforts to take it; thanks to it being the headquarters of the Star League Marines. Semper fi. And, of course, Amaris has not occupied our jointly-owned worlds scattered through the entirety of human space. Asta, however, is the first world liberated from under the heel of Amaris. This is where it begins, General. And this is where I will direct the war.”
“Lord Stephen, I know how difficult this must be for you. But, Asta is only a single jump from Terra. Amaris could launch a counter-attack at any time—and no disrespect intended towards our Draconis allies—they can’t stop it. Not alone. And they will be alone, for at least the next three to four months, perhaps longer. They can’t stop an attack in force—and you know it.”
Stephen bowed his head and then raised it defiantly once more. “Maybe, General, maybe. We have gotten the ground-based SDS on-line and operational—not up to SLDF standards, but still a very fearsome array. We are training over a division of infantry troops and a full brigade of ‘Mech forces—from local Astan volunteers—in addition to two full regiments of the Eridani. And the Coordinator has forty-five regiments of conventional forces and ‘Mechs on this planet, along with over ninety warships in orbit. We can hold this world, General, we WILL hold it.”
“Lord Stephen, Amaris will not invade. He will make a fast pass with his fleet and fire every nuclear weapon he has at the surface. And now that we have a surviving First Lord, we can’t afford to lose him.”
“I know that, General. I know that,” Stephen said wearily. “That’s why you will take my wife and daughter with you when you return to Apollo. I, however, will remain here. The fate of the people of Asta will be my own. Live or die, I will remain here, Amaris be damned.”
September 10, 2767
SLDF Bachelor Officer’s Quarters, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
The man was mad as hell. He had never expected Kerensky—the Commanding General, himself—to come here, nor to try and convince the First Lord to leave Asta with him. Or, for that matter, Lord Minoru to argue so strenuously with the First Lord that Kerensky was right. Must have been quite a shock for the Old Man to find himself in agreement with the Snake. But—thankfully—the First Lord had remained adamant. So, he would be here when the attack arrived—but his family and General Kerensky were leaving today.
Damn them all for mucking up the plans! The Emperor would never forgive him for failing to ensure the death of all of them—and for that his own family would pay the price. He couldn’t have foreseen Kerensky coming here, so that could perhaps be forgiven, but it was all for nothing if he didn’t get the little bitch of a Cameron that pretended to be the heir. At least Minoru was staying. That was something he tried to tell himself. But, it wouldn’t be enough. No, Amaris would slowly and painfully put his family on Terra to death when he found out that his agent had failed in the task he had been given.
It had seemed such mild treason, years ago when he let himself be convinced by Amaris’s people to pass along information. Information and technological secrets. The money had helped—his family had a rough patch a few years back, and the secret funds the Rim Worlds had provided kept them afloat. But he was in far too deep now to back out. If he gave himself up, then Kerensky would stand him before a firing squad—especially if he ever discovered that he gave von Strang the complete documentation on Terra’s Castles Brian—and the Royal ‘Mech storage facilities. Thousands, ten of thousands, of Royal class BattleMechs—far, far more advanced than even the commonly seen Star League machines—were stored there, for use by the Hegemony and the SLDF in the event of a crisis. Now, those machines were in the hands of Amaris. Enough to completely refit and reequip his entire army.
No, he was in too deep, and only his continued cooperation kept his family alive. The last message passed him through the cut-outs was that von Strang had taken in his family—to ensure their safety; they were now his guests at his small modest Terran home. At least his death would buy their safety, he thought. He picked up the pistol again, having checked every component twice. It gleamed, reflecting the light here in his quarters; then he slammed home the loaded magazine and chambered a round.
September 10, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“No, Daddy! Please, don’t make me go! Mommy, don’t let him make me GOOOO!” Cassie wailed, her face covered with tears cascading down both her cheeks. Stephen and Marianne were nearly in tears themselves—they had spent the past nine days talking about this; neither of them wanted to be separated. But, she finally agreed—for Cassie. And for the unborn child Marianne was carrying. No one—other than the two of them, her doctor, Gerald, Heather, and Hiroyoshi—knew about that yet, not even Cassie. Last night, he had held his baby girl, and explained why she had to leave, with Mommy, and he had to stay. She had nightmares after the last separation—when she and Marianne flew with the Harrison’s out to Windward. She still had them, and she didn’t want to go.
Not this time. No, this time she wanted to stay. Wanted to be here with her Daddy and her Mommy—because that was the way things were supposed to be. Not halfway across inhabited space aboard a ship of war. A refugee from his fear and dread of what might be.
“Hush, baby, hush,” Marianne was holding her tight, stroking her hair. “We can’t stay, baby, it’s not safe.”
“But Daddy’s STAYING,” she sobbed. “He can. Go with us. PLEASE?”
Aleksandyr Kerensky stood to one side of the room, his face reflecting his own inner sadness. She is a truly lovely child, he thought, just as Commandant Fulton said. I envy Stephen Cameron this time he has had with his child—and his wife. His thoughts turned to his own bride—and their children—hidden away in Moscow, safe from Amaris only in their anonymity. Will I be the father this man is? I failed with Richard, what makes me think I can succeed with Nicolas and Andrei?
Gerald looked at his watch—1042. Thank God, they started early! Kerensky’s DropShip wasn’t scheduled to leave for another hour and eighteen minutes. He snorted—it wasn’t bloody likely they would hold their schedule and leave without the man! Which is good, he thought. ‘Cause it’s gonna to take a hell of a lot longer than that to calm Cassie down.
*****************************************************
Hiroyoshi turned to climb the stairs to the suite of rooms set aside for Stephen and his family. He had just finished making certain that every single piece of luggage for Lady Marianne and Lady Cassandra had been packed and loaded in the vehicle. The escorts were ready to proceed, the security detail was standing by, and Hawkins PD had confirmed the route—and both alternates—were ready to be cleared at a moment’s notice. They weren’t running behind—yet—but he knew children. He had three of his own back on Luthien. None QUITE so impetuous as Lady Cassandra, perhaps, but still just children. And he remembered leaving home the last time—for this journey. His oldest child trying manfully not to cry; his smaller siblings failing, not understanding why Daddy had to go away. Oh, he understood what Stephen was feeling today.
As he reached the steps, he paused. “Good morning, Major. What brings you here, today?”
Major Wallace Turner turned to Hiroyoshi and smiled, lifting a metal secured-materials case handcuffed to his wrist. “We just received Critic priority transmissions from Apollo, via SLDF channels. Colonel Bradley instructed me to hand deliver them to the General and the First Lord, immediately.”
“Hai, Major. They are both upstairs, after you please.”
“Thank you, Sho-sa,” Major Turner said as he began climbing the stairs.
Major Turner had been a familiar sight here at Branson house for the past week or so. A member of Colonel Bradley’s staff, he had spent about half his time here, organizing the First Lord’s work-load, conducting briefings, and making himself useful, then spent the remainder of his day working for Bradley and the Eridani. A very hard-working man, Hiroyoshi thought.
The two of them climbed the stairs to the doors leading into the suite where Stephen and Marianne now lived. Even through the closed doors, Hiroyoshi could hear Cassandra wailing. He turned to Major Turner and smiled, “She is not very happy to be leaving, today. If you will wait here, Major, I will inform them of your arrival.”
Hiroyoshi opened the door and walked in, closing it behind him, leaving Turner standing outside with the two duty guards.
The door opened again, and Gerald Howe was standing there, an exasperated look on his face. The volume level jumped upwards with the door open, and Turner could feel empathy with the man for having to endure this.
“Morning, Major Turner. Bit of a madhouse inside today. Just let me have it and I’ll make sure they see it.”
“Sorry, First Sergeant, the Colonel ordered me to hand-deliver this and besides, its security-code locked.”
Gerald nodded, “Well, if you can stand the noise, come on in.”
Nodding at the two guards posted outside the door, Turner strolled in and began to walk over towards General Kerensky.
*****************************************************
General Kerensky noted Major Turner’s entry and watched him cross the room towards him. Stephen and Marianne both were hugging Cassie, trying to get her to calm down, to quit hyperventilating, and stop crying. He stepped towards the major.
“Yes, Major Turner?”
“Sir, I have Critic priority transmissions from Apollo for you and the First Lord.”
“Very good, Major.”
Wallace Turner placed the metal case on a small table, being sure to face Kerensky and the Cameron family. Unlocking the handcuff, he placed his thumb on the security lock on the case and it hissed opened. “Right here, General,” he said as pulled out the pistol and fired twice into Kerensky’s chest.
September 1, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
General Aleksandyr Kerensky stepped out from the armored hover transport that had met him and his staff at the spaceport. He nodded, seeing the alert men and women of the Eridani on the perimeter looking outwards—towards possible threats, not him. Good troops; he thought, concentrating on their job instead of him. Not everyone in the SLDF was so disciplined—a fault he had tried hard to correct over the last thirty years. Watching him—and his staff—disembark from the transport were a dozen or so armed men and women; including four wearing Kurita uniforms. DEST commandoes, he remembered from the briefing on the way down. Lord Minoru had assigned the remnants of a full strike team to Lord Stephen’s security detail. And THEY, and the other security personnel, were observing him closely. Good. A little paranoia was useful in protective security forces; he approved heartily of it.
The journey had taken only nine days, thanks to the command circuit Lord Minoru had laid in; though his staff had nearly had a fit of apoplexy when he announced he would be making the trip on the Combine ships. Even with her lithium-fusion batteries, it would have taken the better part of two-and-a-half months for the McKenna to make the same voyage. So, instead, he and his staff boarded his command DropShip—the Borodino—and transferred to Combine vessels at each waypoint. A task force built around the McKenna was following at their best speed, carrying a full strength Field Army of troops. But he had not time to waste. No, I must meet this man, my new First Lord. Meet him and make my own judgment of his capacity.
Colonel Bradley, the 3rd RCT’s commanding officer, stood waiting for him at the base of the steps. Kerensky casually returned the salute the officer sharply cast his direction, as a master sergeant commanding a detail to one side announced, “Commanding General, arriving!”, his troops snapping to attention and presenting their weapons in a flawless display of ceremonial drill.
“Colonel Bradley, a most impressive greeting,” Kerensky said.
“Thank you, sir. If you will follow me, please, General, the First Lord is waiting inside.”
*****************************************************
“First Lord Stephen Cameron, may I introduce to you Aleksandyr Kerensky, Commanding General of the Star League Defense Forces,” said Colonel Bradley.
Stephen stood from behind the massive—and hurriedly cleaned—desk. Not a scrap of paper was to be seen in the office and the wood work shone. He walked around and extended his hand towards Kerensky as he took stock. About Lord Minoru’s age, he thought, considering the man. Shorter than he imagined, but filled with vigor that belied his height and years. What little hair he had remaining was a silvery-grey, but his body was solid, his handshake firm.
“It’s good to finally meet you, Sir,” Stephen said.
“I believe, my Lord, that I am supposed to call you that, not vice versa.”
“Well, I seem to have a penchant for not doing things the exact way others want, General. Can you live with that?”
“I believe that I can, Lord Stephen.”
Kerensky sat in one the chairs arranged around a coffee table as Stephen gestured, and then sat himself. Thom Pappas came in, carrying a silver service tray with two pots, a sugar bowl, and several china cups. Placing it on the table, he took one of the cups and poured Stephen a steaming cup of coffee, and handed it to him. Turning to Kerensky, he asked, “Coffee, Sir? Or perhaps, Astan Tea?”
“Tea, please, Sergeant Pappas. Thank you,” he finished as Thom handed him the sweet, hot beverage.
Taking a sip, he sighed with pleasure. Astan Tea was the closest blend to that of his native Russia of any grown and brewed on nearly 3,000 worlds. Once the supplies for his samovar ran out, this was what he would be drinking for the duration of the War. Sweeter than he preferred, but still excellent—unlike that English tea most of the high court favored.
He took another sip, using the movement to observe Stephen Cameron. The First Lord was watching him—and smiled in recognition that Kerensky was doing the same.
“You’ve traveled a long way, General, so I will not keep you waiting. Why are you here?”
Kerensky sat back, and considered his answer. Lord in heaven, he thought. He sounds just like Simon, twenty-five years back. Confident in his own competence; self-assured and yet, lacking that patronizing air so beloved of the Court in Richard’s time. He smiled, “I had to see you for myself, Lord Stephen. I had to know whether or not I served another Richard. That is the first reason.”
“And are you, General, serving another Richard Cameron?”
“No. No, Lord Stephen, I do not believe so.”
“Good. I really hope that I do not present that particular impression to anyone.”
“Did not care for Lord Richard, much, Lord Stephen?”
Stephen grimaced. “No offense meant, General Kerensky, I know you were his regent, after all. But, he was as big a failure of the dynasty as any since Conrad McKenna; perhaps even more so than Conrad. The League is dying, General, and Richard is the cause of that. Perhaps we—you and I and a few others—might manage to resuscitate it, but unless we change how things are done, the seeds of our destruction have been laid. We WILL reap what we have sown, unless we plough the old seeds under and start over.”
“Yes, I was told that you gave the SDS plans—for the ground facilities, at least—to Minoru Kurita. And that you plan on doing so with the other Council Lords.”
Stephen nodded, a grim look on his face. “We promised them that, General. And I will give the SDS technology not only to Davion and Steiner, Marik and Liao, but to Calderon, Centrella, and Avellar, as well.”
Colonel Bradley and Colonel Hall—Kerensky’s aide—both winced at the thought of the Periphery having those systems.
Stephen waved his hand over both of them. “They don’t see it, General, but I do. And I believe you do as well. We can’t go on like this—using the people of the Territorial States like we own them. Eventually, we will have to give them their rights—the same rights we ensure for the citizens of the Hegemony—and let them choose whether or not to stay. If we don’t, then we will be fighting uprisings across the League for the next hundred years—and still lose the Periphery in the end. If giving them the technology to defend their worlds makes them feel more secure—and willing to talk about their other grievances, then it is all to the good. And our idiotic polices have to change. Already, water purification systems and fusion power generation stations have begun to fail throughout the Inner Sphere and Periphery—the factories that produce their components are all in the hands of Amaris. Minoru and I have been talking about that and some possible solutions, but that is for a later day,” he said, with a sad little smile.
“Today, General, we have more pressing concerns. Amaris.”
Kerensky took another sip of that excellent tea and nodded. “You are correct, Lord Stephen. And that is the second reason why I decided that I must come here. You stated in your message to me that you intended to declare Asta as the Star League’s capital-in-exile until the Court of the Star League on Terra has been recovered, did you not?”
“I did.”
“As much as it pains me to say so, you cannot remain here. You and your family must move somewhere safer, Lord Stephen, for the time being, at least.”
Stephen leaned forward, began to speak, then forced himself to stop. Calmly, Stephen, calmly. This man is the Defense Force. What he decides is what they will decide. Yelling at Kerensky will only complicate matters.
“General, I will not leave Asta. As of this moment, Amaris has taken and occupied all but five core worlds of the Hegemony—one of which, Carver V, is still actively resisting his efforts to take it; thanks to it being the headquarters of the Star League Marines. Semper fi. And, of course, Amaris has not occupied our jointly-owned worlds scattered through the entirety of human space. Asta, however, is the first world liberated from under the heel of Amaris. This is where it begins, General. And this is where I will direct the war.”
“Lord Stephen, I know how difficult this must be for you. But, Asta is only a single jump from Terra. Amaris could launch a counter-attack at any time—and no disrespect intended towards our Draconis allies—they can’t stop it. Not alone. And they will be alone, for at least the next three to four months, perhaps longer. They can’t stop an attack in force—and you know it.”
Stephen bowed his head and then raised it defiantly once more. “Maybe, General, maybe. We have gotten the ground-based SDS on-line and operational—not up to SLDF standards, but still a very fearsome array. We are training over a division of infantry troops and a full brigade of ‘Mech forces—from local Astan volunteers—in addition to two full regiments of the Eridani. And the Coordinator has forty-five regiments of conventional forces and ‘Mechs on this planet, along with over ninety warships in orbit. We can hold this world, General, we WILL hold it.”
“Lord Stephen, Amaris will not invade. He will make a fast pass with his fleet and fire every nuclear weapon he has at the surface. And now that we have a surviving First Lord, we can’t afford to lose him.”
“I know that, General. I know that,” Stephen said wearily. “That’s why you will take my wife and daughter with you when you return to Apollo. I, however, will remain here. The fate of the people of Asta will be my own. Live or die, I will remain here, Amaris be damned.”
September 10, 2767
SLDF Bachelor Officer’s Quarters, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
The man was mad as hell. He had never expected Kerensky—the Commanding General, himself—to come here, nor to try and convince the First Lord to leave Asta with him. Or, for that matter, Lord Minoru to argue so strenuously with the First Lord that Kerensky was right. Must have been quite a shock for the Old Man to find himself in agreement with the Snake. But—thankfully—the First Lord had remained adamant. So, he would be here when the attack arrived—but his family and General Kerensky were leaving today.
Damn them all for mucking up the plans! The Emperor would never forgive him for failing to ensure the death of all of them—and for that his own family would pay the price. He couldn’t have foreseen Kerensky coming here, so that could perhaps be forgiven, but it was all for nothing if he didn’t get the little bitch of a Cameron that pretended to be the heir. At least Minoru was staying. That was something he tried to tell himself. But, it wouldn’t be enough. No, Amaris would slowly and painfully put his family on Terra to death when he found out that his agent had failed in the task he had been given.
It had seemed such mild treason, years ago when he let himself be convinced by Amaris’s people to pass along information. Information and technological secrets. The money had helped—his family had a rough patch a few years back, and the secret funds the Rim Worlds had provided kept them afloat. But he was in far too deep now to back out. If he gave himself up, then Kerensky would stand him before a firing squad—especially if he ever discovered that he gave von Strang the complete documentation on Terra’s Castles Brian—and the Royal ‘Mech storage facilities. Thousands, ten of thousands, of Royal class BattleMechs—far, far more advanced than even the commonly seen Star League machines—were stored there, for use by the Hegemony and the SLDF in the event of a crisis. Now, those machines were in the hands of Amaris. Enough to completely refit and reequip his entire army.
No, he was in too deep, and only his continued cooperation kept his family alive. The last message passed him through the cut-outs was that von Strang had taken in his family—to ensure their safety; they were now his guests at his small modest Terran home. At least his death would buy their safety, he thought. He picked up the pistol again, having checked every component twice. It gleamed, reflecting the light here in his quarters; then he slammed home the loaded magazine and chambered a round.
September 10, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“No, Daddy! Please, don’t make me go! Mommy, don’t let him make me GOOOO!” Cassie wailed, her face covered with tears cascading down both her cheeks. Stephen and Marianne were nearly in tears themselves—they had spent the past nine days talking about this; neither of them wanted to be separated. But, she finally agreed—for Cassie. And for the unborn child Marianne was carrying. No one—other than the two of them, her doctor, Gerald, Heather, and Hiroyoshi—knew about that yet, not even Cassie. Last night, he had held his baby girl, and explained why she had to leave, with Mommy, and he had to stay. She had nightmares after the last separation—when she and Marianne flew with the Harrison’s out to Windward. She still had them, and she didn’t want to go.
Not this time. No, this time she wanted to stay. Wanted to be here with her Daddy and her Mommy—because that was the way things were supposed to be. Not halfway across inhabited space aboard a ship of war. A refugee from his fear and dread of what might be.
“Hush, baby, hush,” Marianne was holding her tight, stroking her hair. “We can’t stay, baby, it’s not safe.”
“But Daddy’s STAYING,” she sobbed. “He can. Go with us. PLEASE?”
Aleksandyr Kerensky stood to one side of the room, his face reflecting his own inner sadness. She is a truly lovely child, he thought, just as Commandant Fulton said. I envy Stephen Cameron this time he has had with his child—and his wife. His thoughts turned to his own bride—and their children—hidden away in Moscow, safe from Amaris only in their anonymity. Will I be the father this man is? I failed with Richard, what makes me think I can succeed with Nicolas and Andrei?
Gerald looked at his watch—1042. Thank God, they started early! Kerensky’s DropShip wasn’t scheduled to leave for another hour and eighteen minutes. He snorted—it wasn’t bloody likely they would hold their schedule and leave without the man! Which is good, he thought. ‘Cause it’s gonna to take a hell of a lot longer than that to calm Cassie down.
*****************************************************
Hiroyoshi turned to climb the stairs to the suite of rooms set aside for Stephen and his family. He had just finished making certain that every single piece of luggage for Lady Marianne and Lady Cassandra had been packed and loaded in the vehicle. The escorts were ready to proceed, the security detail was standing by, and Hawkins PD had confirmed the route—and both alternates—were ready to be cleared at a moment’s notice. They weren’t running behind—yet—but he knew children. He had three of his own back on Luthien. None QUITE so impetuous as Lady Cassandra, perhaps, but still just children. And he remembered leaving home the last time—for this journey. His oldest child trying manfully not to cry; his smaller siblings failing, not understanding why Daddy had to go away. Oh, he understood what Stephen was feeling today.
As he reached the steps, he paused. “Good morning, Major. What brings you here, today?”
Major Wallace Turner turned to Hiroyoshi and smiled, lifting a metal secured-materials case handcuffed to his wrist. “We just received Critic priority transmissions from Apollo, via SLDF channels. Colonel Bradley instructed me to hand deliver them to the General and the First Lord, immediately.”
“Hai, Major. They are both upstairs, after you please.”
“Thank you, Sho-sa,” Major Turner said as he began climbing the stairs.
Major Turner had been a familiar sight here at Branson house for the past week or so. A member of Colonel Bradley’s staff, he had spent about half his time here, organizing the First Lord’s work-load, conducting briefings, and making himself useful, then spent the remainder of his day working for Bradley and the Eridani. A very hard-working man, Hiroyoshi thought.
The two of them climbed the stairs to the doors leading into the suite where Stephen and Marianne now lived. Even through the closed doors, Hiroyoshi could hear Cassandra wailing. He turned to Major Turner and smiled, “She is not very happy to be leaving, today. If you will wait here, Major, I will inform them of your arrival.”
Hiroyoshi opened the door and walked in, closing it behind him, leaving Turner standing outside with the two duty guards.
The door opened again, and Gerald Howe was standing there, an exasperated look on his face. The volume level jumped upwards with the door open, and Turner could feel empathy with the man for having to endure this.
“Morning, Major Turner. Bit of a madhouse inside today. Just let me have it and I’ll make sure they see it.”
“Sorry, First Sergeant, the Colonel ordered me to hand-deliver this and besides, its security-code locked.”
Gerald nodded, “Well, if you can stand the noise, come on in.”
Nodding at the two guards posted outside the door, Turner strolled in and began to walk over towards General Kerensky.
*****************************************************
General Kerensky noted Major Turner’s entry and watched him cross the room towards him. Stephen and Marianne both were hugging Cassie, trying to get her to calm down, to quit hyperventilating, and stop crying. He stepped towards the major.
“Yes, Major Turner?”
“Sir, I have Critic priority transmissions from Apollo for you and the First Lord.”
“Very good, Major.”
Wallace Turner placed the metal case on a small table, being sure to face Kerensky and the Cameron family. Unlocking the handcuff, he placed his thumb on the security lock on the case and it hissed opened. “Right here, General,” he said as pulled out the pistol and fired twice into Kerensky’s chest.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty
September 10, 2767
Celestial Palace, Forbidden City
Delmar Continent, Sian
Capellan Confederation
Barbara Liao sat on her mahogany throne in the Great Hall of the Celestial Palace. The same throne Aleisha Liao sat when she convinced the other five Great Houses to adopt the Ares Conventions three hundred and fifty-five years earlier. The same throne Terrence Liao sat when he signed the Star League Accords to form the Star League two hundred and eleven years ago. Her family had faced crisis since, but nothing like this. Amaris threatened all human space with barbarism; and Barbara knew her realm was the weakest—militarily, at least—of all the Great Houses. Today, the decision would be hers.
Walking towards the throne were four men, wearing the green jackets of officers of the Capellan Confederation Armed Forces—the CCAF. Each of the four wore the single bronze triangle on their collar designating their rank as Colonel, the highest rank in Capellan service. Each wore the green peaked forage cap, as emblematic of their service to Liao as the raised sword insignia on their shoulder. None were armed—not even senior officers in service to Liao entered her presence with a weapon, save her personnel guard.
But there, the resemblance to rest of her officers ended. For these four were today dressed in full ceremonial regalia. Each wore a dark green and black pattern tartan kilt, with still more tartan cloth draped across their left shoulder, joining the kilt at their waist, front and back, tied in a knot on their right side. Polished brown leather belts, with silver buckles circled their waists. They wore low shoes instead of boots, complete with tassels and silver buckles, and high stockings upon their bare legs. For these were the commanders of the four fiercest regiments in her service; these were the Highlanders of Northwind.
The four halted at the first balk line, and two descended to their knees. The other two continued, to the second balk line, halting once more. One lowered himself, not in a prostration, but once again to his knee, head raised and eyes fixed on the great Lady before him. The last continued, kneeling to the floor at the third and final balk line, four meters from the throne in which she sat. Murmurs raced through the crowd of witnesses filling the galleries. Her court seemed to take offense at the Highlanders. So be it.
“Behold, my gallant and splendid Colonels. My Highland Colonels. You who have never failed me or my family when courage—or skill at arms—were needed.”
More murmurs. The court did not like that. Praise was only for the high-born, in their opinion, not paid mercenaries. Barbara could live with that; she ruled this court, not those simpering fools who only made appearance. And mercenary these men might be in name—their loyalty for nearly three centuries now had been unquestioned.
“You have asked for an audience to present to us a petition, my brave Highland warriors. Rise, ask, and we may consider to grant it.”
The four men stood, and the one closest to the Celestial Throne—Connor Stirling, commander of the 1st Kearny Highlanders regiment—spoke. “Celestial Wisdom, we come today to beg of you a boon. Our homeworld remains free yet of the traitor that is Amaris, but our brothers and sisters in service to the First Lord lie dead upon the green hills of Earth. The Royal Black Watch has fallen, Celestial Wisdom, and it has yet to be avenged. We ask that you release our regiments from your service, that we may return to Northwind and slake our thirst for vengeance on the traitor, the usurper. We ask this of you, Celestial Wisdom, not in haste, but in sorrow that our paths must, for a time, part ways. Should you release us from your service, we shall pledge to return to serve the Confederation and the Liao once more when our task has been completed.”
More murmurs. Perhaps I should have the courtiers shot for this upcoming Harvest Fest. That would certainly entertain me. Oh, well, they will soon most definitely know of my displeasure with them, and their imbecilic ideas of how I should reign. Very soon.
Barbara Liao stood, and descended the six steps until she stood on one carved green marble riser, an arm’s length away from Stirling.
“My knights, my brave, brave Highland knights. So pure, so fierce, so loyal. I have heard the call of our people, from throughout the Confederation and all of our Commonalties. From every world I have heard the cry over this tragedy begun by Amaris on the birthplace of us all. Earth. Old Terra herself.”
“I can not, however, commit the armed forces of the Capellan Confederation against this barbarian. Nor will I allow him to violate—in any manner—our territory. We will aid Kerensky in whatever way we can, short of war. But you, my proud bannermen, my strong right arm, you are mercenaries; technically you are apart from the Capellan Confederation Armed Forces. You are released from my service, upon the condition that once this conflict is ended, you will return to me and serve again. Your boon is granted, my Colonels.”
She turned and walked back to the throne, adjusted her skirts and sat.
“What is more, I give you a gift, my own storied Highlanders.”
“We thank the Celestial Wisdom for her generosity and compassion.”
“The gift, my dear, dear, Colonels, shall be this. Any within the Armed Forces of the Confederation who wish—for personal reasons—to ask of me a leave of absence will have that request granted, up to a number of no more than one in four of those serving. Of course, I would never dream of keeping your dear friends in our Armed Forces from visiting their gallant and brave comrades upon the world of Northwind, so transport will be made available for any who wish to spend their absence there. And since you Highlanders engage in games that we mere mortals cannot fathom, it would not be wise for me to deprive my absent soldiers of their ‘Mechs. Do try to show them a good time, my dear Colonels, for many have asked to take this leave and visit your fair Tara.”
“Lastly, I will not have my Highland regiments travel back to their homeworld as paupers. I gift to you—and your brethren on Northwind—the cruisers Celestial Beacon and Eternal Illumination, which have now been renamed the Northwind and the Tara, and the destroyers Fraser and Carmichael, which are now the Banshee and the Claymore. Imagine my surprise, when I learned of your brothers and sisters that had joined our navy. They have volunteered to take you home, my knights, my brave knights. They are released from our service to join your cause. Travel well, my Colonels, my dear Colonels, and may God honor the righteous and the just.”
Barbara Liao rose again, and walked to the door set behind the throne; pausing just once to meet her glance with that of Connor Stirling—her Colonel, her knight, her lover—before she once again turned her head and exited the hall as the four Highlanders knelt once more, and the court murmured again.
September 10, 2767
Celestial Palace, Forbidden City
Delmar Continent, Sian
Capellan Confederation
Barbara Liao sat on her mahogany throne in the Great Hall of the Celestial Palace. The same throne Aleisha Liao sat when she convinced the other five Great Houses to adopt the Ares Conventions three hundred and fifty-five years earlier. The same throne Terrence Liao sat when he signed the Star League Accords to form the Star League two hundred and eleven years ago. Her family had faced crisis since, but nothing like this. Amaris threatened all human space with barbarism; and Barbara knew her realm was the weakest—militarily, at least—of all the Great Houses. Today, the decision would be hers.
Walking towards the throne were four men, wearing the green jackets of officers of the Capellan Confederation Armed Forces—the CCAF. Each of the four wore the single bronze triangle on their collar designating their rank as Colonel, the highest rank in Capellan service. Each wore the green peaked forage cap, as emblematic of their service to Liao as the raised sword insignia on their shoulder. None were armed—not even senior officers in service to Liao entered her presence with a weapon, save her personnel guard.
But there, the resemblance to rest of her officers ended. For these four were today dressed in full ceremonial regalia. Each wore a dark green and black pattern tartan kilt, with still more tartan cloth draped across their left shoulder, joining the kilt at their waist, front and back, tied in a knot on their right side. Polished brown leather belts, with silver buckles circled their waists. They wore low shoes instead of boots, complete with tassels and silver buckles, and high stockings upon their bare legs. For these were the commanders of the four fiercest regiments in her service; these were the Highlanders of Northwind.
The four halted at the first balk line, and two descended to their knees. The other two continued, to the second balk line, halting once more. One lowered himself, not in a prostration, but once again to his knee, head raised and eyes fixed on the great Lady before him. The last continued, kneeling to the floor at the third and final balk line, four meters from the throne in which she sat. Murmurs raced through the crowd of witnesses filling the galleries. Her court seemed to take offense at the Highlanders. So be it.
“Behold, my gallant and splendid Colonels. My Highland Colonels. You who have never failed me or my family when courage—or skill at arms—were needed.”
More murmurs. The court did not like that. Praise was only for the high-born, in their opinion, not paid mercenaries. Barbara could live with that; she ruled this court, not those simpering fools who only made appearance. And mercenary these men might be in name—their loyalty for nearly three centuries now had been unquestioned.
“You have asked for an audience to present to us a petition, my brave Highland warriors. Rise, ask, and we may consider to grant it.”
The four men stood, and the one closest to the Celestial Throne—Connor Stirling, commander of the 1st Kearny Highlanders regiment—spoke. “Celestial Wisdom, we come today to beg of you a boon. Our homeworld remains free yet of the traitor that is Amaris, but our brothers and sisters in service to the First Lord lie dead upon the green hills of Earth. The Royal Black Watch has fallen, Celestial Wisdom, and it has yet to be avenged. We ask that you release our regiments from your service, that we may return to Northwind and slake our thirst for vengeance on the traitor, the usurper. We ask this of you, Celestial Wisdom, not in haste, but in sorrow that our paths must, for a time, part ways. Should you release us from your service, we shall pledge to return to serve the Confederation and the Liao once more when our task has been completed.”
More murmurs. Perhaps I should have the courtiers shot for this upcoming Harvest Fest. That would certainly entertain me. Oh, well, they will soon most definitely know of my displeasure with them, and their imbecilic ideas of how I should reign. Very soon.
Barbara Liao stood, and descended the six steps until she stood on one carved green marble riser, an arm’s length away from Stirling.
“My knights, my brave, brave Highland knights. So pure, so fierce, so loyal. I have heard the call of our people, from throughout the Confederation and all of our Commonalties. From every world I have heard the cry over this tragedy begun by Amaris on the birthplace of us all. Earth. Old Terra herself.”
“I can not, however, commit the armed forces of the Capellan Confederation against this barbarian. Nor will I allow him to violate—in any manner—our territory. We will aid Kerensky in whatever way we can, short of war. But you, my proud bannermen, my strong right arm, you are mercenaries; technically you are apart from the Capellan Confederation Armed Forces. You are released from my service, upon the condition that once this conflict is ended, you will return to me and serve again. Your boon is granted, my Colonels.”
She turned and walked back to the throne, adjusted her skirts and sat.
“What is more, I give you a gift, my own storied Highlanders.”
“We thank the Celestial Wisdom for her generosity and compassion.”
“The gift, my dear, dear, Colonels, shall be this. Any within the Armed Forces of the Confederation who wish—for personal reasons—to ask of me a leave of absence will have that request granted, up to a number of no more than one in four of those serving. Of course, I would never dream of keeping your dear friends in our Armed Forces from visiting their gallant and brave comrades upon the world of Northwind, so transport will be made available for any who wish to spend their absence there. And since you Highlanders engage in games that we mere mortals cannot fathom, it would not be wise for me to deprive my absent soldiers of their ‘Mechs. Do try to show them a good time, my dear Colonels, for many have asked to take this leave and visit your fair Tara.”
“Lastly, I will not have my Highland regiments travel back to their homeworld as paupers. I gift to you—and your brethren on Northwind—the cruisers Celestial Beacon and Eternal Illumination, which have now been renamed the Northwind and the Tara, and the destroyers Fraser and Carmichael, which are now the Banshee and the Claymore. Imagine my surprise, when I learned of your brothers and sisters that had joined our navy. They have volunteered to take you home, my knights, my brave knights. They are released from our service to join your cause. Travel well, my Colonels, my dear Colonels, and may God honor the righteous and the just.”
Barbara Liao rose again, and walked to the door set behind the throne; pausing just once to meet her glance with that of Connor Stirling—her Colonel, her knight, her lover—before she once again turned her head and exited the hall as the four Highlanders knelt once more, and the court murmured again.
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Ah, the joys of Court Ettiquette and Double-Speak. Well Done.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty One
September 10, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
The sharp CRACK was repeated, numbing fragile eardrums in the enclosed room. The stench of cordite and blood filled the air, as Kerensky crumpled to the floor. Wallace Turner paid the General no mind; his attention was already on the three members of the Cameron family in the center of the room. Bringing up his left hand to steady the shot, he pivoted, drawing a bead on the smallest of the three.
Gerald Howe and Heather Schell both reacted the moment they heard the first shot, slamming Stephen, Marianne and Cassie to the ground; not even trying to draw their weapons—there were others for that. Now—at this moment—they only sought to shield their charges with their own bodies.
Wallace snarled in triumph, as the door burst open; they were too late. Time seemed to stand still, as he lined up the barrel on the little girls head, peeking out beneath Heather’s arm, her eyes wide, her cries momentarily stilled. He pulled the trigger—and a split-second before the firing pin hit the primer cap to ignite the round, a razor-sharp shuriken sunk deep into the back of his hand, just above the wrist. Wallace involuntarily jerked, and the shot went off target. Cursing, he began to spin to his right, but Hiroyoshi was already there. Three feet of flashing steel soared upwards, and in a spray of blood and fragments of bone, Wallace saw both his hands—and the pistol—fly away, to land on the floor. He stopped, dead cold as shock slammed into his body, and looked at the white bone protruding from where his hands once had been, the red pulses of blood from the severed arteries—then his world went black as the pommel of Hiroyoshi’s katana slammed into his temple.
September 10, 2767
Hawkins General Hospital, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“This is Brian Hopkins, with a special report for Interstellar News Network, reporting from Asta, in the Terran Hegemony. Just moments ago, we learned that General Aleksandyr Kerensky, commanding general of the Star League Defense Forces, has been shot in an apparent assassination attempt, along with Cassandra Cameron, the six-year old daughter of the newly sworn-in Director General—and presumptive First Lord— Stephen Cameron. They arrived at this medical facility only minutes ago. No official statements have been made by either the hospital staff or the SLDF headquarters. We have been given no information on their condition and our crews have not been allowed access to the facility. A source high in the Astan planetary government has confirmed, however, that a member of the SLDF—for reasons unknown at this time—did open fire on Stephen Cameron, his family, and General Kerensky in Branson House a short while ago. We have no information as of yet on the identity of the gunman, or of his condition, but are assured that the man is in custody. To repeat, both Cassandra Cameron and Aleksandyr Kerensky have been shot and are currently being attended to by physicians in the facility behind me. We will be here at the scene and continue reporting as information becomes available in order to keep you up-to-date with the details. Brian Hopkins, INN, Asta.”
*****************************************************
Hiroyoshi—his face hardened like brick—watched EVERYONE that came within eye-sight of the waiting lounge of the surgical ward with a glare that screamed ‘TRY IT’. The full detail was here, disrupting normal operations, but that suited Hiroyoshi just fine. His people had cleared the entire floor—except for the medical staff—and the hospital administration be damned if they didn’t like it. He had spoken with Colonel Bradley a few minutes ago—Ezra Bradley had approved whatever security protocols Hiroyoshi wanted to institute. Then Bradley placed a call to Anders. Anders in turn spoke to Minoru. And Lord Minoru himself had called him. He had offered two more DEST teams—and Hiroyoshi accepted. They were on their way now, as was Lord Minoru himself, with General Anders and Colonel Bradley. Colonel Hall—Kerensky’s aide—was here as well, in the waiting lounge with Stephen, Marianne, and five of the six members of Stephen’s original detail. Everyone except for Heather—for Heather was in surgery too.
His desperate throw had diverted the gunshot—pushed Turner’s hand just far enough that the bullet missed Cassie’s forehead—instead it hit Heather in the back, changed course upon striking a rib, then spent the last of it’s energy to plow into Cassie’s abdomen. Heather would recover; her injuries were not life-threatening, and she had insisted on being kept awake as they rode to the hospital—worried about Cassie. Cassie, though, her wound was vicious; and Hiroyoshi muttered another prayer to his ancestors to intercede on the little girl’s behalf.
Kerensky was another matter. Both slugs had taken him square in the chest—how the HELL Turner had managed to miss the heart, Hiroyoshi could not understand. But he still clung stubbornly to life, as surgical teams fought to keep him alive. He had missed something; he must have missed something—ANYTHING—about Wallace Turner. He played back every encounter with the man in his mind, searching for what he should have seen. It was his fault this happened; for he had failed in his duty. And for that—for a DEST commando, for a samurai—there was only one penalty.
*****************************************************
Stephen tightly held Marianne in his arms, his own cheeks damp from the tears his eyes could no longer produce. Two hours, his little girl had been in surgery for two hours. And still they had no word on her condition. Gerald, Gerald was a sight. This whole thing had ripped him apart on the inside. Despite his gruff exterior, he loved Cassie—nearly as much as Stephen himself did. All of his people were taking it on the chin. And Kerensky! That bastard shot Kerensky as well. Colonel Hall knew none of his people—barely knew him—but she was praying as intensely as they were. Stephen had looked at Turner the moment he heard the first shot, just as Gerald thrust him to the floor. He didn’t know WHY, but he knew who Wallace had deliberately targeted. And that knowledge fueled his anger.
Wallace had lined his sights on his baby girl, tried to take her from him; and if it hadn’t been for Hiroyoshi, he would have. He might still have. He had seen it all from the floor, as Gerald tried to cover him with his body—and Heather the same for Marianne and Cassie. If Hiroyoshi had not reacted instantly when the shots occurred, then his Cassie would be dead now. And Stephen did not know if he could take that, that loss. The threat of that pain stoked the fire inside him even more; and if he did not yet know why, he would. He would.
Hiroyoshi walked into the lounge and looked around—marking certain that no one who shouldn’t be here was—then turned back outside and ushered in a surgeon, clad in the green scrubs that even today were worn by hospital staff across human space. Stephen felt Marianne hold her breath—he knew he was doing the same—as the doctor walked across to them.
“First Lord, Lady Cameron, I’m Doctor Chakabarti. Your daughter is out of surgery, and in recovery. She lost a lot of blood, and we had to remove her spleen, but she will make a full recovery.”
Stephen grew dizzy and his knees buckled, but Gerald was there; as was Thom, and Chuck, and all the others.
“She will need to rest, and is currently sedated, but there is no reason that you two,” he paused, looking at the MANY dangerous glares from around him, “and a SMALL number of your guards can’t see her, and sit with her.”
Stephen swallowed, trying to get his dried lips and tongue to work. “Her spleen, Doctor? What does that mean?”
“The spleen aids in her immune system. Later in life, she will have a reduced immunity to many pathogens, First Lord. It is treatable, though she will likely need weekly or monthly injections of an immuno-booster serum to prevent infection. While potentially serious, she will live a mostly normal life.”
Marianne’s tears began again, “I want to see her. I want to see Cassie, NOW.”
Stephen nodded, and motioned to Thom and Laura to take Marianne to the recovery room. “I’ll be there shortly, love. Kiss her,” he swallowed hard, “kiss her for me, ‘til I get there.”
As Marianne left, Stephen turned back to Dr. Chakabarti and asked the question he had been dreading. “And General Kerensky?”
The doctor sighed, “That is a bit more complicated, First Lord. He was shot twice in the chest—it was a wonder both slugs missed the heart and aorta. But one lung was pierced and his right scapula shattered. That damage is repairable, though it will require further reconstructive surgery. We stopped the bleeding and patched the hole in his lung; he is no further danger from that slug.”
“The second passed between the heart and the aorta, narrowly missing both, and lodged directly in his spine. We have removed the bullet, but the cord was severed. I am afraid that General Kerensky will be paralyzed, from the abdomen down, for the remainder of his life.”
Colonel Hall let out a gasp. Stephen’s world spun. “You can repair spinal cord injuries, Doctor! A simple neural interface clamp will allow . . .”
“Ordinarily, yes, First Lord. That is why you can use your prosthetic leg without having to concentrate on moving certain muscles. The NIC allows us to translate organic neural impulses into signals that electronics can read, and vice versa. In most cases, we would install a NIC on both severed strands of the cord and connect the two, and function would be restored.”
“Unfortunately, General Kerensky is in that small minority—about 1.3% of the total human population—whose nerves seem to have an almost allergic reaction to the NIC implants. If we were to attempt the procedure anyway, he would be dead in a matter of hours as his nervous system simply shut down.”
“No, First Lord, I am sorry. But the medical science of today offers no quick remedy for General Kerensky’s injury. He will never walk again.”
September 10, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
The sharp CRACK was repeated, numbing fragile eardrums in the enclosed room. The stench of cordite and blood filled the air, as Kerensky crumpled to the floor. Wallace Turner paid the General no mind; his attention was already on the three members of the Cameron family in the center of the room. Bringing up his left hand to steady the shot, he pivoted, drawing a bead on the smallest of the three.
Gerald Howe and Heather Schell both reacted the moment they heard the first shot, slamming Stephen, Marianne and Cassie to the ground; not even trying to draw their weapons—there were others for that. Now—at this moment—they only sought to shield their charges with their own bodies.
Wallace snarled in triumph, as the door burst open; they were too late. Time seemed to stand still, as he lined up the barrel on the little girls head, peeking out beneath Heather’s arm, her eyes wide, her cries momentarily stilled. He pulled the trigger—and a split-second before the firing pin hit the primer cap to ignite the round, a razor-sharp shuriken sunk deep into the back of his hand, just above the wrist. Wallace involuntarily jerked, and the shot went off target. Cursing, he began to spin to his right, but Hiroyoshi was already there. Three feet of flashing steel soared upwards, and in a spray of blood and fragments of bone, Wallace saw both his hands—and the pistol—fly away, to land on the floor. He stopped, dead cold as shock slammed into his body, and looked at the white bone protruding from where his hands once had been, the red pulses of blood from the severed arteries—then his world went black as the pommel of Hiroyoshi’s katana slammed into his temple.
September 10, 2767
Hawkins General Hospital, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“This is Brian Hopkins, with a special report for Interstellar News Network, reporting from Asta, in the Terran Hegemony. Just moments ago, we learned that General Aleksandyr Kerensky, commanding general of the Star League Defense Forces, has been shot in an apparent assassination attempt, along with Cassandra Cameron, the six-year old daughter of the newly sworn-in Director General—and presumptive First Lord— Stephen Cameron. They arrived at this medical facility only minutes ago. No official statements have been made by either the hospital staff or the SLDF headquarters. We have been given no information on their condition and our crews have not been allowed access to the facility. A source high in the Astan planetary government has confirmed, however, that a member of the SLDF—for reasons unknown at this time—did open fire on Stephen Cameron, his family, and General Kerensky in Branson House a short while ago. We have no information as of yet on the identity of the gunman, or of his condition, but are assured that the man is in custody. To repeat, both Cassandra Cameron and Aleksandyr Kerensky have been shot and are currently being attended to by physicians in the facility behind me. We will be here at the scene and continue reporting as information becomes available in order to keep you up-to-date with the details. Brian Hopkins, INN, Asta.”
*****************************************************
Hiroyoshi—his face hardened like brick—watched EVERYONE that came within eye-sight of the waiting lounge of the surgical ward with a glare that screamed ‘TRY IT’. The full detail was here, disrupting normal operations, but that suited Hiroyoshi just fine. His people had cleared the entire floor—except for the medical staff—and the hospital administration be damned if they didn’t like it. He had spoken with Colonel Bradley a few minutes ago—Ezra Bradley had approved whatever security protocols Hiroyoshi wanted to institute. Then Bradley placed a call to Anders. Anders in turn spoke to Minoru. And Lord Minoru himself had called him. He had offered two more DEST teams—and Hiroyoshi accepted. They were on their way now, as was Lord Minoru himself, with General Anders and Colonel Bradley. Colonel Hall—Kerensky’s aide—was here as well, in the waiting lounge with Stephen, Marianne, and five of the six members of Stephen’s original detail. Everyone except for Heather—for Heather was in surgery too.
His desperate throw had diverted the gunshot—pushed Turner’s hand just far enough that the bullet missed Cassie’s forehead—instead it hit Heather in the back, changed course upon striking a rib, then spent the last of it’s energy to plow into Cassie’s abdomen. Heather would recover; her injuries were not life-threatening, and she had insisted on being kept awake as they rode to the hospital—worried about Cassie. Cassie, though, her wound was vicious; and Hiroyoshi muttered another prayer to his ancestors to intercede on the little girl’s behalf.
Kerensky was another matter. Both slugs had taken him square in the chest—how the HELL Turner had managed to miss the heart, Hiroyoshi could not understand. But he still clung stubbornly to life, as surgical teams fought to keep him alive. He had missed something; he must have missed something—ANYTHING—about Wallace Turner. He played back every encounter with the man in his mind, searching for what he should have seen. It was his fault this happened; for he had failed in his duty. And for that—for a DEST commando, for a samurai—there was only one penalty.
*****************************************************
Stephen tightly held Marianne in his arms, his own cheeks damp from the tears his eyes could no longer produce. Two hours, his little girl had been in surgery for two hours. And still they had no word on her condition. Gerald, Gerald was a sight. This whole thing had ripped him apart on the inside. Despite his gruff exterior, he loved Cassie—nearly as much as Stephen himself did. All of his people were taking it on the chin. And Kerensky! That bastard shot Kerensky as well. Colonel Hall knew none of his people—barely knew him—but she was praying as intensely as they were. Stephen had looked at Turner the moment he heard the first shot, just as Gerald thrust him to the floor. He didn’t know WHY, but he knew who Wallace had deliberately targeted. And that knowledge fueled his anger.
Wallace had lined his sights on his baby girl, tried to take her from him; and if it hadn’t been for Hiroyoshi, he would have. He might still have. He had seen it all from the floor, as Gerald tried to cover him with his body—and Heather the same for Marianne and Cassie. If Hiroyoshi had not reacted instantly when the shots occurred, then his Cassie would be dead now. And Stephen did not know if he could take that, that loss. The threat of that pain stoked the fire inside him even more; and if he did not yet know why, he would. He would.
Hiroyoshi walked into the lounge and looked around—marking certain that no one who shouldn’t be here was—then turned back outside and ushered in a surgeon, clad in the green scrubs that even today were worn by hospital staff across human space. Stephen felt Marianne hold her breath—he knew he was doing the same—as the doctor walked across to them.
“First Lord, Lady Cameron, I’m Doctor Chakabarti. Your daughter is out of surgery, and in recovery. She lost a lot of blood, and we had to remove her spleen, but she will make a full recovery.”
Stephen grew dizzy and his knees buckled, but Gerald was there; as was Thom, and Chuck, and all the others.
“She will need to rest, and is currently sedated, but there is no reason that you two,” he paused, looking at the MANY dangerous glares from around him, “and a SMALL number of your guards can’t see her, and sit with her.”
Stephen swallowed, trying to get his dried lips and tongue to work. “Her spleen, Doctor? What does that mean?”
“The spleen aids in her immune system. Later in life, she will have a reduced immunity to many pathogens, First Lord. It is treatable, though she will likely need weekly or monthly injections of an immuno-booster serum to prevent infection. While potentially serious, she will live a mostly normal life.”
Marianne’s tears began again, “I want to see her. I want to see Cassie, NOW.”
Stephen nodded, and motioned to Thom and Laura to take Marianne to the recovery room. “I’ll be there shortly, love. Kiss her,” he swallowed hard, “kiss her for me, ‘til I get there.”
As Marianne left, Stephen turned back to Dr. Chakabarti and asked the question he had been dreading. “And General Kerensky?”
The doctor sighed, “That is a bit more complicated, First Lord. He was shot twice in the chest—it was a wonder both slugs missed the heart and aorta. But one lung was pierced and his right scapula shattered. That damage is repairable, though it will require further reconstructive surgery. We stopped the bleeding and patched the hole in his lung; he is no further danger from that slug.”
“The second passed between the heart and the aorta, narrowly missing both, and lodged directly in his spine. We have removed the bullet, but the cord was severed. I am afraid that General Kerensky will be paralyzed, from the abdomen down, for the remainder of his life.”
Colonel Hall let out a gasp. Stephen’s world spun. “You can repair spinal cord injuries, Doctor! A simple neural interface clamp will allow . . .”
“Ordinarily, yes, First Lord. That is why you can use your prosthetic leg without having to concentrate on moving certain muscles. The NIC allows us to translate organic neural impulses into signals that electronics can read, and vice versa. In most cases, we would install a NIC on both severed strands of the cord and connect the two, and function would be restored.”
“Unfortunately, General Kerensky is in that small minority—about 1.3% of the total human population—whose nerves seem to have an almost allergic reaction to the NIC implants. If we were to attempt the procedure anyway, he would be dead in a matter of hours as his nervous system simply shut down.”
“No, First Lord, I am sorry. But the medical science of today offers no quick remedy for General Kerensky’s injury. He will never walk again.”
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty Two
September 14, 2767
Hawkins General Hospital, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Hiroyoshi walked down the hall, watching every door, every face. Lord Cameron had asked him to join him in Lady Cassandra’s hospital room, so now he made his way there. The staff had become very disillusioned with him—Hiroyoshi—and his adamant refusal to allow as much as a single patient on this floor, other than Lady Cassandra and General Kerensky. Hospital staff was kept to a minimum, as well—and they resented having to be accompanied at all times by a member of the detail. They didn’t voice their complaints—not to him, at least. Not anymore. Not since that morning two days ago when a committee came to see him, in the room he had commandeered and converted into a command post. He listened—respectfully—to their complaints, to the issues they had with the conditions he had imposed upon them, to their heart-felt desire to treat other patients. He had listened, and then informed them that until Lady Cassandra and General Kerensky were released—or he was relieved of his post—the current security arrangement would not be altered. He apologized to them for the inconveniences they were experiencing, and asked if they had any further issues.
One of the committee, Dr. Satlee, had grown indignant and threatened to take the matter before Lord Cameron. At which point, Hiroyoshi had informed her that she was free to do so. He smiled as he remembered the meeting.
“By all means, Dr. Satlee, please disturb the First Lord and his wife while their daughter lies convalescing from a gunshot wound. Please pester them with the news that my security arrangements for her safety—for General Kerensky’s safety—are disrupting your routine. I would be most amused to see his reaction to that, Doctor. Of course, if Lord Cameron is greatly disturbed by this, I would have to correct the affront to his honor. Dueling is legal on Asta, is it not?”
Dr. Satlee decided not to disturb Lord Cameron after all.
He reached the door of Lady Cassandra’s room. Standing post before it were two of his best—Thom Pappas and Jarl Halvin, the latter from one of the new DEST teams assigned him by Lord Kurita. Both had been acknowledged by all others of the detail as the two most lethal in close quarters—excepting only Hiroyoshi, himself. Thom nodded as Halvin held up a security scanner. Hiroyoshi peered inside the device, a bright red light scanning his retina and confirming his identity. When the light on the machine’s display turned green, Halvin nodded and stepped aside, assured that Hiroyoshi was indeed Hiroyoshi.
Hiroyoshi opened the door and entered the room. It was one of the interior rooms, with no windows to allow a sniper a shot—or a paparazzi a photograph. Lord and Lady Cameron were here, standing by the bed which held Lady Cassandra, with Gerald off to one side.
“You sent for me, my Lord Cameron?”
Stephen nodded. “More precisely, Hiroyoshi, Cassie did. She has something to tell you, don’t you honey?” he asked looking down at Cassie in the bed. She was looking much improved; sitting up and color having returned to her face.
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, and looked up at him with her great big eyes. “Thank you, Mister Hiroyoshi.” She held out her arms for a hug.
Hiroyoshi swallowed. And walked over, bent down, giving Cassie a chance to put her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Mister Hiroyoshi, for saving me from the bad man. And for making me not have to go away!”
Lady Marianne walked over next to him and kissed him on the cheek, hugging him tightly as well.
For once in his life, Hiroyoshi Tanaka was at a complete loss for words. Finally, he simply said, “Hai.”
Stephen turned back to Cassie. “Hon, I have to step outside with Hiroyoshi and Gerald for a while. Why don’t you rest, and then I’ll see if Nurse Ellen has any of that strawberry ice cream you like.”
“O.k., Daddy!” she smiled in a bright grin. One could almost imagine that she had never been shot four days ago; until you looked at the tubes sticking out of her little arm. She turned the grin on her mother, and Marianne sat down on the bed, picked up a book, and the two began to read as Hiroyoshi left the room.
*****************************************************
Finding an empty room was not difficult. In fact, Hiroyoshi had converted three of the rooms next door into an office suite for the First Lord—including installing connecting doors, another matter that had antagonized the hospital staff. Entering his makeshift office, Stephen sat down at his desk—not quite as nice as the one back at Branson House, but close—and pointed at a pair of chairs set before it. Gerald poured two cups of coffee, and gestured at Hiroyoshi. He shook his head, and Gerald shrugged, then handed Stephen a cup and sat himself. Hiroyoshi lowered himself into the seat.
For what seemed an eternity, Stephen just looked at Hiroyoshi. He didn’t blink, he didn’t move; he just considered. Finally, he sighed.
“I spoke with Lord Minoru this morning, Hiroyoshi. He tells me that you have requested his permission to redeem your honor through the ritual of seppuku.”
“Hai, my Lord Cameron.”
“Why?”
“I failed you my Lord.”
“FAILED ME? God in heaven, if you call what you did four days ago failure, I don’t want to see what you call success, Sho-sa Tanaka!”
“I allowed an assassin into your presence, my Lord. The fault is mine—as is the shame.”
Stephen sat back, and took a sip of his coffee, clearly thinking how to phrase his next words. “Hiroyoshi, Wallace Turner fooled everyone. From SLDF counter-intelligence to Colonel Bradley to me to Gerald. You couldn’t have known. None of us could have known.”
“That does not excuse my failure, my Lord. Your daughter could have died. YOU could have died, and I allowed it to occur.”
Gerald spoke, in a low voice, nearly a whisper. “I have watched the surveillance footage, Hiro. Dozens of times since it happened. You saved Cassie, and Stephen, and Kerensky by taking down Turner as quickly as you did. I couldn’t have made that throw to save my life, and I still can’t believe that you did make it.”
He stood, and took a slug of coffee. “Do you understand how quickly you reacted, Hiroyoshi? You are the ONLY thing that saved Cassie’s life—and no one else could possibly have done it. No one. And if you aren’t the best damn combat trooper I have ever seen, then I don’t know jack about soldiering.”
Hiroyoshi lowered his head, digesting what the two men were trying to tell him.
“Sho-sa Tanaka; Hiroyoshi,” Stephen said, leaning forward. “I owe you for my daughter’s life. That is a debt that I can never repay, thought I will try for the rest of my own. There is no failure here—not from you. And Lord Minoru told me that himself this very morning.”
Hiroyoshi looked up.
“Yes, Lord Minoru told me that himself, and said that if you wished to speak further with him, feel free to do so. I believe his views on honor and dishonor, shame and failure might be just what you need to hear now. I have no right to ask anything else of you, Hiroyoshi, but I will. Don’t do this. Don’t take your own life because of that scum Turner. If you do that, then in a way he will have won.”
Hiroyoshi swallowed, a lump in his throat. This, this—what was the word; ah, yes—intervention would be unheard of in the Combine. “I will consider your words, my Lord Cameron. And I will speak with my Lord Minoru before I take any action.”
Stephen sat back, a tired look on his face. “Good. That’s all I ask, Hiroyoshi.” He closed his eyes and lowered his head, then lifted it back up and looked him straight in the eye. “And if your decision is to go through with this, then I will not stand in the way—I will stand for you, then grieve for you as though you were my own brother.”
“You would act as my second in this matter, my Lord?”
“Hai, Hiroyoshi, if it comes to that. From what I understand, though, I might well have to contend with Minoru himself for that honor, if it comes to that.”
Hiroyoshi looked down again himself, trying to keep down the emotions welling up from deep within.
“There is another matter, as well, Hiroyoshi,” Stephen said.
He composed himself and looked Lord Stephen square in the eyes. “I am yours to command, my Lord.”
“Wallace Turner. The paramedics managed to save his life. Did you know that he is in this very hospital?”
“Hai.”
“Did you know that he has invoked his rights under the SLDF Code of Military Justice to remain silent—that he has invoked his right to counsel and can not be questioned by our people?”
“Hai.”
“I need to know WHY, Hiroyoshi. I don’t have any right to ask this of you, but . . .”
“You are my lord, my Lord. I would give my life if you but asked. This is nothing.”
Stephen nodded, and a grim look overtook his face. “Good.”
September 14, 2767
Hawkins General Hospital, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Hiroyoshi walked down the hall, watching every door, every face. Lord Cameron had asked him to join him in Lady Cassandra’s hospital room, so now he made his way there. The staff had become very disillusioned with him—Hiroyoshi—and his adamant refusal to allow as much as a single patient on this floor, other than Lady Cassandra and General Kerensky. Hospital staff was kept to a minimum, as well—and they resented having to be accompanied at all times by a member of the detail. They didn’t voice their complaints—not to him, at least. Not anymore. Not since that morning two days ago when a committee came to see him, in the room he had commandeered and converted into a command post. He listened—respectfully—to their complaints, to the issues they had with the conditions he had imposed upon them, to their heart-felt desire to treat other patients. He had listened, and then informed them that until Lady Cassandra and General Kerensky were released—or he was relieved of his post—the current security arrangement would not be altered. He apologized to them for the inconveniences they were experiencing, and asked if they had any further issues.
One of the committee, Dr. Satlee, had grown indignant and threatened to take the matter before Lord Cameron. At which point, Hiroyoshi had informed her that she was free to do so. He smiled as he remembered the meeting.
“By all means, Dr. Satlee, please disturb the First Lord and his wife while their daughter lies convalescing from a gunshot wound. Please pester them with the news that my security arrangements for her safety—for General Kerensky’s safety—are disrupting your routine. I would be most amused to see his reaction to that, Doctor. Of course, if Lord Cameron is greatly disturbed by this, I would have to correct the affront to his honor. Dueling is legal on Asta, is it not?”
Dr. Satlee decided not to disturb Lord Cameron after all.
He reached the door of Lady Cassandra’s room. Standing post before it were two of his best—Thom Pappas and Jarl Halvin, the latter from one of the new DEST teams assigned him by Lord Kurita. Both had been acknowledged by all others of the detail as the two most lethal in close quarters—excepting only Hiroyoshi, himself. Thom nodded as Halvin held up a security scanner. Hiroyoshi peered inside the device, a bright red light scanning his retina and confirming his identity. When the light on the machine’s display turned green, Halvin nodded and stepped aside, assured that Hiroyoshi was indeed Hiroyoshi.
Hiroyoshi opened the door and entered the room. It was one of the interior rooms, with no windows to allow a sniper a shot—or a paparazzi a photograph. Lord and Lady Cameron were here, standing by the bed which held Lady Cassandra, with Gerald off to one side.
“You sent for me, my Lord Cameron?”
Stephen nodded. “More precisely, Hiroyoshi, Cassie did. She has something to tell you, don’t you honey?” he asked looking down at Cassie in the bed. She was looking much improved; sitting up and color having returned to her face.
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, and looked up at him with her great big eyes. “Thank you, Mister Hiroyoshi.” She held out her arms for a hug.
Hiroyoshi swallowed. And walked over, bent down, giving Cassie a chance to put her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Mister Hiroyoshi, for saving me from the bad man. And for making me not have to go away!”
Lady Marianne walked over next to him and kissed him on the cheek, hugging him tightly as well.
For once in his life, Hiroyoshi Tanaka was at a complete loss for words. Finally, he simply said, “Hai.”
Stephen turned back to Cassie. “Hon, I have to step outside with Hiroyoshi and Gerald for a while. Why don’t you rest, and then I’ll see if Nurse Ellen has any of that strawberry ice cream you like.”
“O.k., Daddy!” she smiled in a bright grin. One could almost imagine that she had never been shot four days ago; until you looked at the tubes sticking out of her little arm. She turned the grin on her mother, and Marianne sat down on the bed, picked up a book, and the two began to read as Hiroyoshi left the room.
*****************************************************
Finding an empty room was not difficult. In fact, Hiroyoshi had converted three of the rooms next door into an office suite for the First Lord—including installing connecting doors, another matter that had antagonized the hospital staff. Entering his makeshift office, Stephen sat down at his desk—not quite as nice as the one back at Branson House, but close—and pointed at a pair of chairs set before it. Gerald poured two cups of coffee, and gestured at Hiroyoshi. He shook his head, and Gerald shrugged, then handed Stephen a cup and sat himself. Hiroyoshi lowered himself into the seat.
For what seemed an eternity, Stephen just looked at Hiroyoshi. He didn’t blink, he didn’t move; he just considered. Finally, he sighed.
“I spoke with Lord Minoru this morning, Hiroyoshi. He tells me that you have requested his permission to redeem your honor through the ritual of seppuku.”
“Hai, my Lord Cameron.”
“Why?”
“I failed you my Lord.”
“FAILED ME? God in heaven, if you call what you did four days ago failure, I don’t want to see what you call success, Sho-sa Tanaka!”
“I allowed an assassin into your presence, my Lord. The fault is mine—as is the shame.”
Stephen sat back, and took a sip of his coffee, clearly thinking how to phrase his next words. “Hiroyoshi, Wallace Turner fooled everyone. From SLDF counter-intelligence to Colonel Bradley to me to Gerald. You couldn’t have known. None of us could have known.”
“That does not excuse my failure, my Lord. Your daughter could have died. YOU could have died, and I allowed it to occur.”
Gerald spoke, in a low voice, nearly a whisper. “I have watched the surveillance footage, Hiro. Dozens of times since it happened. You saved Cassie, and Stephen, and Kerensky by taking down Turner as quickly as you did. I couldn’t have made that throw to save my life, and I still can’t believe that you did make it.”
He stood, and took a slug of coffee. “Do you understand how quickly you reacted, Hiroyoshi? You are the ONLY thing that saved Cassie’s life—and no one else could possibly have done it. No one. And if you aren’t the best damn combat trooper I have ever seen, then I don’t know jack about soldiering.”
Hiroyoshi lowered his head, digesting what the two men were trying to tell him.
“Sho-sa Tanaka; Hiroyoshi,” Stephen said, leaning forward. “I owe you for my daughter’s life. That is a debt that I can never repay, thought I will try for the rest of my own. There is no failure here—not from you. And Lord Minoru told me that himself this very morning.”
Hiroyoshi looked up.
“Yes, Lord Minoru told me that himself, and said that if you wished to speak further with him, feel free to do so. I believe his views on honor and dishonor, shame and failure might be just what you need to hear now. I have no right to ask anything else of you, Hiroyoshi, but I will. Don’t do this. Don’t take your own life because of that scum Turner. If you do that, then in a way he will have won.”
Hiroyoshi swallowed, a lump in his throat. This, this—what was the word; ah, yes—intervention would be unheard of in the Combine. “I will consider your words, my Lord Cameron. And I will speak with my Lord Minoru before I take any action.”
Stephen sat back, a tired look on his face. “Good. That’s all I ask, Hiroyoshi.” He closed his eyes and lowered his head, then lifted it back up and looked him straight in the eye. “And if your decision is to go through with this, then I will not stand in the way—I will stand for you, then grieve for you as though you were my own brother.”
“You would act as my second in this matter, my Lord?”
“Hai, Hiroyoshi, if it comes to that. From what I understand, though, I might well have to contend with Minoru himself for that honor, if it comes to that.”
Hiroyoshi looked down again himself, trying to keep down the emotions welling up from deep within.
“There is another matter, as well, Hiroyoshi,” Stephen said.
He composed himself and looked Lord Stephen square in the eyes. “I am yours to command, my Lord.”
“Wallace Turner. The paramedics managed to save his life. Did you know that he is in this very hospital?”
“Hai.”
“Did you know that he has invoked his rights under the SLDF Code of Military Justice to remain silent—that he has invoked his right to counsel and can not be questioned by our people?”
“Hai.”
“I need to know WHY, Hiroyoshi. I don’t have any right to ask this of you, but . . .”
“You are my lord, my Lord. I would give my life if you but asked. This is nothing.”
Stephen nodded, and a grim look overtook his face. “Good.”
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty Three
September 14, 2767
Archon’s Palace, Tharkad City
Boreal Continent, Tharkad
Lyran Commonwealth
The icy winds howled outside the thick granite walls of the palace. Out there, in the ice and the snow, the temperature had plunged overnight to 20 below as the blizzard roared through the capital of the Lyran Commonwealth. Inside, however, Robert Steiner was warm as he sat before the blazing fireplace in his private study. His three guests were also comfortable, in their plush chairs facing him. Robert swirled the Arcturan brandy in his snifter, watching the three closely. Landgrave Gloria Lanning presided over the gaggle of politicians called the Estates-General. The legislative branch of the Commonwealth, the Estates-General had seen its powers decline over the years. Now it was little more than a rubber-stamp for his will. Landgrave Lanning was here to make certain that it remained that stamp. And as long as the Landgrave pleased her Archon, the Landgrave would continue to make money hand-over-fist from her not-so-secret less-than-legal dealings.
General of the Armies Heinrich Dieter sipped the deep rich amber liquid from his own snifter. A graduate of the Nagelring—the premier military academy of the Commonwealth—he had been a loyal support of Robert since their school days. That fact had been the sole reason Robert appointed him to the highest rank of the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces. He had done passably well in his studies, though. His friendship with Robert was genuine, though it had certainly pushed his career along as well; as peer review boards granted him higher and higher rank, thinking that his patron would be pleased with them. Robert was, but he was not about to let his pleasure at Heinrich’s elevation through the ranks influence his policy. But by the time they discovered that fact, it had been much too late for the social-climbing officers to correct their error.
The third man was Landgrave Erik Kiplinger—the head of the Lyran Intelligence Corps. Another long-time friend of Robert’s, Kiplinger had gone into the intelligence service instead of the LCAF following preparatory school. Erik kept to a low profile, but was possibly the most powerful man in the room, save only Robert himself. He watched the enemies of the Commonwealth—both domestic and abroad—and if necessary eliminated them. Quietly. Robert had used his ‘services’ quite extensively in the past few years, as a string of ‘accidents’ confounded his political enemies within the government. Though there were still dissenters who found themselves opposed to his policies—many too highly placed for such an ‘accident’ to occur without questions.
Erik and Heinrich had finished reading the brief Robert had personally prepared this morning—by hand. No copies existed on any electronic system, and these papers would be burnt before his guests left the room. Gloria sat back as she finished, lifted her snifter, and swallowed a huge amount of the potent brandy.
“It is risky, Archon,” she said, considering all of the possibilities that his plan laid bare.
Erik nodded as he ran a finger across the rim of the snifter, looking away into the distance, his keen mind pondering all the imponderables. “Yes, it is. But elegant. I salute you, my Archon,” he said raising his snifter.
Robert smiled and lifted his own snifter to return the gesture.
“The LCAF can do this, Archon. There is very little to oppose us on the worlds of the Rim; certainly Kerensky will not wish to initiate hostilities against a second House, not over this, not when we ‘cooperate’ with him on so many other points.”
“I thought so, gentlemen, my lady. And of course, we will answer the will of the people, and raise these two divisions of volunteers to join Kerensky’s army. Heinrich, do you have that list I asked you to prepare?”
“Yes, Archon,” Heinrich said as he handed the sheets to Eric and Gloria.
“Oh, ho! Well done, my Archon, well done indeed. You will appoint your most vocal critics to command these green regiments. They cannot refuse the appointments without looking the coward, and losing their political support. They will be away from Tharkad for years—in the midst of the most brutal war in centuries. Even if they survive, which is questionable, they will be removed from interfering in your political endeavors here, in the Commonwealth.”
“The greatly expanded Commonwealth,” Gloria said as she sat back, a smile growing on her face as she considered the many fiscal opportunities that awaited her and her ‘associates’ on the former worlds of the Rim Worlds Republic.
Robert sat back in his comfortable chair, and his own smile would have generated a fond feeling of kinship with any of the deep pelagic beasts that Amaris so loved. So, it was done. The three voices that must support him and his plans were all in agreement. Now he had but to send the message; to bait the hook that Kerensky and Cameron would swallow.
September 14, 2767
Archon’s Palace, Tharkad City
Boreal Continent, Tharkad
Lyran Commonwealth
The icy winds howled outside the thick granite walls of the palace. Out there, in the ice and the snow, the temperature had plunged overnight to 20 below as the blizzard roared through the capital of the Lyran Commonwealth. Inside, however, Robert Steiner was warm as he sat before the blazing fireplace in his private study. His three guests were also comfortable, in their plush chairs facing him. Robert swirled the Arcturan brandy in his snifter, watching the three closely. Landgrave Gloria Lanning presided over the gaggle of politicians called the Estates-General. The legislative branch of the Commonwealth, the Estates-General had seen its powers decline over the years. Now it was little more than a rubber-stamp for his will. Landgrave Lanning was here to make certain that it remained that stamp. And as long as the Landgrave pleased her Archon, the Landgrave would continue to make money hand-over-fist from her not-so-secret less-than-legal dealings.
General of the Armies Heinrich Dieter sipped the deep rich amber liquid from his own snifter. A graduate of the Nagelring—the premier military academy of the Commonwealth—he had been a loyal support of Robert since their school days. That fact had been the sole reason Robert appointed him to the highest rank of the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces. He had done passably well in his studies, though. His friendship with Robert was genuine, though it had certainly pushed his career along as well; as peer review boards granted him higher and higher rank, thinking that his patron would be pleased with them. Robert was, but he was not about to let his pleasure at Heinrich’s elevation through the ranks influence his policy. But by the time they discovered that fact, it had been much too late for the social-climbing officers to correct their error.
The third man was Landgrave Erik Kiplinger—the head of the Lyran Intelligence Corps. Another long-time friend of Robert’s, Kiplinger had gone into the intelligence service instead of the LCAF following preparatory school. Erik kept to a low profile, but was possibly the most powerful man in the room, save only Robert himself. He watched the enemies of the Commonwealth—both domestic and abroad—and if necessary eliminated them. Quietly. Robert had used his ‘services’ quite extensively in the past few years, as a string of ‘accidents’ confounded his political enemies within the government. Though there were still dissenters who found themselves opposed to his policies—many too highly placed for such an ‘accident’ to occur without questions.
Erik and Heinrich had finished reading the brief Robert had personally prepared this morning—by hand. No copies existed on any electronic system, and these papers would be burnt before his guests left the room. Gloria sat back as she finished, lifted her snifter, and swallowed a huge amount of the potent brandy.
“It is risky, Archon,” she said, considering all of the possibilities that his plan laid bare.
Erik nodded as he ran a finger across the rim of the snifter, looking away into the distance, his keen mind pondering all the imponderables. “Yes, it is. But elegant. I salute you, my Archon,” he said raising his snifter.
Robert smiled and lifted his own snifter to return the gesture.
“The LCAF can do this, Archon. There is very little to oppose us on the worlds of the Rim; certainly Kerensky will not wish to initiate hostilities against a second House, not over this, not when we ‘cooperate’ with him on so many other points.”
“I thought so, gentlemen, my lady. And of course, we will answer the will of the people, and raise these two divisions of volunteers to join Kerensky’s army. Heinrich, do you have that list I asked you to prepare?”
“Yes, Archon,” Heinrich said as he handed the sheets to Eric and Gloria.
“Oh, ho! Well done, my Archon, well done indeed. You will appoint your most vocal critics to command these green regiments. They cannot refuse the appointments without looking the coward, and losing their political support. They will be away from Tharkad for years—in the midst of the most brutal war in centuries. Even if they survive, which is questionable, they will be removed from interfering in your political endeavors here, in the Commonwealth.”
“The greatly expanded Commonwealth,” Gloria said as she sat back, a smile growing on her face as she considered the many fiscal opportunities that awaited her and her ‘associates’ on the former worlds of the Rim Worlds Republic.
Robert sat back in his comfortable chair, and his own smile would have generated a fond feeling of kinship with any of the deep pelagic beasts that Amaris so loved. So, it was done. The three voices that must support him and his plans were all in agreement. Now he had but to send the message; to bait the hook that Kerensky and Cameron would swallow.
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Should have known that Steiner would be one of the bastards. House Marik yet to chime in, but the ones I remember were pure slime.
I did get an "Admiral Adama" feel from Kerensky's shooting, by someone he knew and trusted. Somehow I don't think a wheelchair is going to stop the old warhorse however. He's too damn stubborn to lie down and let Amaris win.
Hopefully, so is Hiroyoshi. You do not let a man who saved your daughter die for 'failing'.
I did get an "Admiral Adama" feel from Kerensky's shooting, by someone he knew and trusted. Somehow I don't think a wheelchair is going to stop the old warhorse however. He's too damn stubborn to lie down and let Amaris win.
Hopefully, so is Hiroyoshi. You do not let a man who saved your daughter die for 'failing'.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty Four
September 15, 2767
Hawkins General Hospital, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
The hospital security ward was quiet; after all it was two-thirty in morning. Only one prisoner was in custody, and no one would be visiting him this time of night. Thirty minutes ago his nurse had changed his bandages and given him his medications. She was not scheduled to return for another hour and a half. The two guards assigned to the graveyard shift were very junior members of the Hawkins Police Department. Loyal and reliable, they were here to enforce the laws of Asta and the Hegemony—regardless of their own personal feelings towards the prisoner. That fact made Hiroyoshi’s task slightly more difficult.
He had decided upon the bold approach, so now he walked down the corridor towards the two guards—Hamish Faulkner and Julian Edgerton, or ‘ham and eggs’ as the local police called them. They were alert as he approached, and Hiroyoshi approved. Good young men, doing a job which they personally disliked, but doing it as well as they could. He admired that trait—and made a mental note to inquire as to if either wanted to engage in the tests to join his detail.
“Good morning, sir,” said Officer Faulkner. “What brings you down here this morning?”
“Your prisoner, officer; I have come to retrieve him.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, I captured him, so he is to be transferred to DCMS authority.”
Faulkner and Edgerton exchanged a glance. “We have received no such notice, sir. Do you have the transfer order?”
“No, officers; such an order will not be needed.”
Edgerton frowned, “In that case, sir, I am sorry, but the prisoner cannot be transferred. We will need to contact our superiors to inform them of your presence.”
He reached up and pressed the transmit key of his radio—and silence filled the room.
“I do apologize, officers. But the prisoner is going with me. And your radios will not function at this moment in time.”
Faulkner turned his head towards Edgerton, who was still trying to make his radio work—and saw a gleaming red dot on his chest. He looked down, and an identical one shone on his own.
Hiroyoshi nodded, “Yes, officer. I apologize for any inconvenience, but I shall be taking the prisoner with me. Kindly drop your sidearms to the floor, and remain perfectly still. My associates do not have lethal weapons, but the drugs that will render you unconscious do have some rather nasty side-effects later, after you recover consciousness.”
Edgerton quit trying to get his radio to work, and stared at Hiroyoshi. “You know we know who you are, sir.”
“I know. But what you may not realize is that I was appointed as the Combine’s Liaison Officer for the First Lord, in addition to my duties as part of his security detail. As such, I am officially a member of the Combine government, and an accredited member of Lord Kurita’s diplomatic mission to this world and to the First Lord. One who furthermore has full diplomatic immunity to prosecution. So, may I have the key to the room, or shall I have you take a short nap, gentlemen?”
“I cannot just hand over the key, sir!”
“When this is finished, come and see me about a job, Officer Faulkner, on the First Lord’s security detail. I do rather like you, sir.” Hiroyoshi looked up, and nodded, and two darts, propelled by compressed air, buried themselves in each officer’s neck. The two gave Hiroyoshi an odd look, and then collapsed to the floor. Hiroyoshi bent and removed the key ring from Faulkner’s belt as the remainder of his team lowered themselves from the false ceiling above.
He inserted the key in the door; then entered the room. Wallace Turner lay asleep on his bed, thick bandages covering the stumps of both his arms. Hiroyoshi pointed at the video surveillance cameras and two of his team disengaged them. A third scanned for room for audio pick-ups—and found four; each of these was likewise disabled. That accomplished, Hiroyoshi spoke, “Move him quietly to the ambulance, then we have an appointment with Mister Turner that he shall not much enjoy.”
The commandoes wheeled Wallace Turner’s bed into the corridor, down a service elevator, and loaded the drugged man into a stolen ambulance. Then, sirens blazing, they left the hospital behind.
*****************************************************
Wallace Turner awoke to pain. The first pain he had felt since that Snake had severed his hands. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the nurse changing his medication bags—instead, he saw Hiroyoshi Tanaka sitting besides his bed, shutting down the morphine drip.
“Good morning, Mister Turner. I thought that perhaps the time has come for us to have a little chat—man to man, so to speak.”
Turner’s heart began to race, he looked desperately around his room—but it wasn’t his room. He was not in the hospital at all, but in a dilapidated concrete warehouse. Instead of nurses and local law enforcement, there were only the black-clad DEST commandoes and Hiroyoshi. And his lawyer was nowhere to be seen.
“Where am I?”
“Someplace where you will remain safe from discovery, Mister Turner. Now, I am going to have some questions for you. If I receive a truthful answer, then you will get a reward, Mister Turner,” he said, tapping the plastic bag containing the morphine solution. “However, if you play me false, then that too has a gift that you will be the recipient of; one which you will not perhaps enjoy quite so much.”
“I know my rights as a citizen of the Hegemony, Tanaka. This interrogation is illegal and cannot be used against me.”
“You are most certainly correct, Mister Turner. This interrogation can not and shall not be used against you in any court of the Hegemony. But what does that matter? I personally witnessed you shoot General Kerensky—and Cassandra Cameron. As did Gerald Howe, Heather Schell, Stephen and Marianne Cameron, Cassandra Cameron, and General Aleksandyr Kerensky himself. Not to mention that we have the entire affair on video recording. If your attorney-at-law indicated that you would receive anything less than the full sentence for treason when you stand trail, then he is, quite frankly, delusional.”
“But, it is a small matter, Mister Turner. I only want to know why. Why did you deliberately target Cassandra Cameron for assassination?”
“Frak off, you miserable Snake.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mister Turner. Gentleman, if you would please remove him from the bed and place him upon the board.”
Wallace Turner turned his head enough to see the hardwood board fixed with leather straps lying to his right—next to a concrete pool of water four feet deep. He began to struggle and curse.
“None of that, Mister Turner, I did warn you. However, technically it might be that you have not yet lied to me. Would you care to reassess your answer?”
Wallace Turner swallowed hard. This bastard Tanaka frightened him, nearly as much as von Strang had the one time they had met. But Tanaka was here, now, and no mercy showed in his eyes.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Quid pro quo, Mister Turner? I will play your game; I do not actually care, as long as you are—in the end—put to death in a slow and painful manner. My Lord Cameron, on the other hand, wants to understand why an officer sworn to his service would shoot a six-year old girl, guilty of no crime except that of being his daughter.”
“I . . . can’t answer that,” Turner stammered, thinking of his family in the hands of that other madman, von Strang.
“As you wish, Mister Turner, as you wish.” Hiroyoshi turned to the commandoes standing nearby—Turner couldn’t see their faces behind the armored visors—and nodded. They lifted him onto the board, place a bag over his head and he was plunged, head-first into the pool of water. He struggled, but could not lift himself; he felt the air in his lungs beginning to burn as he desperately needed to breathe. Just as he could not stop himself from inhaling, he was lifted up from the pool, and the bag removed.
Turner sputtered and gasped, trying to draw in fresh air, while Hiroyoshi looked down on him. “Can you answer, yet, Mister Turner? No?” he pointed at the pool. Once more Turner was bagged and forced beneath the water; his hyper-ventilating had reduced the capacity of his lungs and he began again to kick and struggle, but weakened even quicker this time, then was lifted out once more, trying to force his lungs to draw in more air as his pulse raced and his blood pressure soared.
“You seem ill-equipped to deal with this, Mister Turner. You are still weak from your injuries. Tell me what I want to know and it will all end. Otherwise, Mister Turner, I have no other duties; and nothing but time.”
Turner began to cry. He would do it. Tanaka would kill him. He would pretend to drown him for hours, then he would leave him down there, without air, without hope. He shook his head, “No, please, no, not again.”
“Then tell me, Mister Turner. Explain to me in words that, say a six-year old child could understand, why?”
And Turner did.
*****************************************************
Hawkins Police Headquarters was abuzz with activity this morning. Wallace Turner had been abducted from the hospital by none other than the second-in-command of the First Lord’s security detail. Faulkner and Edgerton had been found two hours ago and an alert was sent out to every officer in the force, calling them all in to duty. Sergeant Jeremy Bryant shook his head as he sat at his desk. To say all hell had broken loose, that would be the understatement of the year. Turner’s attorney had shown up—accusing the police commissioner of complicity in the action in order to deny his client a fair trial under the law. Governor Fairbanks himself had made an appearance demanding the police find Turner—alive—and find him today! The three of them were in his Captain’s office, arguing loudly enough that he could hear them from out here. So, today, on one of his very few off-days, he found himself here an hour before his normal waking time, holding down the front desk to let an officer who was not disabled participate in the search for the missing would-be assassin.
As he placed several sheets of paperwork in his outbox—damn all bureaucrats anyway—his phone rang. “Hawkins Police Headquarters, Sergeant Bryant speaking.”
“Good morning, Sergeant Bryant. This is Sho-sa Hiroyoshi Tanaka, of the Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery.”
Bryant stabbed the button that automatically began a trace and a second that broadcast the call into both the Captain’s office and the staff-room set aside for the detectives investigating this case.
“Sho-sa Tanaka? You realize you have given us quite a stir this morning, haven’t you?”
“For that, Sergeant you have my apologies. I am certain that you are tracing this call, but really, it will not be required. This call cannot be traced by your equipment. Mister Wallace Turner is at the corner of Stanfield and Whittaker sedated in an ambulance—one probably listed as having been stolen this morning from the hospital.”
Officers hurried out of the room as a dispatcher began reading off the location into his microphone.
“And his condition, Sho-sa Tanaka?”
“Not too much the worse for wear, Sergeant Bryant. A few water sports this morning, nothing too strenuous for a convalescent. Some of my associates are watching Mister Turner rather closely, though you will not see them when you arrive at his location. Mister Turner is in no further danger from I or anyone associated with me, today, Sergeant. And we shall ensure his safety until your capable officers arrive on scene.”
“And yourself, Sho-sa Tanaka? Are you turning yourself in?”
He actually chuckled on the other end of the line; Bryant was amazed at the sheer audacity of the man. “Why, no, Sergeant. Please check with the Combine embassy for my diplomatic status. You will find that I have full immunity for any crime committed in the Hegemony—up to and including murder. At the very most, you could request that my Lord Cameron declare me persona-non-grata and expel me from Hegemony territory; but you, Sergeant, and your local legal system have no authority over me.”
“Then why didn’t you just kill that damned traitor?” Bryant couldn’t help himself, the question just popped out of his mouth. Hiroyoshi laughed again.
“I have gotten what I wanted from the man, Sergeant Bryant. And I am quite confident the ASTAN legal system will soon correct the small problem of Wallace Turner still drawing breath; quite soon in fact. Have a good day, Sergeant,” he said as the line disconnected.
Bryant looked up from his desk to the balcony outside the Captain’s office where his Captain, the Commissioner, Turner’s attorney, and Governor Fairbanks now stood, all of whom were looking at him, their mouths agape. He shrugged, and went to work on the next piece of paperwork in his in-box.
*****************************************************
Stephen, Minoru, Gerald, Ezra Bradley, Sam Anders, Gregor Samasov, and Hideki Matasuke sat in Stephen’s office in Branson House, as they listened to the recording of Turner’s statement to Hiroyoshi. As it finished, Hiroyoshi leaned over, pressed the stop button on the device, and returned to a position of attention.
Ezra Bradley responded first, his face ashen. “He was working for Amaris? For the past six years?”
Stephen nodded; he and Gerald had heard the tape two hours earlier, and then arranged this meeting. “Yes, Ezra, he has. Lord Minoru, he informed the Rim Worlders of Operation Brody, as well as our current status of forces here. We must assume . . . “
“Yes, Lord Stephen. We must assume that sufficient forces were on hand on Saffel to defeat my son and his Strike Force. Further, Turner stated that they planned an attack here—in ten days time.” Minoru looked at Matasuke, who shook his head.
“My fastest ship cannot intercept the Strike Force before that date, nor can any of the few Star League ships that we have. And the command circuit to Saffel has not yet been built—we suffered too much damage to too many ships taking Asta. Those ships are now in yard hands back home.”
Sam Anders cleared his throat, “What of your reserve at your forward base at KV-106?”
“I will issue orders immediately to bring them forward. Asta is the crisis point, Lord Minoru, Lord Stephen. With those ships on hand, it will increase our strength to one hundred and forty-seven capital warships—but seventy-three of those will be mere corvettes and destroyers. It will raise our total number of carriers to six, with six battleships and eight battlecruisers to back them up.”
Minoru, his face could have been graven of stone, looked at Stephen. “Will you not have your family take refuge off-world, Lord Stephen? No one could blame you for sending them away.”
Stephen sadly shook his head. “Marianne and Cassie won’t leave. Not this time, not as long as I stay. And I can’t leave.”
“So be it,” the Dragon said, looking in turn at the eyes of everyone in this room. “Then here we shall make our stand, gentleman. Here we either turn the tide in this war or we perish.”
September 15, 2767
Hawkins General Hospital, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
The hospital security ward was quiet; after all it was two-thirty in morning. Only one prisoner was in custody, and no one would be visiting him this time of night. Thirty minutes ago his nurse had changed his bandages and given him his medications. She was not scheduled to return for another hour and a half. The two guards assigned to the graveyard shift were very junior members of the Hawkins Police Department. Loyal and reliable, they were here to enforce the laws of Asta and the Hegemony—regardless of their own personal feelings towards the prisoner. That fact made Hiroyoshi’s task slightly more difficult.
He had decided upon the bold approach, so now he walked down the corridor towards the two guards—Hamish Faulkner and Julian Edgerton, or ‘ham and eggs’ as the local police called them. They were alert as he approached, and Hiroyoshi approved. Good young men, doing a job which they personally disliked, but doing it as well as they could. He admired that trait—and made a mental note to inquire as to if either wanted to engage in the tests to join his detail.
“Good morning, sir,” said Officer Faulkner. “What brings you down here this morning?”
“Your prisoner, officer; I have come to retrieve him.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, I captured him, so he is to be transferred to DCMS authority.”
Faulkner and Edgerton exchanged a glance. “We have received no such notice, sir. Do you have the transfer order?”
“No, officers; such an order will not be needed.”
Edgerton frowned, “In that case, sir, I am sorry, but the prisoner cannot be transferred. We will need to contact our superiors to inform them of your presence.”
He reached up and pressed the transmit key of his radio—and silence filled the room.
“I do apologize, officers. But the prisoner is going with me. And your radios will not function at this moment in time.”
Faulkner turned his head towards Edgerton, who was still trying to make his radio work—and saw a gleaming red dot on his chest. He looked down, and an identical one shone on his own.
Hiroyoshi nodded, “Yes, officer. I apologize for any inconvenience, but I shall be taking the prisoner with me. Kindly drop your sidearms to the floor, and remain perfectly still. My associates do not have lethal weapons, but the drugs that will render you unconscious do have some rather nasty side-effects later, after you recover consciousness.”
Edgerton quit trying to get his radio to work, and stared at Hiroyoshi. “You know we know who you are, sir.”
“I know. But what you may not realize is that I was appointed as the Combine’s Liaison Officer for the First Lord, in addition to my duties as part of his security detail. As such, I am officially a member of the Combine government, and an accredited member of Lord Kurita’s diplomatic mission to this world and to the First Lord. One who furthermore has full diplomatic immunity to prosecution. So, may I have the key to the room, or shall I have you take a short nap, gentlemen?”
“I cannot just hand over the key, sir!”
“When this is finished, come and see me about a job, Officer Faulkner, on the First Lord’s security detail. I do rather like you, sir.” Hiroyoshi looked up, and nodded, and two darts, propelled by compressed air, buried themselves in each officer’s neck. The two gave Hiroyoshi an odd look, and then collapsed to the floor. Hiroyoshi bent and removed the key ring from Faulkner’s belt as the remainder of his team lowered themselves from the false ceiling above.
He inserted the key in the door; then entered the room. Wallace Turner lay asleep on his bed, thick bandages covering the stumps of both his arms. Hiroyoshi pointed at the video surveillance cameras and two of his team disengaged them. A third scanned for room for audio pick-ups—and found four; each of these was likewise disabled. That accomplished, Hiroyoshi spoke, “Move him quietly to the ambulance, then we have an appointment with Mister Turner that he shall not much enjoy.”
The commandoes wheeled Wallace Turner’s bed into the corridor, down a service elevator, and loaded the drugged man into a stolen ambulance. Then, sirens blazing, they left the hospital behind.
*****************************************************
Wallace Turner awoke to pain. The first pain he had felt since that Snake had severed his hands. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the nurse changing his medication bags—instead, he saw Hiroyoshi Tanaka sitting besides his bed, shutting down the morphine drip.
“Good morning, Mister Turner. I thought that perhaps the time has come for us to have a little chat—man to man, so to speak.”
Turner’s heart began to race, he looked desperately around his room—but it wasn’t his room. He was not in the hospital at all, but in a dilapidated concrete warehouse. Instead of nurses and local law enforcement, there were only the black-clad DEST commandoes and Hiroyoshi. And his lawyer was nowhere to be seen.
“Where am I?”
“Someplace where you will remain safe from discovery, Mister Turner. Now, I am going to have some questions for you. If I receive a truthful answer, then you will get a reward, Mister Turner,” he said, tapping the plastic bag containing the morphine solution. “However, if you play me false, then that too has a gift that you will be the recipient of; one which you will not perhaps enjoy quite so much.”
“I know my rights as a citizen of the Hegemony, Tanaka. This interrogation is illegal and cannot be used against me.”
“You are most certainly correct, Mister Turner. This interrogation can not and shall not be used against you in any court of the Hegemony. But what does that matter? I personally witnessed you shoot General Kerensky—and Cassandra Cameron. As did Gerald Howe, Heather Schell, Stephen and Marianne Cameron, Cassandra Cameron, and General Aleksandyr Kerensky himself. Not to mention that we have the entire affair on video recording. If your attorney-at-law indicated that you would receive anything less than the full sentence for treason when you stand trail, then he is, quite frankly, delusional.”
“But, it is a small matter, Mister Turner. I only want to know why. Why did you deliberately target Cassandra Cameron for assassination?”
“Frak off, you miserable Snake.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mister Turner. Gentleman, if you would please remove him from the bed and place him upon the board.”
Wallace Turner turned his head enough to see the hardwood board fixed with leather straps lying to his right—next to a concrete pool of water four feet deep. He began to struggle and curse.
“None of that, Mister Turner, I did warn you. However, technically it might be that you have not yet lied to me. Would you care to reassess your answer?”
Wallace Turner swallowed hard. This bastard Tanaka frightened him, nearly as much as von Strang had the one time they had met. But Tanaka was here, now, and no mercy showed in his eyes.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Quid pro quo, Mister Turner? I will play your game; I do not actually care, as long as you are—in the end—put to death in a slow and painful manner. My Lord Cameron, on the other hand, wants to understand why an officer sworn to his service would shoot a six-year old girl, guilty of no crime except that of being his daughter.”
“I . . . can’t answer that,” Turner stammered, thinking of his family in the hands of that other madman, von Strang.
“As you wish, Mister Turner, as you wish.” Hiroyoshi turned to the commandoes standing nearby—Turner couldn’t see their faces behind the armored visors—and nodded. They lifted him onto the board, place a bag over his head and he was plunged, head-first into the pool of water. He struggled, but could not lift himself; he felt the air in his lungs beginning to burn as he desperately needed to breathe. Just as he could not stop himself from inhaling, he was lifted up from the pool, and the bag removed.
Turner sputtered and gasped, trying to draw in fresh air, while Hiroyoshi looked down on him. “Can you answer, yet, Mister Turner? No?” he pointed at the pool. Once more Turner was bagged and forced beneath the water; his hyper-ventilating had reduced the capacity of his lungs and he began again to kick and struggle, but weakened even quicker this time, then was lifted out once more, trying to force his lungs to draw in more air as his pulse raced and his blood pressure soared.
“You seem ill-equipped to deal with this, Mister Turner. You are still weak from your injuries. Tell me what I want to know and it will all end. Otherwise, Mister Turner, I have no other duties; and nothing but time.”
Turner began to cry. He would do it. Tanaka would kill him. He would pretend to drown him for hours, then he would leave him down there, without air, without hope. He shook his head, “No, please, no, not again.”
“Then tell me, Mister Turner. Explain to me in words that, say a six-year old child could understand, why?”
And Turner did.
*****************************************************
Hawkins Police Headquarters was abuzz with activity this morning. Wallace Turner had been abducted from the hospital by none other than the second-in-command of the First Lord’s security detail. Faulkner and Edgerton had been found two hours ago and an alert was sent out to every officer in the force, calling them all in to duty. Sergeant Jeremy Bryant shook his head as he sat at his desk. To say all hell had broken loose, that would be the understatement of the year. Turner’s attorney had shown up—accusing the police commissioner of complicity in the action in order to deny his client a fair trial under the law. Governor Fairbanks himself had made an appearance demanding the police find Turner—alive—and find him today! The three of them were in his Captain’s office, arguing loudly enough that he could hear them from out here. So, today, on one of his very few off-days, he found himself here an hour before his normal waking time, holding down the front desk to let an officer who was not disabled participate in the search for the missing would-be assassin.
As he placed several sheets of paperwork in his outbox—damn all bureaucrats anyway—his phone rang. “Hawkins Police Headquarters, Sergeant Bryant speaking.”
“Good morning, Sergeant Bryant. This is Sho-sa Hiroyoshi Tanaka, of the Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery.”
Bryant stabbed the button that automatically began a trace and a second that broadcast the call into both the Captain’s office and the staff-room set aside for the detectives investigating this case.
“Sho-sa Tanaka? You realize you have given us quite a stir this morning, haven’t you?”
“For that, Sergeant you have my apologies. I am certain that you are tracing this call, but really, it will not be required. This call cannot be traced by your equipment. Mister Wallace Turner is at the corner of Stanfield and Whittaker sedated in an ambulance—one probably listed as having been stolen this morning from the hospital.”
Officers hurried out of the room as a dispatcher began reading off the location into his microphone.
“And his condition, Sho-sa Tanaka?”
“Not too much the worse for wear, Sergeant Bryant. A few water sports this morning, nothing too strenuous for a convalescent. Some of my associates are watching Mister Turner rather closely, though you will not see them when you arrive at his location. Mister Turner is in no further danger from I or anyone associated with me, today, Sergeant. And we shall ensure his safety until your capable officers arrive on scene.”
“And yourself, Sho-sa Tanaka? Are you turning yourself in?”
He actually chuckled on the other end of the line; Bryant was amazed at the sheer audacity of the man. “Why, no, Sergeant. Please check with the Combine embassy for my diplomatic status. You will find that I have full immunity for any crime committed in the Hegemony—up to and including murder. At the very most, you could request that my Lord Cameron declare me persona-non-grata and expel me from Hegemony territory; but you, Sergeant, and your local legal system have no authority over me.”
“Then why didn’t you just kill that damned traitor?” Bryant couldn’t help himself, the question just popped out of his mouth. Hiroyoshi laughed again.
“I have gotten what I wanted from the man, Sergeant Bryant. And I am quite confident the ASTAN legal system will soon correct the small problem of Wallace Turner still drawing breath; quite soon in fact. Have a good day, Sergeant,” he said as the line disconnected.
Bryant looked up from his desk to the balcony outside the Captain’s office where his Captain, the Commissioner, Turner’s attorney, and Governor Fairbanks now stood, all of whom were looking at him, their mouths agape. He shrugged, and went to work on the next piece of paperwork in his in-box.
*****************************************************
Stephen, Minoru, Gerald, Ezra Bradley, Sam Anders, Gregor Samasov, and Hideki Matasuke sat in Stephen’s office in Branson House, as they listened to the recording of Turner’s statement to Hiroyoshi. As it finished, Hiroyoshi leaned over, pressed the stop button on the device, and returned to a position of attention.
Ezra Bradley responded first, his face ashen. “He was working for Amaris? For the past six years?”
Stephen nodded; he and Gerald had heard the tape two hours earlier, and then arranged this meeting. “Yes, Ezra, he has. Lord Minoru, he informed the Rim Worlders of Operation Brody, as well as our current status of forces here. We must assume . . . “
“Yes, Lord Stephen. We must assume that sufficient forces were on hand on Saffel to defeat my son and his Strike Force. Further, Turner stated that they planned an attack here—in ten days time.” Minoru looked at Matasuke, who shook his head.
“My fastest ship cannot intercept the Strike Force before that date, nor can any of the few Star League ships that we have. And the command circuit to Saffel has not yet been built—we suffered too much damage to too many ships taking Asta. Those ships are now in yard hands back home.”
Sam Anders cleared his throat, “What of your reserve at your forward base at KV-106?”
“I will issue orders immediately to bring them forward. Asta is the crisis point, Lord Minoru, Lord Stephen. With those ships on hand, it will increase our strength to one hundred and forty-seven capital warships—but seventy-three of those will be mere corvettes and destroyers. It will raise our total number of carriers to six, with six battleships and eight battlecruisers to back them up.”
Minoru, his face could have been graven of stone, looked at Stephen. “Will you not have your family take refuge off-world, Lord Stephen? No one could blame you for sending them away.”
Stephen sadly shook his head. “Marianne and Cassie won’t leave. Not this time, not as long as I stay. And I can’t leave.”
“So be it,” the Dragon said, looking in turn at the eyes of everyone in this room. “Then here we shall make our stand, gentleman. Here we either turn the tide in this war or we perish.”
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty Five
September 15, 2767
House of Government, Atreus City
Aquilia Continent, Atreus
Free Worlds League
Minister of Parliament Sienna Stewart sat patiently at her deck, as she awaited the arrival of the Captain-General of the Free Worlds League, Kenyon Mark. In recess for the moment, Parliament awaited only his arrival to reconvene. Stephen Cameron’s broadcast had set off a firestorm here on Atreus; indeed throughout the Free Worlds League. Every MP had a constituency to answer to, if he wanted to return for next year’s session. Emotions were running high, and the Captain-General; well, the Captain-General was not making things any easier. Kenyon Marik had pointedly ignored the broadcasts and made no public announcements. Finally, Parliament had issued a summons for him to address the body; which he would do when the Speaker gaveled the body to order in a few moments time.
Her own province, the Stewart Commonality, wanted to support Kerensky and the new Cameron now; no further waiting, no more excuses. As did she. As did the MP’s of perhaps two-thirds of the provinces of the League. Unfortunately, that did not include three of the largest provinces—Marik, Regulus, and Andurien. She had spent forty years in this Chamber, building power and tracking votes. Despite not having those three on her side, she had the numbers to force action on the Captain-General if she must. He had to take action, despite his personal hatred for Kerensky, he had to. He was Captain-General of the entire League; Parliament could not let one man set their policies, not on a matter such as the Amaris Crisis.
Sienna hoped beyond hope that she did not have to. For the only answer she would have to Kenyon’s intransigence would be—desperate. It would cause a Constitutional crisis, one the League could ill afford when so fragmented. She prayed he would see the light and not force her hand on this matter. The remainder of her delegation from the Commonality was not so cautious. For six hundred years, a Scion of the House of Stewart had traveled back to Terra to serve in the Royal Black Watch, a tradition her province had enforced upon every generation like an unwritten law that could never be broken. Now, Jenna Stewart was dead. And the people of Stewart wanted vengeance for the vivacious twenty-three year old daughter of Angus Stewart, Laird of the Commonality—and her own grand-niece. She sighed. Please Kenyon, please see reason on this.
The doors of the Parliament opened, and she craned her neck to see if the Marik had arrived. No, it was his youngest brother, Thomas Marik, one of the MP’s for the Marik Commonwealth—seat of the Captain-General’s power and authority. He strode down through the tiers of seats, beneath the public galleries, that today were packed with news crews and common citizens. He reached the well of the floor, and continued, ascending the Speaker’s desk, until he stood beside the Speaker, and quietly spoke in his ear. The Speaker looked shocked—this was not good, Sienna thought. Then the Speaker nodded—a look of displeasure on his face—and Thomas Marik returned to the floor, and joined his delegation.
The Speaker stood and banged the gavel. “This session of the Federal Parliament of the Free Worlds League is called to order. Order, Ladies and Gentlemen, we must have order.”
Slowly, the massive chamber quieted. The Speaker spoke into his microphone.
“Captain-General Kenyon Marik is unable to attend this session today. Instead . . . “
A vast swelling noise erupted throughout the Chamber. The Marik had ignored their summons? It was unheard of!
“Please, Ministers, can we have order?” the Speaker shouted. As the noise lessened, he continued, “Instead, his brother, MP Thomas Marik has a statement prepared by the Captain-General which he has been instructed to read for our attention. I recognize MP Marik and grant him the floor.”
Thomas Marik stood from his delegation box and lifted the microphone in one hand, a single sheet of paper in the other. “I thank the Speaker, and my fellow Ministers of Parliament for allowing me to address this body. My brother, the Captain-General of the League, the Marik, Kenyon Marik, has a short statement that he wishes to be entered into the records of this parliamentary session.”
“Honorable Speaker, Distinguished Ministers, citizens of all the Provinces of the League. We are in troubling times. Times of crisis. Times when all public servants must consider the good of the Free Worlds League over all else. We have all seen the broadcast from Asta, from the man claiming Lordship of the Star League, Stephen Cameron. We know the perfidy of Stefan Amaris and his crimes in the murder of Richard Cameron and his seizure of the Terran Hegemony. We know that General Aleksandyr Kerensky has declared war upon Amaris.”
“That, my people, is what we do know. What you do not, what we do not know is this. What shall the Free Worlds League do in response? That is the question before us today. And my answer to that is this—the League must look to itself. This matter between Kerensky and Amaris is an internal affair between the Hegemony and the Rim Worlds. Our obligations under the Star League Accords do not require us to support anyone—a Cameron of the blood or otherwise—that is not a duly elected First Lord by the High Council of the Star League.”
“Accordingly, despite calls for action by some among us, I have decided that the Free Worlds League will remain neutral in this conflict. As of today, with no clear, legitimate, and lawful First Lord of the Star League, the Free Worlds League will place in escrow all taxes, fees, tariffs, and other sundry sums collected within its borders in the name of the Star League. These funds will be held in escrow until a First Lord has been chosen.”
“All jointly owned planets of the Free Worlds and the Star League will be placed under Free Worlds authority, until a First Lord has been chosen.”
“All Star League facilities and installations will be handed over intact to officials from the government of the Free Worlds League to manage or be destroyed by the military forces of the Free Worlds League, until a First Lord has been chosen.”
“Any military forces of either combatant currently within the borders of the Free Worlds must leave immediately or face internment for the duration of the conflict, under the threat of destruction by the military forces of the Free Worlds League.”
“The Free Worlds will initiate an embargo of goods to all planets within the Terran Hegemony and Rim Worlds Republic, and to all military forces acting underneath their banners, until the cessation of hostilities has begun and a First Lord has been chosen.”
“These are my words, the words of the Marik, your Captain-General, on this 15th day of September, in the year of our Lord, 2767.”
Thomas Marik finished speaking and sat as the Chamber erupted. Some of the Ministers were protesting loudly, others were cheering for the Captain-General—but most seemed stunned by the callous harshness of the proclamation.
Sienna sat still for a minute, then for two, then pressed the call button on her desk. The Speaker, trying to restore order, must have hundreds of calls for the floor; but he knew her. Raising his head, he met her gaze across the chamber, and nodded. Banging his gavel and yelling for order, he slowly brought some calm back to the Chamber. When it was once more quiet enough to be heard, he spoke.
“I recognize MP Sienna Stewart and grant her the floor.”
As she stood, she could have heard a pin drop. Everyone waited to hear her words—some holding their breath, others praying she wouldn’t push the matter. Before speaking she looked at her fellow Ministers, and the newsmen, and the citizens, and lowered her head.
“I have heard the words of the Captain-General, as read by the Distinguished Gentleman from the Commonwealth of Marik. I have heard them. And I can not say that I really expected otherwise. Our Captain-General has served us well in the past, led us to peace and prosperity, but on this matter, his reasoning is clouded.”
She lifted her head as she continued. “Twenty years ago, Kenyon Marik was chastised by Aleksandyr Kerensky—and he has harbored resentment ever since. The Marik does not do this for the Free Worlds; he does this to exact revenge on the man who wounded his pride two decades ago! He has not the concerns of the people of the Free Worlds in his heart—only the desire to see Aleksandyr Kerensky laid low.”
“Because of this, my fellow Ministers, Mister Speaker, because of this, I now call the vote. I call for a Vote of No Confidence in Captain-General Kenyon Marik! Let us vote, and remove from office the Marik who is too blinded by his personal pride to stand for the good of the Free Worlds and the Star League. I call the vote, Mister Speaker!”
And utter chaos erupted in Parliament as Sienna Stewart sat, her head held high.
September 15, 2767
House of Government, Atreus City
Aquilia Continent, Atreus
Free Worlds League
Minister of Parliament Sienna Stewart sat patiently at her deck, as she awaited the arrival of the Captain-General of the Free Worlds League, Kenyon Mark. In recess for the moment, Parliament awaited only his arrival to reconvene. Stephen Cameron’s broadcast had set off a firestorm here on Atreus; indeed throughout the Free Worlds League. Every MP had a constituency to answer to, if he wanted to return for next year’s session. Emotions were running high, and the Captain-General; well, the Captain-General was not making things any easier. Kenyon Marik had pointedly ignored the broadcasts and made no public announcements. Finally, Parliament had issued a summons for him to address the body; which he would do when the Speaker gaveled the body to order in a few moments time.
Her own province, the Stewart Commonality, wanted to support Kerensky and the new Cameron now; no further waiting, no more excuses. As did she. As did the MP’s of perhaps two-thirds of the provinces of the League. Unfortunately, that did not include three of the largest provinces—Marik, Regulus, and Andurien. She had spent forty years in this Chamber, building power and tracking votes. Despite not having those three on her side, she had the numbers to force action on the Captain-General if she must. He had to take action, despite his personal hatred for Kerensky, he had to. He was Captain-General of the entire League; Parliament could not let one man set their policies, not on a matter such as the Amaris Crisis.
Sienna hoped beyond hope that she did not have to. For the only answer she would have to Kenyon’s intransigence would be—desperate. It would cause a Constitutional crisis, one the League could ill afford when so fragmented. She prayed he would see the light and not force her hand on this matter. The remainder of her delegation from the Commonality was not so cautious. For six hundred years, a Scion of the House of Stewart had traveled back to Terra to serve in the Royal Black Watch, a tradition her province had enforced upon every generation like an unwritten law that could never be broken. Now, Jenna Stewart was dead. And the people of Stewart wanted vengeance for the vivacious twenty-three year old daughter of Angus Stewart, Laird of the Commonality—and her own grand-niece. She sighed. Please Kenyon, please see reason on this.
The doors of the Parliament opened, and she craned her neck to see if the Marik had arrived. No, it was his youngest brother, Thomas Marik, one of the MP’s for the Marik Commonwealth—seat of the Captain-General’s power and authority. He strode down through the tiers of seats, beneath the public galleries, that today were packed with news crews and common citizens. He reached the well of the floor, and continued, ascending the Speaker’s desk, until he stood beside the Speaker, and quietly spoke in his ear. The Speaker looked shocked—this was not good, Sienna thought. Then the Speaker nodded—a look of displeasure on his face—and Thomas Marik returned to the floor, and joined his delegation.
The Speaker stood and banged the gavel. “This session of the Federal Parliament of the Free Worlds League is called to order. Order, Ladies and Gentlemen, we must have order.”
Slowly, the massive chamber quieted. The Speaker spoke into his microphone.
“Captain-General Kenyon Marik is unable to attend this session today. Instead . . . “
A vast swelling noise erupted throughout the Chamber. The Marik had ignored their summons? It was unheard of!
“Please, Ministers, can we have order?” the Speaker shouted. As the noise lessened, he continued, “Instead, his brother, MP Thomas Marik has a statement prepared by the Captain-General which he has been instructed to read for our attention. I recognize MP Marik and grant him the floor.”
Thomas Marik stood from his delegation box and lifted the microphone in one hand, a single sheet of paper in the other. “I thank the Speaker, and my fellow Ministers of Parliament for allowing me to address this body. My brother, the Captain-General of the League, the Marik, Kenyon Marik, has a short statement that he wishes to be entered into the records of this parliamentary session.”
“Honorable Speaker, Distinguished Ministers, citizens of all the Provinces of the League. We are in troubling times. Times of crisis. Times when all public servants must consider the good of the Free Worlds League over all else. We have all seen the broadcast from Asta, from the man claiming Lordship of the Star League, Stephen Cameron. We know the perfidy of Stefan Amaris and his crimes in the murder of Richard Cameron and his seizure of the Terran Hegemony. We know that General Aleksandyr Kerensky has declared war upon Amaris.”
“That, my people, is what we do know. What you do not, what we do not know is this. What shall the Free Worlds League do in response? That is the question before us today. And my answer to that is this—the League must look to itself. This matter between Kerensky and Amaris is an internal affair between the Hegemony and the Rim Worlds. Our obligations under the Star League Accords do not require us to support anyone—a Cameron of the blood or otherwise—that is not a duly elected First Lord by the High Council of the Star League.”
“Accordingly, despite calls for action by some among us, I have decided that the Free Worlds League will remain neutral in this conflict. As of today, with no clear, legitimate, and lawful First Lord of the Star League, the Free Worlds League will place in escrow all taxes, fees, tariffs, and other sundry sums collected within its borders in the name of the Star League. These funds will be held in escrow until a First Lord has been chosen.”
“All jointly owned planets of the Free Worlds and the Star League will be placed under Free Worlds authority, until a First Lord has been chosen.”
“All Star League facilities and installations will be handed over intact to officials from the government of the Free Worlds League to manage or be destroyed by the military forces of the Free Worlds League, until a First Lord has been chosen.”
“Any military forces of either combatant currently within the borders of the Free Worlds must leave immediately or face internment for the duration of the conflict, under the threat of destruction by the military forces of the Free Worlds League.”
“The Free Worlds will initiate an embargo of goods to all planets within the Terran Hegemony and Rim Worlds Republic, and to all military forces acting underneath their banners, until the cessation of hostilities has begun and a First Lord has been chosen.”
“These are my words, the words of the Marik, your Captain-General, on this 15th day of September, in the year of our Lord, 2767.”
Thomas Marik finished speaking and sat as the Chamber erupted. Some of the Ministers were protesting loudly, others were cheering for the Captain-General—but most seemed stunned by the callous harshness of the proclamation.
Sienna sat still for a minute, then for two, then pressed the call button on her desk. The Speaker, trying to restore order, must have hundreds of calls for the floor; but he knew her. Raising his head, he met her gaze across the chamber, and nodded. Banging his gavel and yelling for order, he slowly brought some calm back to the Chamber. When it was once more quiet enough to be heard, he spoke.
“I recognize MP Sienna Stewart and grant her the floor.”
As she stood, she could have heard a pin drop. Everyone waited to hear her words—some holding their breath, others praying she wouldn’t push the matter. Before speaking she looked at her fellow Ministers, and the newsmen, and the citizens, and lowered her head.
“I have heard the words of the Captain-General, as read by the Distinguished Gentleman from the Commonwealth of Marik. I have heard them. And I can not say that I really expected otherwise. Our Captain-General has served us well in the past, led us to peace and prosperity, but on this matter, his reasoning is clouded.”
She lifted her head as she continued. “Twenty years ago, Kenyon Marik was chastised by Aleksandyr Kerensky—and he has harbored resentment ever since. The Marik does not do this for the Free Worlds; he does this to exact revenge on the man who wounded his pride two decades ago! He has not the concerns of the people of the Free Worlds in his heart—only the desire to see Aleksandyr Kerensky laid low.”
“Because of this, my fellow Ministers, Mister Speaker, because of this, I now call the vote. I call for a Vote of No Confidence in Captain-General Kenyon Marik! Let us vote, and remove from office the Marik who is too blinded by his personal pride to stand for the good of the Free Worlds and the Star League. I call the vote, Mister Speaker!”
And utter chaos erupted in Parliament as Sienna Stewart sat, her head held high.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty Six
September 16, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“Governor Alistair Fairbanks to see you, First Lord, on what he deems an urgent matter,” solemnly intoned Gerald from the doorway to his office. Stephen winced; just as soon as he finished reviewing the basic operational outline Admiral Matasuke had devised for the defense of Asta with Sam Anders, Gregor Samasov, Ezra Bradley, and Hiroyoshi he was due back at the hospital. Cassie was being released today. But, he nodded, might as well not put this off.
Alistair Fairbanks entered the office, and frowned as he recognized Hiroyoshi. Crossing over to the front of the desk, he nodded his head. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Director-General. This is a private matter, however.”
Stephen leaned back. The man truly was a pompous ass, he had learned over the past few weeks. “General Anders is the senior SLDF officer in the system, while Colonel Bradley commands the only SLDF ground forces on planet, and General Samasov is the senior Combine officer groundside today, Governor. Speak your mind.”
Fairbanks jaw muscles clenched slightly, for Stephen had not offered him a seat, unlike his other guests. “Very well, Director-General. I have come seeking a warrant for the extradition and trial of one Hiroyoshi Tanaka for the violation of multiple laws of both Asta and the Hegemony. Here is the documentation.” He placed a sheaf of papers on Stephen’s clean desk.
Stephen placed one finger on the documents, and tapped them lightly, fixing Fairbanks with an icy stare. “What are the charges you wish to bring against a member of my staff, one with full diplomatic immunity, Governor?”
“He kidnapped a citizen of the Hegemony, assaulted officers of the law, stole an emergency services vehicle, and committed acts of torture. He should be declared persona non grata immediately and then his extradition demanded from the Combine government.”
“The citizen in question shot my daughter, Governor Fairbanks, and General Kerensky. Aleksandyr will never again walk because of that man. That is who you are referring to, correct? Hiroyoshi, have you tortured anyone else that I am unaware of?”
“No, my Lord Cameron, I have not.”
“You may choose to pretend that this is a joking matter, Director-General, but it is not in the least amusing. Torture of prisoners is specifically forbidden under Hegemony law. The other acts might well be covered by diplomatic immunity, but I believe a case can be made for the extradition of that man as a war criminal—something not covered in his diplomatic immunity.”
“Your request is denied, Governor,” Stephen said as he slid the papers back across his desk to Fairbanks.
“It is not a request, Director-General. Under the Great Charter of the Hegemony a Planetary Governor has the right to demand action of the Director-General to seek justice for laws broken by parties of extra-planetary origins. I do so demand.”
“I am familiar with that section of the Charter, Governor. Are you familiar with Article VII, Section IV?”
“Of course, Director-General, I was a civil rights attorney before I entered politics. That section details the Director-General’s powers of clemency and pardon.”
“Good, Governor. Please read this, then,” Stephen said as he pulled a document from a drawer and slid it across the desk.
Fairbanks took the document and scanned it, “Are you mad, Director-General? This document gives a full and complete pardon to this, this criminal for any and all crimes committed in the borders of the Hegemony at any point in time prior to today. This is blanket immunity—and thoroughly illegal, sir!”
Stephen stood. “Sir, we are at war. The citizen in question is an agent of our enemy. Hiroyoshi was acting on my direction when he questioned Turner. And he is now pardoned. And because of the information he gained, we now know that Amaris is planning a counter-strike against Asta within the next ten days. You would have been informed of that later today, but since you are here now, consider yourself so informed, Governor. I intend to make an address to the people of Asta tomorrow to inform them of the threat we face.”
Fairbanks grew pale. “Amaris? Attacking again?”
“Yes, Governor, and in even greater numbers than last time. This fight might well include Amaris firing nuclear weapons at the planetary surface. After all, he attempted to do so last time.”
Fairbanks looked down and then glanced at his watch. “I should be going then, Director-General.”
“Good.”
Stephen remained standing until Fairbanks had left the office, escorted again by Gerald. He placed his finger on the call button, and his new secretary answered, “Yes, my Lord?”
“Monica, pass the word to the staff. I don’t want to see or hear from Governor Fairbanks at any time in the foreseeable future. Don’t let him in here again.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
Sitting once more, Stephen looked across at the three men across from him. “In that case, gentlemen, where were we?”
September 17, 2767
Planetary Capital, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“L.T., you pegged the guy just right,” Gerald said as he walked into the anteroom with a grin across his face.
“Top, you sound so shocked that I can read dilettantes like an open book. Remember the family I grew up in? Fairbanks bailed?”
“Boarded a private transport this morning bound for Northwind. Along with his family and his mistress, and about two dozen others of the same mindset. No great loss for the defense of Asta, thereaways.”
Stephen clucked his tongue. “Did he inform the Assembly of his departure, Top?”
“Seems that he did not, First Lord.”
“Pity, but the Asta Constitution clearly spells out that before leaving the planet, a Planetary Governor must inform the Assembly of his reasons for doing so and the expected length of his absence. Seems the good Governor has abandoned his duties.”
“Yep.”
“Would you bring Paul in, please Gerald, and give us a few moments.”
Gerald nodded and left the room.
*****************************************************
Paul Geeler walked into the ante-chamber where the First Lord stood. He knelt, unsure what to do.
“Damn it, Paul, get back on your feet. We’ve slogged the same mud together, spilled our blood together, trooper, no need for that crap between us old soldiers.”
“Lord Stephen, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
Stephen smiled and offered Paul a seat. Hiroyoshi came in and gave Paul a cup of coffee, then withdrew. Not a single one of Stephen’s detail remained in the room with him and Paul.
“Bet your wondering why I asked you here today, Paul.”
“Yes, sir, I was kind of.”
“I have a job offer for you. It’s a tough job, but you showed me you have toughness during the Resistance. I won’t lie to you, it’ll lay a lot on your shoulders, and you might not get many thanks other than mine, but I think you can do the job right.”
“It would be my pleasure to serve in any way, my Lord.”
“Don’t say that so fast, Paul. I’ll be making a speech in about half an hour—the gist of which is that Amaris is coming back, loaded for Ridgeback. You know Governor Fairbanks?”
“Yes, sir, not personally, but I have seen him in the news.”
“Governor Fairbanks has fled the planet; abandoned his office, his people, and his planet. He did so because he is a coward, Paul. He knows about the Rim Worlds counter-attack and he ran.”
“He was always worthless, sir. Everyone knew that, but his little district keeps reelecting him. If he hadn’t been Whip in the Assembly, he would have never had a chance to be Governor. Who are you going to appoint to replace him, if I may ask?”
“You may. I was thinking perhaps, you.”
Paul Geeler sat bolt upright in his chair. “You have got to be joking, my Lord!”
“Nope.”
“I, I’m just an electrician. Not a politician!”
“Right. You build and repair things. And this planet needs someone who can do that, without being beholden to the Old Guard who have their own interests that must be satisfied. Things have got to change, not just on this world, but across the League. We are at war, in the fight of lives with a barbarian who won’t hesitate to kill a world to kill a single man. You know that, and you had the courage of your convictions to do something about it. I’ve met your wife and your kids, they adore you, and that—and serving alongside you—tells me all I need know about you. I served an eternity in hell alongside you. Paul, I trust you, the trooper who could thread a needle with his SRM launcher. That’s who I want as Asta’s next governor. That’s who I NEED as Asta’s next governor. The job might kill you, but it’s one you can do—and do well.”
Paul sat back and sighed Kathleen would kill him, but, he looked at the face of his lord. I don’t want to let this man down, he thought. He sure as hell hasn’t let any of us down. “If you need me, my Lord, then I will serve.”
Stephen grinned. “Excellent, Planetary Governor Geeler. Now that that is settled, how about we consider what you are going to say to your people in just a few moments when we tell them about the upcoming attack, then go say hi to your wife and kids, they’re in the next room.”
September 16, 2767
Branson House, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“Governor Alistair Fairbanks to see you, First Lord, on what he deems an urgent matter,” solemnly intoned Gerald from the doorway to his office. Stephen winced; just as soon as he finished reviewing the basic operational outline Admiral Matasuke had devised for the defense of Asta with Sam Anders, Gregor Samasov, Ezra Bradley, and Hiroyoshi he was due back at the hospital. Cassie was being released today. But, he nodded, might as well not put this off.
Alistair Fairbanks entered the office, and frowned as he recognized Hiroyoshi. Crossing over to the front of the desk, he nodded his head. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Director-General. This is a private matter, however.”
Stephen leaned back. The man truly was a pompous ass, he had learned over the past few weeks. “General Anders is the senior SLDF officer in the system, while Colonel Bradley commands the only SLDF ground forces on planet, and General Samasov is the senior Combine officer groundside today, Governor. Speak your mind.”
Fairbanks jaw muscles clenched slightly, for Stephen had not offered him a seat, unlike his other guests. “Very well, Director-General. I have come seeking a warrant for the extradition and trial of one Hiroyoshi Tanaka for the violation of multiple laws of both Asta and the Hegemony. Here is the documentation.” He placed a sheaf of papers on Stephen’s clean desk.
Stephen placed one finger on the documents, and tapped them lightly, fixing Fairbanks with an icy stare. “What are the charges you wish to bring against a member of my staff, one with full diplomatic immunity, Governor?”
“He kidnapped a citizen of the Hegemony, assaulted officers of the law, stole an emergency services vehicle, and committed acts of torture. He should be declared persona non grata immediately and then his extradition demanded from the Combine government.”
“The citizen in question shot my daughter, Governor Fairbanks, and General Kerensky. Aleksandyr will never again walk because of that man. That is who you are referring to, correct? Hiroyoshi, have you tortured anyone else that I am unaware of?”
“No, my Lord Cameron, I have not.”
“You may choose to pretend that this is a joking matter, Director-General, but it is not in the least amusing. Torture of prisoners is specifically forbidden under Hegemony law. The other acts might well be covered by diplomatic immunity, but I believe a case can be made for the extradition of that man as a war criminal—something not covered in his diplomatic immunity.”
“Your request is denied, Governor,” Stephen said as he slid the papers back across his desk to Fairbanks.
“It is not a request, Director-General. Under the Great Charter of the Hegemony a Planetary Governor has the right to demand action of the Director-General to seek justice for laws broken by parties of extra-planetary origins. I do so demand.”
“I am familiar with that section of the Charter, Governor. Are you familiar with Article VII, Section IV?”
“Of course, Director-General, I was a civil rights attorney before I entered politics. That section details the Director-General’s powers of clemency and pardon.”
“Good, Governor. Please read this, then,” Stephen said as he pulled a document from a drawer and slid it across the desk.
Fairbanks took the document and scanned it, “Are you mad, Director-General? This document gives a full and complete pardon to this, this criminal for any and all crimes committed in the borders of the Hegemony at any point in time prior to today. This is blanket immunity—and thoroughly illegal, sir!”
Stephen stood. “Sir, we are at war. The citizen in question is an agent of our enemy. Hiroyoshi was acting on my direction when he questioned Turner. And he is now pardoned. And because of the information he gained, we now know that Amaris is planning a counter-strike against Asta within the next ten days. You would have been informed of that later today, but since you are here now, consider yourself so informed, Governor. I intend to make an address to the people of Asta tomorrow to inform them of the threat we face.”
Fairbanks grew pale. “Amaris? Attacking again?”
“Yes, Governor, and in even greater numbers than last time. This fight might well include Amaris firing nuclear weapons at the planetary surface. After all, he attempted to do so last time.”
Fairbanks looked down and then glanced at his watch. “I should be going then, Director-General.”
“Good.”
Stephen remained standing until Fairbanks had left the office, escorted again by Gerald. He placed his finger on the call button, and his new secretary answered, “Yes, my Lord?”
“Monica, pass the word to the staff. I don’t want to see or hear from Governor Fairbanks at any time in the foreseeable future. Don’t let him in here again.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
Sitting once more, Stephen looked across at the three men across from him. “In that case, gentlemen, where were we?”
September 17, 2767
Planetary Capital, Hawkins
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“L.T., you pegged the guy just right,” Gerald said as he walked into the anteroom with a grin across his face.
“Top, you sound so shocked that I can read dilettantes like an open book. Remember the family I grew up in? Fairbanks bailed?”
“Boarded a private transport this morning bound for Northwind. Along with his family and his mistress, and about two dozen others of the same mindset. No great loss for the defense of Asta, thereaways.”
Stephen clucked his tongue. “Did he inform the Assembly of his departure, Top?”
“Seems that he did not, First Lord.”
“Pity, but the Asta Constitution clearly spells out that before leaving the planet, a Planetary Governor must inform the Assembly of his reasons for doing so and the expected length of his absence. Seems the good Governor has abandoned his duties.”
“Yep.”
“Would you bring Paul in, please Gerald, and give us a few moments.”
Gerald nodded and left the room.
*****************************************************
Paul Geeler walked into the ante-chamber where the First Lord stood. He knelt, unsure what to do.
“Damn it, Paul, get back on your feet. We’ve slogged the same mud together, spilled our blood together, trooper, no need for that crap between us old soldiers.”
“Lord Stephen, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
Stephen smiled and offered Paul a seat. Hiroyoshi came in and gave Paul a cup of coffee, then withdrew. Not a single one of Stephen’s detail remained in the room with him and Paul.
“Bet your wondering why I asked you here today, Paul.”
“Yes, sir, I was kind of.”
“I have a job offer for you. It’s a tough job, but you showed me you have toughness during the Resistance. I won’t lie to you, it’ll lay a lot on your shoulders, and you might not get many thanks other than mine, but I think you can do the job right.”
“It would be my pleasure to serve in any way, my Lord.”
“Don’t say that so fast, Paul. I’ll be making a speech in about half an hour—the gist of which is that Amaris is coming back, loaded for Ridgeback. You know Governor Fairbanks?”
“Yes, sir, not personally, but I have seen him in the news.”
“Governor Fairbanks has fled the planet; abandoned his office, his people, and his planet. He did so because he is a coward, Paul. He knows about the Rim Worlds counter-attack and he ran.”
“He was always worthless, sir. Everyone knew that, but his little district keeps reelecting him. If he hadn’t been Whip in the Assembly, he would have never had a chance to be Governor. Who are you going to appoint to replace him, if I may ask?”
“You may. I was thinking perhaps, you.”
Paul Geeler sat bolt upright in his chair. “You have got to be joking, my Lord!”
“Nope.”
“I, I’m just an electrician. Not a politician!”
“Right. You build and repair things. And this planet needs someone who can do that, without being beholden to the Old Guard who have their own interests that must be satisfied. Things have got to change, not just on this world, but across the League. We are at war, in the fight of lives with a barbarian who won’t hesitate to kill a world to kill a single man. You know that, and you had the courage of your convictions to do something about it. I’ve met your wife and your kids, they adore you, and that—and serving alongside you—tells me all I need know about you. I served an eternity in hell alongside you. Paul, I trust you, the trooper who could thread a needle with his SRM launcher. That’s who I want as Asta’s next governor. That’s who I NEED as Asta’s next governor. The job might kill you, but it’s one you can do—and do well.”
Paul sat back and sighed Kathleen would kill him, but, he looked at the face of his lord. I don’t want to let this man down, he thought. He sure as hell hasn’t let any of us down. “If you need me, my Lord, then I will serve.”
Stephen grinned. “Excellent, Planetary Governor Geeler. Now that that is settled, how about we consider what you are going to say to your people in just a few moments when we tell them about the upcoming attack, then go say hi to your wife and kids, they’re in the next room.”
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty Seven
September 25, 2767
DCS Dragon’s Fist
High Orbit, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
There had been no resistance at the jump point. The Strike Force had arrived less than two hours ago at the L-4 jump point, fully expecting a pitched battle. Instead, there was nothing. Not a single ship—military or civilian—in orbit, at any of close orbit jump points, not even at the systems two primary jump points.
Jumping a ship across the trackless waste of interstellar space was a risky endeavor, even when the crew observed all possible precautions. Ships vanished for all time, even now, nearly seven hundred years after the discovery of the Kearny-Fuchida jump drive. Jumps could only be initiated or resolved at points of gravitic balance. Every system—regardless of whether or not any planetary bodies were present—always possessed two jump points. These two, located directly above—the zenith—and below—the nadir—of the star’s plane of gravity were the most stable; they were the safest to use, as well as the largest. Unfortunately, these two jump points were days—or even weeks—away from the inner planets; the life zone that surrounded roughly one star in ten. Planets where man could walk without gravity crippling him, with air he could breathe, water he could drink, and temperatures that neither roasted nor froze him.
There were other jump points, though. Commonly called ‘pirate points’, these formed where a planet and a moon orbiting each other and their star generated one or more Lagrange points, named after the physicist Joseph-Louis Lagrange who postulated their existence. At these points, gravity from the three objects—the star, the planet, and the moon—were in near perfect balance, allowing a stable orbit—and the ability to jump. But these jump points were small in comparison to the two primary points, and much riskier to use. However, their sheer usefulness in military operations overruled the safety concerns much of the time. Planetary defenders could prepare much less thoroughly on four hours notice rather than four—or fourteen—days warning.
Of course, few systems possessed the perfect combination of one star, one habitable planet, and one moon that Terra did. Adding more moons—or stars—reduced the size of ‘pirate’ jump points still further, and made it exceedingly difficult to calculate jumps. And if a habitable planet had no moons of sufficient mass, then it had no ‘pirate’ jump points. Luckily, Saffel had a single large moon, and thus five separate jump points arrayed in close proximity to it.
Jump points that should have been guarded. That had been a basic tenet of military operations since the first armed JumpShip was launched centuries ago.
Jinjiro was worried about the lack of resistance. Still, Amaris must be stretched to the breaking, Jinjiro thought. Perhaps he can’t spare his WarShips for a back-water world such as this. Not when he has immensely rich and industrialized worlds—such as Dieron, Caph, New Earth, and Terra—to garrison and protect. But those worlds have Space Defense Systems; Saffel does not, an annoying little imp whispered at the back of his mind.
Looking down at the communications screen near his knee, he saw his naval commander—Admiral Genda—waiting patiently for his instructions.
“Admiral, launch the DropShips of the first wave, and prepare to give orbital fire support.”
“Hai, Gunji-no-Kanrei.”
Jinjiro tightened the straps holding him in the cockpit of his Dragon class BattleMech once more, as he waited for the DropShip he was aboard to release from the battleship DCS Fuso and begin its descent.
September 25, 2767
DCS Dragon’s Fist
Mid-atmosphere, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
The descent was rough—as always—winds buffeting the ninety-seven hundred ton craft as if were a feather as it screamed into the atmosphere at hypersonic speeds. And this was a combat drop. When the DropShip reached ten thousand meters six hatches on the outer hull snapped open, allowing the noise of the howling wind to penetrate even through Jinjiro’s sealed cockpit. A red light flashed on his console as the machinery moved his sixty-ton ‘Mech directly over the drop chute. When his ‘Mech had locked in place, the red light turned solid, then changed to green. A tremendous concussion slammed Jinjiro back into his ejector seat as solid-fuel rockets drove his ‘Mech out of the DropShip and away from its lethal plasma exhaust. Within seconds, the rockets died out, and the drop package attached to the outer surface of his ‘Mech began steering him towards the designated landing zone of his headquarters.
Dozens—scores—of smaller thrusters attached to every surface of the ‘Mech that could support them fired in controlled bursts. They steered him, and slowed his descent. Even with their aid, the ground approached fast. Finally, all of the thrusters fired at maximum power—and did not cease. The thrust they generated was enough—barely—to slow his ‘Mech to point where he would land without injury. A thruster failure now would kill him. It was one of the risks of being a ‘Mech pilot, of being a Kurita. He accepted that and grinned, as the combination of gravity and the jet thrust made his body feel though it weighed twenty times his normal amount. Then, the jets cut off, and he landed with a thud, running through a dozen steps to shed the last of his inertia before he was able to bring his ‘Mech to a halt. Almost as an afterthought, small explosive charges detached the now-useless weight of the drop package from his ‘Mech, leaving Jinjiro in an undamaged, fully capable war machine standing on the surface of Saffel.
September 25, 2767
Outskirts of Arcadia
Byer’s Land Continent, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
The recon lance bounded outwards from the landing zone. Six regiments of ‘Mechs, plus Jinjiro’s command headquarters—over seven hundred and fifty of the massive humanoid war machines—had landed in a forty-nine square kilometer area fifty kilometers south of Arcadia, Saffel’s capital city. They had landed ready for combat in a ‘hot’ drop zone, expecting to be targeted on the descent by enemy ‘Mechs, artillery, armor, aerospace assets, and conventional fighters. Not a single shot had been fired, however. Three dozen lances of scouts sped away from the landing zone; their mission to find the enemy.
The second wave was already entering the upper atmosphere—twenty-four regiments of armor and infantry troops, bound for the ferrocrete landing strips of the abandoned space-port captured by the ‘Mechs already on the surface. The reserve—fifteen more regiments, including an elite Sword of Light regiment, and both of the Eridani regiments—waited in orbit, ready to descend on a moment’s notice.
Chu-i Devon Patrick commanded the lance of four Jenner class BattleMechs speeding towards the southwestern suburbs of Arcadia. They saw nothing—no enemy forces, no Saffel citizens, not even livestock or domestic animals. There were even no birds. He shook his head, something was wrong. They had just entered the outlying sub-divisions of this area, and still there was nothing. Suddenly, a harsh alarm blared from the speakers in his neuro-helmet, a rapidly blinking crimson light appearing on his cockpit console. Patrick blanched—that was the CHEMICAL alarm. His ‘Mechs sophisticated sensors were detecting chemical warfare agents in the air outside. Hurriedly, he checked the environmental systems; all were green. His filters were in place and functioning properly. Then he saw the first dead bodies.
September 25, 2767
Combine Field Headquarters
Byer’s Land Continent, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
“It’s confirmed, Lord Jinjiro. It appears the Rim Worlders used nerve agents against Arcadia—estimates are near 100% civilian casualties, that’s over three hundred thousand, sir,” Tai-sai Hikaro Mikato said his face pale with shock.
Even Jinjiro was stunned. This wasn’t war, it was a massacre; wanton butchery. And where were the Rim Worlds troops? They still had not found them, and already his scouts had cleared an area sixty kilometers in radius.
That annoying imp was whispering at the back of his mind again, and for the first time in a long time he found himself in agreement with it. Something was not right here. “Tai-sai, disperse the landed regiments and have the second wave abort and return to . . . “
“Incoming aircraft! Multiple incoming aircraft, moving fast on a vector towards the second wave’s DropShips!” the sensor tech in the mobile command post sounded out. His face blanched. “Radiological alarm! My lord they are carrying nuclear weapons!”
Another communications tech turned to Jinjiro, “Sir, recon Fox-Seven-Delta reports multiple enemy ‘Mech formations moving fast towards the landing zone, sixty-two kilometers out bearing to the east, over the Keroon Plains. He confirmed visual sightings of over five hundred enemy ‘Mechs before his transmission ceased.”
Jinjiro turned to his aide, “It’s a trap; they knew we were coming. Raise Admiral Genda, I want immediate orbital fire on those formations—and get our fighters scrambled to intercept theirs!”
The naval liaison officer looked at Jinjiro, “Sir, Admiral Genda is on the line for you; a fleet in excess of one hundred and eighty Rim Worlds vessels has just jumped in system at the L-3 and L-4 points. They are launching fighters and maneuvering to pin his command against the planet.”
September 25, 2767
Combine Second Wave
Mid-atmosphere, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
The aerodyne DropShips carrying the second wave received the abort order just as the first squadrons of Maket class assault bombers and Mako class interceptors appeared on their radar screens. Over two hundred Rims Worlds aerospace craft screamed through the atmosphere towards them as DropShip crews began to apply more thrust and climb back out of the thick, entangling atmosphere. Their fifty-four escorting fighters—Shilones, primarily—banked hard to meet and engage the enemy before they could enter weapons range. But the Combine escort fighters were outnumbered four-to-one; and this enemy carried nuclear weapons.
The Shilones splashed over seventy Makos and forty Makets in four minutes of intensive fighting, but they were spent—and had lost forty-one of their own number. Fourteen surviving Maket class assault bombers reached their own weapons range and fired; salvoing eighty-four nuclear tipped missiles as they applied full thrust to their drives and climbed for the heavens. Of the two hundred and fourteen DropShips of the second wave, one hundred and fifty-nine vanished amid the eye-searing glare of the nuclear detonations. The survivors fled back to their transports in orbit, leaving Jinjiro’s ‘Mech force alone on the surface.
September 25, 2767
Combine Field Headquarters
Byer’s Land Continent, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
The tremendous concussion nearly slammed Jinjiro to the ground as multiple blinding detonations erupted far, far above. They were outside the radius in which the thermal pulse was lethal, but still the explosions were deafening, and gale force winds ripped through the hastily erected command post. Reaching his ‘Mech, Jinjiro quickly climbed aboard and strapped in; firing up the fusion reactor powering the machine. As the gyros stabilized, and the control systems came on-line, he could see the radiation gauges climbing steadily—the Rim World’s nukes had been exceptionally ‘dirty’.
The imp was silent—for something inside Jinjiro had snapped at nearly the same moment the weapons detonated. This was his fault, for he had led his men—HIS MEN—into this death trap. He had ignored the advice of his father’s men, and now his men would pay for that. The rage that so consumed him nearly every waking minute had died, and only icy cold gripped his soul. Father, what have I done, he thought. The imp was gone, because for the first time in a long time, he knew that the imp had been him—the true Kurita inside, not the spoiled prince who had laughed at the thought of war and carnage.
Around him, the thirty-five other ‘Mechs of his headquarters were also powered up, and Jinjiro shook off his thoughts. He raised his ‘Mechs left arm and thrust it forward. Pushing his ‘Mech into a run, he headed towards the approaching enemy forces, and the soldiers of the Dragon followed in his wake.
September 25, 2767
DCS Fuso
High Orbit, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
Admiral Genda watched the holocaust erupt beneath him, his stomach sick. Over twenty-five thousand Combine soldiers and spacemen had died in that one single attack. The surviving DropShips were running for his Strike Force, even as his reserve fighters reached them, giving them a protective umbrella to shelter beneath. The Rim Worlds ships were launching fighters as well—nearly four hundred so far—and they were speeding towards his command.
“Signal all carriers to launch every remaining fighter they have to intercept that incoming strike. All other fighters are to be held back for close defense against any hostiles that penetrate the screen.”
“Hai,” his operations officer responded, bending down at his console to pass the word.
“Admiral, the Gunji-no-Kanrei is on-line for you.”
Genda spun his command chair to one side, and placed the boom microphone and earpiece of his headset over his head. This conversation was not for his crew to overhear. Pressing a button, Jinjiro’s face, enclosed in a neuro-helmet, appeared on a small communications screen, static from the radiation crackling across, but still understandable, even if just barely. “My lord.”
“Admiral, get your ships out of this mess and return to Asta.”
“Lord Jinjiro, we can’t abandon you . . . “
“Genda, that’s an order. They outnumber you two-to-one and they will pin you against the planet if you stay and support me. Get the Strike Force out.”
His sick feeling intensified; it was the right order, but his peers would see it was cowardice, fleeing battle in the face of the enemy. Not to mention he would be leaving behind the HEIR. And to be truthful, it was an order he never once imagined Jinjiro could give.
Jinjiro smiled; a grim, sad smile. “Activate your bridge recorders, Admiral, and transmit the following to all ships. Make certain it is recorded—and broadcast—aboard every ship, please.”
As Jinjiro waited, Genda passed the order, removing the headset, and placing Jinjiro on the ship-wide speakers. The communications techs nodded—the recorders were running.
“I, the Gunji-no-Kanrei of the Combine, Jinjiro Kurita, issue the following order to Strike Force Saffel. The Strike Force is to immediately disengage and return to Asta. No ship is to deviate from this instruction. You are to break orbit immediately and evade the enemy forces in system. Any vessel incapable of maintaining the minimum thrust to disengage will be abandoned and scuttled. In my considered opinion, the odds are too great to risk losing a sixth of the Fleet. There is no dishonor associated with this, other than my own. The shame for this is mine and mine alone. I—and the troops already on the surface—will remain to buy time for you to disengage. Return to Asta, Admiral; get my people clear of this ambush. And tell my father. Tell my father, that I die a Kurita. Jinjiro out.”
September 25, 2767
DCS Dragon’s Fist
High Orbit, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
There had been no resistance at the jump point. The Strike Force had arrived less than two hours ago at the L-4 jump point, fully expecting a pitched battle. Instead, there was nothing. Not a single ship—military or civilian—in orbit, at any of close orbit jump points, not even at the systems two primary jump points.
Jumping a ship across the trackless waste of interstellar space was a risky endeavor, even when the crew observed all possible precautions. Ships vanished for all time, even now, nearly seven hundred years after the discovery of the Kearny-Fuchida jump drive. Jumps could only be initiated or resolved at points of gravitic balance. Every system—regardless of whether or not any planetary bodies were present—always possessed two jump points. These two, located directly above—the zenith—and below—the nadir—of the star’s plane of gravity were the most stable; they were the safest to use, as well as the largest. Unfortunately, these two jump points were days—or even weeks—away from the inner planets; the life zone that surrounded roughly one star in ten. Planets where man could walk without gravity crippling him, with air he could breathe, water he could drink, and temperatures that neither roasted nor froze him.
There were other jump points, though. Commonly called ‘pirate points’, these formed where a planet and a moon orbiting each other and their star generated one or more Lagrange points, named after the physicist Joseph-Louis Lagrange who postulated their existence. At these points, gravity from the three objects—the star, the planet, and the moon—were in near perfect balance, allowing a stable orbit—and the ability to jump. But these jump points were small in comparison to the two primary points, and much riskier to use. However, their sheer usefulness in military operations overruled the safety concerns much of the time. Planetary defenders could prepare much less thoroughly on four hours notice rather than four—or fourteen—days warning.
Of course, few systems possessed the perfect combination of one star, one habitable planet, and one moon that Terra did. Adding more moons—or stars—reduced the size of ‘pirate’ jump points still further, and made it exceedingly difficult to calculate jumps. And if a habitable planet had no moons of sufficient mass, then it had no ‘pirate’ jump points. Luckily, Saffel had a single large moon, and thus five separate jump points arrayed in close proximity to it.
Jump points that should have been guarded. That had been a basic tenet of military operations since the first armed JumpShip was launched centuries ago.
Jinjiro was worried about the lack of resistance. Still, Amaris must be stretched to the breaking, Jinjiro thought. Perhaps he can’t spare his WarShips for a back-water world such as this. Not when he has immensely rich and industrialized worlds—such as Dieron, Caph, New Earth, and Terra—to garrison and protect. But those worlds have Space Defense Systems; Saffel does not, an annoying little imp whispered at the back of his mind.
Looking down at the communications screen near his knee, he saw his naval commander—Admiral Genda—waiting patiently for his instructions.
“Admiral, launch the DropShips of the first wave, and prepare to give orbital fire support.”
“Hai, Gunji-no-Kanrei.”
Jinjiro tightened the straps holding him in the cockpit of his Dragon class BattleMech once more, as he waited for the DropShip he was aboard to release from the battleship DCS Fuso and begin its descent.
September 25, 2767
DCS Dragon’s Fist
Mid-atmosphere, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
The descent was rough—as always—winds buffeting the ninety-seven hundred ton craft as if were a feather as it screamed into the atmosphere at hypersonic speeds. And this was a combat drop. When the DropShip reached ten thousand meters six hatches on the outer hull snapped open, allowing the noise of the howling wind to penetrate even through Jinjiro’s sealed cockpit. A red light flashed on his console as the machinery moved his sixty-ton ‘Mech directly over the drop chute. When his ‘Mech had locked in place, the red light turned solid, then changed to green. A tremendous concussion slammed Jinjiro back into his ejector seat as solid-fuel rockets drove his ‘Mech out of the DropShip and away from its lethal plasma exhaust. Within seconds, the rockets died out, and the drop package attached to the outer surface of his ‘Mech began steering him towards the designated landing zone of his headquarters.
Dozens—scores—of smaller thrusters attached to every surface of the ‘Mech that could support them fired in controlled bursts. They steered him, and slowed his descent. Even with their aid, the ground approached fast. Finally, all of the thrusters fired at maximum power—and did not cease. The thrust they generated was enough—barely—to slow his ‘Mech to point where he would land without injury. A thruster failure now would kill him. It was one of the risks of being a ‘Mech pilot, of being a Kurita. He accepted that and grinned, as the combination of gravity and the jet thrust made his body feel though it weighed twenty times his normal amount. Then, the jets cut off, and he landed with a thud, running through a dozen steps to shed the last of his inertia before he was able to bring his ‘Mech to a halt. Almost as an afterthought, small explosive charges detached the now-useless weight of the drop package from his ‘Mech, leaving Jinjiro in an undamaged, fully capable war machine standing on the surface of Saffel.
September 25, 2767
Outskirts of Arcadia
Byer’s Land Continent, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
The recon lance bounded outwards from the landing zone. Six regiments of ‘Mechs, plus Jinjiro’s command headquarters—over seven hundred and fifty of the massive humanoid war machines—had landed in a forty-nine square kilometer area fifty kilometers south of Arcadia, Saffel’s capital city. They had landed ready for combat in a ‘hot’ drop zone, expecting to be targeted on the descent by enemy ‘Mechs, artillery, armor, aerospace assets, and conventional fighters. Not a single shot had been fired, however. Three dozen lances of scouts sped away from the landing zone; their mission to find the enemy.
The second wave was already entering the upper atmosphere—twenty-four regiments of armor and infantry troops, bound for the ferrocrete landing strips of the abandoned space-port captured by the ‘Mechs already on the surface. The reserve—fifteen more regiments, including an elite Sword of Light regiment, and both of the Eridani regiments—waited in orbit, ready to descend on a moment’s notice.
Chu-i Devon Patrick commanded the lance of four Jenner class BattleMechs speeding towards the southwestern suburbs of Arcadia. They saw nothing—no enemy forces, no Saffel citizens, not even livestock or domestic animals. There were even no birds. He shook his head, something was wrong. They had just entered the outlying sub-divisions of this area, and still there was nothing. Suddenly, a harsh alarm blared from the speakers in his neuro-helmet, a rapidly blinking crimson light appearing on his cockpit console. Patrick blanched—that was the CHEMICAL alarm. His ‘Mechs sophisticated sensors were detecting chemical warfare agents in the air outside. Hurriedly, he checked the environmental systems; all were green. His filters were in place and functioning properly. Then he saw the first dead bodies.
September 25, 2767
Combine Field Headquarters
Byer’s Land Continent, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
“It’s confirmed, Lord Jinjiro. It appears the Rim Worlders used nerve agents against Arcadia—estimates are near 100% civilian casualties, that’s over three hundred thousand, sir,” Tai-sai Hikaro Mikato said his face pale with shock.
Even Jinjiro was stunned. This wasn’t war, it was a massacre; wanton butchery. And where were the Rim Worlds troops? They still had not found them, and already his scouts had cleared an area sixty kilometers in radius.
That annoying imp was whispering at the back of his mind again, and for the first time in a long time he found himself in agreement with it. Something was not right here. “Tai-sai, disperse the landed regiments and have the second wave abort and return to . . . “
“Incoming aircraft! Multiple incoming aircraft, moving fast on a vector towards the second wave’s DropShips!” the sensor tech in the mobile command post sounded out. His face blanched. “Radiological alarm! My lord they are carrying nuclear weapons!”
Another communications tech turned to Jinjiro, “Sir, recon Fox-Seven-Delta reports multiple enemy ‘Mech formations moving fast towards the landing zone, sixty-two kilometers out bearing to the east, over the Keroon Plains. He confirmed visual sightings of over five hundred enemy ‘Mechs before his transmission ceased.”
Jinjiro turned to his aide, “It’s a trap; they knew we were coming. Raise Admiral Genda, I want immediate orbital fire on those formations—and get our fighters scrambled to intercept theirs!”
The naval liaison officer looked at Jinjiro, “Sir, Admiral Genda is on the line for you; a fleet in excess of one hundred and eighty Rim Worlds vessels has just jumped in system at the L-3 and L-4 points. They are launching fighters and maneuvering to pin his command against the planet.”
September 25, 2767
Combine Second Wave
Mid-atmosphere, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
The aerodyne DropShips carrying the second wave received the abort order just as the first squadrons of Maket class assault bombers and Mako class interceptors appeared on their radar screens. Over two hundred Rims Worlds aerospace craft screamed through the atmosphere towards them as DropShip crews began to apply more thrust and climb back out of the thick, entangling atmosphere. Their fifty-four escorting fighters—Shilones, primarily—banked hard to meet and engage the enemy before they could enter weapons range. But the Combine escort fighters were outnumbered four-to-one; and this enemy carried nuclear weapons.
The Shilones splashed over seventy Makos and forty Makets in four minutes of intensive fighting, but they were spent—and had lost forty-one of their own number. Fourteen surviving Maket class assault bombers reached their own weapons range and fired; salvoing eighty-four nuclear tipped missiles as they applied full thrust to their drives and climbed for the heavens. Of the two hundred and fourteen DropShips of the second wave, one hundred and fifty-nine vanished amid the eye-searing glare of the nuclear detonations. The survivors fled back to their transports in orbit, leaving Jinjiro’s ‘Mech force alone on the surface.
September 25, 2767
Combine Field Headquarters
Byer’s Land Continent, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
The tremendous concussion nearly slammed Jinjiro to the ground as multiple blinding detonations erupted far, far above. They were outside the radius in which the thermal pulse was lethal, but still the explosions were deafening, and gale force winds ripped through the hastily erected command post. Reaching his ‘Mech, Jinjiro quickly climbed aboard and strapped in; firing up the fusion reactor powering the machine. As the gyros stabilized, and the control systems came on-line, he could see the radiation gauges climbing steadily—the Rim World’s nukes had been exceptionally ‘dirty’.
The imp was silent—for something inside Jinjiro had snapped at nearly the same moment the weapons detonated. This was his fault, for he had led his men—HIS MEN—into this death trap. He had ignored the advice of his father’s men, and now his men would pay for that. The rage that so consumed him nearly every waking minute had died, and only icy cold gripped his soul. Father, what have I done, he thought. The imp was gone, because for the first time in a long time, he knew that the imp had been him—the true Kurita inside, not the spoiled prince who had laughed at the thought of war and carnage.
Around him, the thirty-five other ‘Mechs of his headquarters were also powered up, and Jinjiro shook off his thoughts. He raised his ‘Mechs left arm and thrust it forward. Pushing his ‘Mech into a run, he headed towards the approaching enemy forces, and the soldiers of the Dragon followed in his wake.
September 25, 2767
DCS Fuso
High Orbit, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
Admiral Genda watched the holocaust erupt beneath him, his stomach sick. Over twenty-five thousand Combine soldiers and spacemen had died in that one single attack. The surviving DropShips were running for his Strike Force, even as his reserve fighters reached them, giving them a protective umbrella to shelter beneath. The Rim Worlds ships were launching fighters as well—nearly four hundred so far—and they were speeding towards his command.
“Signal all carriers to launch every remaining fighter they have to intercept that incoming strike. All other fighters are to be held back for close defense against any hostiles that penetrate the screen.”
“Hai,” his operations officer responded, bending down at his console to pass the word.
“Admiral, the Gunji-no-Kanrei is on-line for you.”
Genda spun his command chair to one side, and placed the boom microphone and earpiece of his headset over his head. This conversation was not for his crew to overhear. Pressing a button, Jinjiro’s face, enclosed in a neuro-helmet, appeared on a small communications screen, static from the radiation crackling across, but still understandable, even if just barely. “My lord.”
“Admiral, get your ships out of this mess and return to Asta.”
“Lord Jinjiro, we can’t abandon you . . . “
“Genda, that’s an order. They outnumber you two-to-one and they will pin you against the planet if you stay and support me. Get the Strike Force out.”
His sick feeling intensified; it was the right order, but his peers would see it was cowardice, fleeing battle in the face of the enemy. Not to mention he would be leaving behind the HEIR. And to be truthful, it was an order he never once imagined Jinjiro could give.
Jinjiro smiled; a grim, sad smile. “Activate your bridge recorders, Admiral, and transmit the following to all ships. Make certain it is recorded—and broadcast—aboard every ship, please.”
As Jinjiro waited, Genda passed the order, removing the headset, and placing Jinjiro on the ship-wide speakers. The communications techs nodded—the recorders were running.
“I, the Gunji-no-Kanrei of the Combine, Jinjiro Kurita, issue the following order to Strike Force Saffel. The Strike Force is to immediately disengage and return to Asta. No ship is to deviate from this instruction. You are to break orbit immediately and evade the enemy forces in system. Any vessel incapable of maintaining the minimum thrust to disengage will be abandoned and scuttled. In my considered opinion, the odds are too great to risk losing a sixth of the Fleet. There is no dishonor associated with this, other than my own. The shame for this is mine and mine alone. I—and the troops already on the surface—will remain to buy time for you to disengage. Return to Asta, Admiral; get my people clear of this ambush. And tell my father. Tell my father, that I die a Kurita. Jinjiro out.”
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty Eight
September 25, 2767
Keroon Plains
Continent Alpha, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
His forces had quickly sped towards the enemy with all the precision the highly trained and veteran warriors who piloted them could offer. Now, Jinjiro stood in his Dragon atop a small bluff overlooking the Keroon Plains—a vast expanse of grass-lands and small groves of trees forty kilometers east of the drop zone. Twenty minutes ago, his headquarters had ceased broadcasting as yet another mushroom cloud erupted into the sky. Still more explosions detonated amidst the grounded DropShips that had brought him here to the surface of this world; leaving him with no chance of escape. Escape, he thought, they still think I—a Kurita—would flee. The corners of his mouth lifted in a grim smile. There will be no escape from this.
The enemy had not yet begun firing his weapons of mass destruction at his ‘Mech forces. This area of Saffel was covered in a fairly dense forest, making it difficult to detect his units from the air. But that cover now lay behind him. Ahead of him, the rolling plains of grass—with only occasional clumps of forest—spread out. Once he exited the forest on those plains, it would be different..
Or perhaps not, he considered. For in the distance, three kilometers away, he could see the glints of sunlight reflecting from the Rim World’s ‘Mechs. Five hundred strong, the initial report had said. His tactical computer showed more than seventeen hundred ‘Mechs, standing and waiting for him to appear. And not just any ‘Mechs; no, those were Royal machines of the Star League. Amaris must have refitted these troops, before sending them here to ambush him. To kill him and his men. So be it, Jinjiro thought. His only regret was that the story of the battle might never be told. Outnumbered two and a half to one, in machines of a lower technology, he would fight both his first and last battle as a samurai should, as a Kurita should. With the honor that his Kurita heritage had tried to teach him—and he had failed to learn, until now on the surface of a world that he would never again leave.
Six regiments of the Combine’s finest stood behind him; no, he shook his head. They stood WITH him. And he with them. The 3rd and 4th Sword of Light—elite troops each and every one, fanatical in their defense of the Combine and the House of Kurita. The 5th Benjamin Regulars—tough veteran warriors who had excelled at the tests given to ensure their continued service. The 2nd Pesht Regulars—many of whom had engaged in duels with Star League MechWarriors, and won. The 1st and 3rd Galedon Regulars—commanded centuries before by Urizen Kurita himself, regiments that had participated in every major engagement of the Combine across the roll of the centuries. Seven hundred and fifty-one of the finest samurai who served the Combine and the Coordinator stood with him. And he—for the first time in his life—could feel the spirits of his ancestors, and the ancestors of all his warriors, standing with him as well.
He radio crackled as the interfering ECM died away. A voice spoke from within.
“Jinjiro Kurita, I am General Walter Chou, commanding the Imperial Amaris Army upon Saffel. Surrender, and give your men a chance at life. Kneel before my Emperor and he shall spare the lives of those who follow you.”
Setting his radio on wide-broadcast, Jinjiro replied. “The Dragon may die, General Chou, but he never surrenders. He never ceases to fight. And though our death may come today, you at least shall perish as well.”
“So be it, Dragon.”
The radio shut down, and before the jamming could resume, Jinjiro summoned up all the courage his spirit could offer and yelled into the microphone, “BANZAI!”
“BANZAI!” screamed seven hundred and fifty-one throats as the Combine ‘Mechs charged out onto the plains below.
*****************************************************
Shocked by the yell, General Chou watched in wonder as hundreds of ‘Mechs painted in red and black swarmed down the hill at their maximum rate of acceleration. From this distance it looked as though someone had kicked open a Pangkalan fire-ant hive. He looked down on the screen at the face of his artillery commander, and said, “Fire.”
Seventy-two Long Tom guns situated behind the Rim Worlds forces traversed and began spouting flame from their long howitzer barrels. Explosions erupted of grass and dirt as the shells impacted atop the charging ‘Mechs. Dozens dropped, but the remainder pressed onwards. The artillery kept pouring fire into the area, but the Draconis ‘Mechs did not slow.
When the Combine forces reached six hundred and ninety meters hundreds of extended-range PPC’s spat coherent energy from the Rim Worlds lines. Chou watched in amazement as each Combine ‘Mech—at the exact moment he entered range—began weaving and bobbing, ducking and dodging, all the while still closing at their maximum speed. He began to feel concern as he noted that fewer than one in twenty of his soldiers managed to hit their targets.
At six hundred and sixty meters, gauss rifles snarled, hurling their bright silver bullets down-range with tremendous kinetic energy. A Dragon exploded as it was hit with four separate projectiles, but hundreds more continued onward.
At six hundred and thirty meters, long-range missiles from both sides erupted in a massive sheet of flame and smoke covering the entire six kilometer long front. Explosions erupted on both sides as ‘Mechs were hit by the enemy fire—there were so many ‘Mechs that the normally inaccurate LRMs were almost guaranteed to strike SOMEONE. Scores of ‘Mechs simply exploded as the double-edged salvo of almost TWENTY THOUSAND missiles struck home. A missile warning beeped in Chou’s ears as his Devastator was targeted by the enemy.
He began to move his ‘Mech, as seven warheads smashed into his right torso, ablating armor and turning him slightly to the right.
Perhaps he should have blindly nuked the woods after all, he thought, as smoke and flame and fire of tens of thousands of individual weapons erupted all around him.
*****************************************************
Jinjiro led the banzai charge in his Dragon. The shells landed around him, and though some of his men fell, the rest charged onward, like ancient samurai into the barrels of their enemy’s guns. Weapons fire began to erupt from the enemy as they entered the superior range of the Star League weapons. It is a small matter, Jinjiro thought, but he prayed the ancestors would protect him until he reached his own range. They did, and locking his crosshairs upon the Devastator from which Chou’s broadcast had originated he fired his long-range missiles, closing the distance with each running step still more. Seven of the ten missiles impacted his target, blasting away chunks of armor.
Chou returned fire, two silver slugs ripping through the air to either side of Jinjiro’s ‘Mech. Jinjiro bared his teeth. These warriors were not the same quality as his; not by far. Letting loose a primeval howl, he entered range of his autocannon and came to sudden and complete halt—firing a burst of twenty rounds at maximum range.
*****************************************************
Chou tracked the black Dragon whose only emblem was the red dragon crest of the Kurita family across the field. His Gauss slugs missed the target as it weaved. Then it entered range of his standard PPC’s and he fired—missing completely as his target came to a sudden halt, and the bolts of azure energy hit the ground before it. Then the Dragon’s right arm snapped up and shells began pouring outwards, towards him. The armor-plexi of his cockpit cracked as a dozen slugs slammed into it, and Chou lost control of his ‘Mech momentarily. When he recovered, he pivoted; bringing both of arm mounted gauss rifles to bear on the Dragon standing . . . it was gone! He began to look around, searching for the ‘Mech of the man who was trying to kill him.
*****************************************************
When the burst ended, Jinjiro accelerated again, changing his angle of approach. A PPC bolt hit his right leg as another Rim Worlder targeted him—or more likely it was a stray bolt from the chaotic melee filling the area. He stumbled, but his training, his skill kept the machine moving forward as he recovered from the sudden loss of more than a half ton of armor. Most of his staff were engaged in their own fights, caught up in the madness and the blood-lust of the charge. But Hikaro stayed with him on his right side. His aide-de-camp and the Otomo into whose charge his father had laid his life. But he focused his attention on the Devastator as Hikaro kept the others off of his back. The Devastator was HIS target, and he would have him. Oh, yes, Jinjiro thought, he would have this gaijin. He reached his maximum land speed, and pushed his reactor to 130% of rated power—dangerous, but he was a Kurita. His ancestors would not let him die in a reactor explosion, not yet, not until he slew this insolent barbarian who had demanded not merely his surrender, but that of the Combine’s finest who followed him. His ‘Mech answered his punishing request with its ferro-ceramic bones groaning under the strain and his speed crept upwards once more.
*****************************************************
Chou couldn’t find him. Nearly half of the Combine ‘Mechs were Dragons! There were over three hundred of them on his scanners. Which was Jinjiro? There! That was him, and he stepped forward, unleashing a blistering fire from both gauss rifles, both PPC’s, and all four of his medium lasers that now had the range. Two of the lasers missed, but the remainder slammed home, and the Dragon that he targeted exploded in a furious detonation. And through the smoke and fire charged the black painted Dragon Chou thought he had just killed.
*****************************************************
Hikaro was dead, taking the blow Chou meant for him. But now Jinjiro was in short-range, and he too fired everything he had. Ten LRM’s streaked outwards, hitting the weakened right torso of the Devastator, as did the medium laser in his left arm. Armor still remained there, but not much. His autocannon spat a stream of shells that tracked across the Devastator’s chest—and one found a chink in the armor. The Devastator shuddered and collapsed as Jinjiro’s shells destroyed the fragile gyro that should have been protected by the thick armor plating. He howled in triumph and closed the distance to physical combat range.
*****************************************************
Chou did not have time to eject as the Dragon’s shells penetrated his armor and his command console burned with dozens of lurid red lights. That shot found a weak point and hit his gyro—the system was failing! He panicked as the ‘Mech collapsed, releasing the straps holding him tight, then falling unconscious as he was flung forward and struck his head on the canopy when the ‘Mech fell to the ground.
*****************************************************
Jinjiro walked up to the Devastator, and broadcast at maximum volume. “So dies all who oppose the Dragon!” Then he slammed the broad heavy foot of his sixty-ton war machine down on the exposed cockpit of collapsed giant, crushing it as though it were a soda can, and General Chou as well.
He paused, scanning the battlefield, taking a long look about him; the Rim Worlders were fleeing in panic. His samurai—his surviving samurai—were assembling around his scarred and battle-hardened ‘Mech. Fewer than one hundred Combine ‘Mechs still stood—all were damaged to a greater or lesser degree. Nearly a thousand of the Rim World ‘Mechs did not flee—their pilots were dead, or their machines disabled. Still, the survivors of General Chou’s force outnumbered him by seven to one. But they were fleeing.
An alert signal screamed on his console. No, he thought. Not fleeing, clearing the blast radius.
*****************************************************
The Mako class interceptor streaked towards the battlefield at seven times the speed of sound. Its sole payload was one single bomb. Reaching his waypoint, the pilot hauled back on the stick and slammed his throttle to full overthrust. Halfway through the loop he was executing, he hit the release, and the nuclear weapon flew clear—continuing from the ‘lob-toss’ on a ballistic arc that would end three hundred meters above Jinjiro’s ‘Mech.
*****************************************************
Jinjiro watched his scanners track the bomb. Father, he thought, I have redeemed my honor. I AM a Kurita. Avenge me, Father. Avenge my men. Then he closed his eyes as the one-megaton device detonated directly overhead.
September 25, 2767
Keroon Plains
Continent Alpha, Saffel
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
His forces had quickly sped towards the enemy with all the precision the highly trained and veteran warriors who piloted them could offer. Now, Jinjiro stood in his Dragon atop a small bluff overlooking the Keroon Plains—a vast expanse of grass-lands and small groves of trees forty kilometers east of the drop zone. Twenty minutes ago, his headquarters had ceased broadcasting as yet another mushroom cloud erupted into the sky. Still more explosions detonated amidst the grounded DropShips that had brought him here to the surface of this world; leaving him with no chance of escape. Escape, he thought, they still think I—a Kurita—would flee. The corners of his mouth lifted in a grim smile. There will be no escape from this.
The enemy had not yet begun firing his weapons of mass destruction at his ‘Mech forces. This area of Saffel was covered in a fairly dense forest, making it difficult to detect his units from the air. But that cover now lay behind him. Ahead of him, the rolling plains of grass—with only occasional clumps of forest—spread out. Once he exited the forest on those plains, it would be different..
Or perhaps not, he considered. For in the distance, three kilometers away, he could see the glints of sunlight reflecting from the Rim World’s ‘Mechs. Five hundred strong, the initial report had said. His tactical computer showed more than seventeen hundred ‘Mechs, standing and waiting for him to appear. And not just any ‘Mechs; no, those were Royal machines of the Star League. Amaris must have refitted these troops, before sending them here to ambush him. To kill him and his men. So be it, Jinjiro thought. His only regret was that the story of the battle might never be told. Outnumbered two and a half to one, in machines of a lower technology, he would fight both his first and last battle as a samurai should, as a Kurita should. With the honor that his Kurita heritage had tried to teach him—and he had failed to learn, until now on the surface of a world that he would never again leave.
Six regiments of the Combine’s finest stood behind him; no, he shook his head. They stood WITH him. And he with them. The 3rd and 4th Sword of Light—elite troops each and every one, fanatical in their defense of the Combine and the House of Kurita. The 5th Benjamin Regulars—tough veteran warriors who had excelled at the tests given to ensure their continued service. The 2nd Pesht Regulars—many of whom had engaged in duels with Star League MechWarriors, and won. The 1st and 3rd Galedon Regulars—commanded centuries before by Urizen Kurita himself, regiments that had participated in every major engagement of the Combine across the roll of the centuries. Seven hundred and fifty-one of the finest samurai who served the Combine and the Coordinator stood with him. And he—for the first time in his life—could feel the spirits of his ancestors, and the ancestors of all his warriors, standing with him as well.
He radio crackled as the interfering ECM died away. A voice spoke from within.
“Jinjiro Kurita, I am General Walter Chou, commanding the Imperial Amaris Army upon Saffel. Surrender, and give your men a chance at life. Kneel before my Emperor and he shall spare the lives of those who follow you.”
Setting his radio on wide-broadcast, Jinjiro replied. “The Dragon may die, General Chou, but he never surrenders. He never ceases to fight. And though our death may come today, you at least shall perish as well.”
“So be it, Dragon.”
The radio shut down, and before the jamming could resume, Jinjiro summoned up all the courage his spirit could offer and yelled into the microphone, “BANZAI!”
“BANZAI!” screamed seven hundred and fifty-one throats as the Combine ‘Mechs charged out onto the plains below.
*****************************************************
Shocked by the yell, General Chou watched in wonder as hundreds of ‘Mechs painted in red and black swarmed down the hill at their maximum rate of acceleration. From this distance it looked as though someone had kicked open a Pangkalan fire-ant hive. He looked down on the screen at the face of his artillery commander, and said, “Fire.”
Seventy-two Long Tom guns situated behind the Rim Worlds forces traversed and began spouting flame from their long howitzer barrels. Explosions erupted of grass and dirt as the shells impacted atop the charging ‘Mechs. Dozens dropped, but the remainder pressed onwards. The artillery kept pouring fire into the area, but the Draconis ‘Mechs did not slow.
When the Combine forces reached six hundred and ninety meters hundreds of extended-range PPC’s spat coherent energy from the Rim Worlds lines. Chou watched in amazement as each Combine ‘Mech—at the exact moment he entered range—began weaving and bobbing, ducking and dodging, all the while still closing at their maximum speed. He began to feel concern as he noted that fewer than one in twenty of his soldiers managed to hit their targets.
At six hundred and sixty meters, gauss rifles snarled, hurling their bright silver bullets down-range with tremendous kinetic energy. A Dragon exploded as it was hit with four separate projectiles, but hundreds more continued onward.
At six hundred and thirty meters, long-range missiles from both sides erupted in a massive sheet of flame and smoke covering the entire six kilometer long front. Explosions erupted on both sides as ‘Mechs were hit by the enemy fire—there were so many ‘Mechs that the normally inaccurate LRMs were almost guaranteed to strike SOMEONE. Scores of ‘Mechs simply exploded as the double-edged salvo of almost TWENTY THOUSAND missiles struck home. A missile warning beeped in Chou’s ears as his Devastator was targeted by the enemy.
He began to move his ‘Mech, as seven warheads smashed into his right torso, ablating armor and turning him slightly to the right.
Perhaps he should have blindly nuked the woods after all, he thought, as smoke and flame and fire of tens of thousands of individual weapons erupted all around him.
*****************************************************
Jinjiro led the banzai charge in his Dragon. The shells landed around him, and though some of his men fell, the rest charged onward, like ancient samurai into the barrels of their enemy’s guns. Weapons fire began to erupt from the enemy as they entered the superior range of the Star League weapons. It is a small matter, Jinjiro thought, but he prayed the ancestors would protect him until he reached his own range. They did, and locking his crosshairs upon the Devastator from which Chou’s broadcast had originated he fired his long-range missiles, closing the distance with each running step still more. Seven of the ten missiles impacted his target, blasting away chunks of armor.
Chou returned fire, two silver slugs ripping through the air to either side of Jinjiro’s ‘Mech. Jinjiro bared his teeth. These warriors were not the same quality as his; not by far. Letting loose a primeval howl, he entered range of his autocannon and came to sudden and complete halt—firing a burst of twenty rounds at maximum range.
*****************************************************
Chou tracked the black Dragon whose only emblem was the red dragon crest of the Kurita family across the field. His Gauss slugs missed the target as it weaved. Then it entered range of his standard PPC’s and he fired—missing completely as his target came to a sudden halt, and the bolts of azure energy hit the ground before it. Then the Dragon’s right arm snapped up and shells began pouring outwards, towards him. The armor-plexi of his cockpit cracked as a dozen slugs slammed into it, and Chou lost control of his ‘Mech momentarily. When he recovered, he pivoted; bringing both of arm mounted gauss rifles to bear on the Dragon standing . . . it was gone! He began to look around, searching for the ‘Mech of the man who was trying to kill him.
*****************************************************
When the burst ended, Jinjiro accelerated again, changing his angle of approach. A PPC bolt hit his right leg as another Rim Worlder targeted him—or more likely it was a stray bolt from the chaotic melee filling the area. He stumbled, but his training, his skill kept the machine moving forward as he recovered from the sudden loss of more than a half ton of armor. Most of his staff were engaged in their own fights, caught up in the madness and the blood-lust of the charge. But Hikaro stayed with him on his right side. His aide-de-camp and the Otomo into whose charge his father had laid his life. But he focused his attention on the Devastator as Hikaro kept the others off of his back. The Devastator was HIS target, and he would have him. Oh, yes, Jinjiro thought, he would have this gaijin. He reached his maximum land speed, and pushed his reactor to 130% of rated power—dangerous, but he was a Kurita. His ancestors would not let him die in a reactor explosion, not yet, not until he slew this insolent barbarian who had demanded not merely his surrender, but that of the Combine’s finest who followed him. His ‘Mech answered his punishing request with its ferro-ceramic bones groaning under the strain and his speed crept upwards once more.
*****************************************************
Chou couldn’t find him. Nearly half of the Combine ‘Mechs were Dragons! There were over three hundred of them on his scanners. Which was Jinjiro? There! That was him, and he stepped forward, unleashing a blistering fire from both gauss rifles, both PPC’s, and all four of his medium lasers that now had the range. Two of the lasers missed, but the remainder slammed home, and the Dragon that he targeted exploded in a furious detonation. And through the smoke and fire charged the black painted Dragon Chou thought he had just killed.
*****************************************************
Hikaro was dead, taking the blow Chou meant for him. But now Jinjiro was in short-range, and he too fired everything he had. Ten LRM’s streaked outwards, hitting the weakened right torso of the Devastator, as did the medium laser in his left arm. Armor still remained there, but not much. His autocannon spat a stream of shells that tracked across the Devastator’s chest—and one found a chink in the armor. The Devastator shuddered and collapsed as Jinjiro’s shells destroyed the fragile gyro that should have been protected by the thick armor plating. He howled in triumph and closed the distance to physical combat range.
*****************************************************
Chou did not have time to eject as the Dragon’s shells penetrated his armor and his command console burned with dozens of lurid red lights. That shot found a weak point and hit his gyro—the system was failing! He panicked as the ‘Mech collapsed, releasing the straps holding him tight, then falling unconscious as he was flung forward and struck his head on the canopy when the ‘Mech fell to the ground.
*****************************************************
Jinjiro walked up to the Devastator, and broadcast at maximum volume. “So dies all who oppose the Dragon!” Then he slammed the broad heavy foot of his sixty-ton war machine down on the exposed cockpit of collapsed giant, crushing it as though it were a soda can, and General Chou as well.
He paused, scanning the battlefield, taking a long look about him; the Rim Worlders were fleeing in panic. His samurai—his surviving samurai—were assembling around his scarred and battle-hardened ‘Mech. Fewer than one hundred Combine ‘Mechs still stood—all were damaged to a greater or lesser degree. Nearly a thousand of the Rim World ‘Mechs did not flee—their pilots were dead, or their machines disabled. Still, the survivors of General Chou’s force outnumbered him by seven to one. But they were fleeing.
An alert signal screamed on his console. No, he thought. Not fleeing, clearing the blast radius.
*****************************************************
The Mako class interceptor streaked towards the battlefield at seven times the speed of sound. Its sole payload was one single bomb. Reaching his waypoint, the pilot hauled back on the stick and slammed his throttle to full overthrust. Halfway through the loop he was executing, he hit the release, and the nuclear weapon flew clear—continuing from the ‘lob-toss’ on a ballistic arc that would end three hundred meters above Jinjiro’s ‘Mech.
*****************************************************
Jinjiro watched his scanners track the bomb. Father, he thought, I have redeemed my honor. I AM a Kurita. Avenge me, Father. Avenge my men. Then he closed his eyes as the one-megaton device detonated directly overhead.
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10413
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Jinjiro dies with honour...I'm glad he got to redeem himself for his idiocy.
incidentally, jumping into the L3 and L4 points to pin a fleet against a planet seems questionable at best since the L3 point is on the far side of the sun from the planet. Any combination of L1, L2, L4 and L5 would work, but not L3.
incidentally, jumping into the L3 and L4 points to pin a fleet against a planet seems questionable at best since the L3 point is on the far side of the sun from the planet. Any combination of L1, L2, L4 and L5 would work, but not L3.
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Holy hell, that was a fight to be proud of. A pity none will even know the tale.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10413
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
See...I think that makes it even more heroic. He could have just run and no one would know...but he chose to fight and die a forgotten battle. TVTropes calls it "what you are in the dark" and for Jinjiro, in the dark he is a Samurai.LadyTevar wrote:Holy hell, that was a fight to be proud of. A pity none will even know the tale.
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Twenty Nine
September 25, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
Zenith Jump Point, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
Commodore Jerem Daragou looked with grim pleasure over the holographic display projecting the symbolic images of his command. Floating in the display—floating in the ether of the jump point—lay two hundred and ten ships of war, the most powerful flotilla the Rim Worlds Navy had ever assembled at one place, at one time. Commodore Eli Ranson should even now be completing her final jump to Saffel, to ambush the heir of Minoru Kurita and his forces there. In a way, her problems were greater, since Jinjiro could always run. In fact, secretly, Jerem thought that he would—and Ranson’s flotilla would capture nothing—though he had no intention of voicing such thoughts to his Imperial Majesty. Expectation of failure could be considered treason. And Jerem was not a stupid man.
Eli’s command was not nearly as powerful as his—it consisted entirely of older ships the Rim Worlds had built in secret over the past two centuries. Fewer than half of his command—one hundred and four ships—had been launched into service as part of his navy. The remaining vessels had, until very recently, served the Star League or even the Terran Hegemony. Ships recovered from the massive shoals of reserves laid up here in the Terran system, ships in dry-dock captured almost intact on the day of the Coup, ships in building slips at Mars and Titan that Rim Worlds engineers had completed. No, today Jerem had under his command more firepower than any previous naval officer in the service of House Amaris.
But not enough firepower to do what he secretly wanted to do. Kill Stefan Amaris. The man was mad—though his plans had succeeded, so far, at least. But, he just kept pushing. Did he WANT to be at war with all of humanity? Jerem had been dirtside two weeks ago; at the new Imperial Palace being constructed on the Pacific coast of North America. He had been there, when the Emperor received Nicoletta Calderon’s reply to his demand that the divisions of ‘Mechs and armor that he had helped raise and supply for the Periphery separatists to fight the Star League join him on his crusade to rid the universe of Kerensky and the Cameron line. Calderon had said NO, and suggested that the Emperor sue for peace, as rapidly as he could, if he wanted to keep his realm for his heirs. She had told him—in her recorded message—that he, Amaris, was in fact a dead man. That nothing would prevent Kerensky from crushing him for what he had done. And that the Concordat would play no part in his madness.
The Emperor had gone berserk at this ‘betrayal’—and ordered everyone from the Concordat embassy rounded up and fed to his pets in the aquarium. Not even Gunthar von Strang had the nerve to tell the Emperor that the embassy had been empty when they took Terra nine months ago—Nicoletta had recalled everyone in protest over Richard’s use of force against New Vandenberg, nearly a year before. Instead, von Strang rounded up two thousand innocent people from across North America and Europe; and then presented these ‘Taurian diplomats’ to the Emperor in a six hour long blood-bath as the sun set over the ocean to the west of San Diego. Jerem shuddered. Did such a fate await him? Luis Kraal had been a friend—as close a friend as any Jerem had in this scorpion infested officer corps Stefan Amaris had created. He had done nothing to deserve what he had received.
But despite his growing distaste—even hatred—of the man he served, Jerem was a pragmatist. The Emperor forbade any armed ship from approaching closer than the orbit of Mars. And this was Terra. No ordinary Space Defense System here, no, this one dwarfed any other ever constructed. Two hundred ground-based facilities dotted Old Earth itself—another fifty on Luna, with two hundred and fifty more on Mars, Venus, and Titan. The automated M-5 combat drones—robotic WarShips with the firepower and armor of cruisers and the speed and agility of corvettes, the ‘Caspers’ as the Leaguers had called them—they roamed the entirety of the Terran system hunting for targets, just like the Emperor’s pets in their massive tanks. The other Hegemony worlds that had an SDS were supplied with just fifty-four of the damned things—Terra had nearly six hundred defending it. And that did not even include the thousands of drone fighters that each of the Caspers controlled. The sheer numbers had both surprised and shocked him—and Amaris—when they took control of the system back in December; for the public records showed that no more than two hundred and fifty drones had been completed. But, as they had both learned, the Cameron line seemed to have no qualms when it came to lying about their defense infrastructure. So, no, killing Amaris from orbit was not even in the realm of possibility.
Instead, Jerem sat in his command chair of the McKenna class battleship Hand of Destiny—formerly the Shandra Noruff of the Star League Navy. Sat, and waited for the jump clock to count down. He would have offered a prayer for success, but forty years service in the House of Amaris had driven from him all belief in a benevolent god. Hell, though, that he still believed in. He had seen it with his own eyes, not two weeks ago, on the warm shores of the Pacific, as his Emperor’s heir cheered the churning red water. He was a prisoner in Hell, with no hope of ever escaping.
September 25, 2767
DCS Amaratsu
Zenith Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Captain Charles Sorenson watched as yet another massive ship suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Four waves had arrived thus far—eighty ships—and the evenly spaced arrivals showed no sign of slowing. Task Group Asta Three had been assigned to defend the zenith point, but every man and woman assigned to the twenty-eight Combine WarShips knew they were a forlorn hope. Including Sorenson. The jump point had to be defended—they knew that; and they knew that this time they had drawn the short straw. So, here they were. Waiting for two weeks for the attack they knew would eventually come; and now it had.
Twelve minutes ago, the first wave had arrived. Since then the jump point had been a holocaust of beams, shells, and missiles as the Combine vessels at general quarters immediately engaged the ships disoriented from their jump. Those eight vessels had bought time for the remainder of the Task Group to come to action stations—bought and paid for with their lives. Commodore Nagita had died aboard his cruiser Mogami, one of the ships ready and waiting at the jump point. His death left Sorenson as senior officer of the Task Group.
Of the twenty Rim ships of the first wave, Nagita had gutted ten, and damaged the rest. When the second wave had arrived, Sorenson and the other ships were still thrusting for the jump point. But Nagita—with only four of his ships remaining—had switched fire to the fresh opponents, blooding them badly. Another seven of the enemy died. Then the third wave arrived, and before the last ship could finish their translation, only the cruiser Mogami had remained. Two more of the newcomers ended as drifting hulks without power or life support, but Mogami and Nagita and his crew were reduced to an expanding cloud of dust. But they had bought enough time for the remainder of the Task Group to arrive.
The Rim ships had nuclear weapons—and plenty of them. So, Sorenson and the Task Group had to get in close—really close—to prevent the enemy from using them. Knife-fighting range. And thanks to Nagita’s sacrifice, they had. One of Sorenson’s ships exploded on the display, leaving him with fifteen fighting the Rim World’s assault. Those fifteen were firing every weapon they had—as fast as they could—hitting and hurting as many targets as possible. Survival was not even being thought of—every man from Sorenson down to the lowest deck hand knew they were dead men walking. Instead, their goal, Sorenson’s goal, Nagita’s goal, Matasuke’s goal, was to damage enough ships that Admiral Matasuke could stop them short of the planet.
“Hiryu and Soryu report the fighter strike is inbound and will arrive in two minutes, Captain,” his executive officer announced. Good, Sorenson thought, the carriers had been stationed even further out, with only a pair of lightly armed corvettes as escorts. Those four ships had been stationed well out of weapons range—but that increased the flight time of their one hundred and forty-four fighters. The remnants of Nagita’s fighter squadrons swarmed about the leviathans, adding their own sting, but they had depleted their ordnance and most of their fuel. Sorenson’s own fighter screen was adding their own weapons fire to mix already; but those fighters were carried to DEFEND his ships, not carry out offensive actions. They lacked the heavy anti-ship ordnance to effectively challenge enemy capital WarShips. The carriers, on the other hand, their fighters and crews were trained and equipped for exactly this sort of anti-shipping strike. Despite the wealth of firepower his ships mounted, the fighter strike launched by his two carriers would nearly triple his offensive capacity—for a limited time.
“Excellent, Commander, please signal Captain Suchien with my compliments on the quick reaction time of his pilots and deck crews. Guns,” he said, turning to speak to his gunnery officer, “maximum fire rate on all batteries, if you please.”
“Hai, Captain.”
At maximum fire rate, the frigates weapons would begin overheating and be prone to malfunction, possibly even rendered inoperable. No matter that, Sorenson thought. It was unlikely that he would have to answer to yard engineers for such abuse of the Combine’s valuable weaponry—and right now he needed every erg of firepower available. Amaratsu bucked and kicked as her naval autocannon began firing continuously, straining the loading systems and heat sinks to the breaking point. Her naval PPCs and the dual-purpose secondary battery of fighter scale lasers spat coherent energy as quickly as the capacitors could recycle—reducing their life-span dramatically. Six of her eight Killer Whale launchers were hurling missiles as fast as the launchers could reload their tubes. All of her weapons—except the two Killer Whale missile launchers Sorenson kept in reserve—were firing at rates far above their designed limits, and savaging the enemy ships in the process. But even as he watched an enemy Aegis class cruiser explode under the hammering of his guns, he heard a new report from tracking.
“Fifth wave has emerged, Captain. CIC confirms ten of them are battleships.”
The previous four waves—eighty ships—had all consisted of destroyers and cruisers, with a few frigates and corvettes mixed in. That meant the REAL assault was beginning.
“Signal all ships and all fighters—those are the targets. Switch all fire onto the battlewagons.”
Sorenson stood and pulled himself against the thrust of the drives to the gunnery station. He looked at the readouts as they confirmed ship identities against the warbook—three Rim World Thresher class battleships, and seven Star League vessels that Amaris must have captured and placed in service—five old Monsoons, a Texas, and something very interesting. His warbook could not identify it. Sorenson pursed his lips and examined the data—1.2 million tons displacement, lamellar ferro-carbide armor, with a heavy battery of naval PPCs backed up by mid-caliber naval autocannon and a formidable array of capital missile launchers. He stopped and pursed his lips as he considered. The unknown ship had to be one of the League’s new Alaska class battlecruisers. The very latest and most advanced capital warship designed by the League; its very existence had only been rumored about in the Combine. No Alaska’s were in service—but six were supposedly under construction deep in the heart of the Hegemony, and they were the ONLY vessels in Star League service to mass 1.2 megatons. Sorenson patted his young gunnery officer on the shoulder as he made his decision.
“Guns, that’s your target—the Alaska. Release of nuclear weapons is authorized, Helena. Give me two missiles on that ship, please.”
“Hai, Captain.”
Sorenson dragged himself back to his command chair as the latest arrivals began firing at his command. Strapping back in, he turned to his XO. “Have the liaison send a message to the Admiral, Commander. Task Group Asta Three engaging enemy forces—at least one hundred WarShips in five waves. Arrival of more is likely and expected. Commandeered Star League vessels in hands of Rim World force. We will do our duty to the Combine and the Coordinator. Sorenson out.”
As the XO passed along the Skipper’s order, Gunnery Officer Helena Mitsushama locked the two missile launchers held in reserve onto the Alaska. Releasing the safeties on the two nuclear weapons, she turned the firing key and felt the ship buck slightly as the launchers ejected the pair of fifty-ton weapons from the bowels of Amaratsu. Nuclear weapons were in short supply in the Combine fleet—none had been produced for nearly three hundred years. Amaratsu had just four special weapons onboard, but the Skipper said this was a priority target. The Alaska lay just over three hundred kilometers from the Amaratsu—outside of the range where her own weapons would be lethal to herself; and the missiles flew straight and true. Both detonated as they impacted on their target and the balls of fire from two 500-kiloton explosions—fed by escaping oxygen from the broken hull—consumed the vessel. Three other battleships found themselves far too close to the twin detonations. The Texas class ship survived, protected by her heavy armor plating, but was streaming air from several dozen breaches in the hull. A Monsoon and a Thresher were not so lucky—their hulls shattered like glass ornaments as the sleet of debris slammed into them. Another half dozen ships suffered minor damage as well.
And then the six intact capital WarShips rolled to present their own weapons and returned the favor.
September 25, 2767
Slayer Katana Actual
Zenith Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Tai-sa Helka Jorgensen watched from the cockpit of his Slayer as a hail of weapons fire erupted from the Rimmer’s battleline. A frigate—Amaratsu he thought—caught the bulk of the fire, and her drives faltered, spilling atmosphere from scores of hull breaches. The cruiser Atago exploded under a withering hail of fire—leaving nothing heavier than a frigate remaining in the Combine Task Group. Jorgensen was the commander of the combined fighter strike force from Carrier Division Twelve. The one hundred and seven Slayers and thirty-six Shilones arrayed behind him were piloted by highly trained, professional warriors—trained over the past four years by Jorgensen himself.
“Attack groups 121 and 122, arm external ordnance. Our targets are the battleships. 123 follow us in and hammer the survivors. Strike group 124, you’ve got top cover. Keep their fighters off our backs on the attack run.”
Click-click went the transmitter in his helmet as the three group commanders replied. “Katana flight, Katana actual. Designate target Monsoon Beta. Follow me in.”
Click-click went the transmitter as Jorgensen banked his fighter and bored in on an undamaged Monsoon, eleven Slayers following his lead. Weaving his fighter, Jorgensen reached down and flicked the switch that armed the sixteen pods mounted beneath his fighter’s aero-hull. Normally considered a ground-attack weapon, the pods had been loaded aboard the Slayers of Carrier Division Twelve at Jorgensen’s request. Each pod carried ten 76mm hypervelocity rockets, capable of gutting a tank, or letting a ‘Mech know that he had been hit. But sixteen pods—one hundred and sixty rockets—could, if fired at short enough of a range, penetrate even the most advanced naval armor. And his one hundred and eight Slayers carried 1,728 pods—over SEVENTEEN THOUSAND rockets. More than enough to shatter even the armor of the League’s most modern naval designs and wreak horrendous damage to their internal systems. If he lived long enough to get within firing range, of course. For if the rockets were powerful, they were also VERY short-legged, and inaccurate to boot. Most of his colleagues preferred to carry the long-range Harpoon IV standoff attack missile—but each of his Slayers could only carry two of them. And their heavy warhead only did the raw damage of three of his rocket pods. No, for this strike, Jorgensen wanted the heaviest possible damage, even if it meant taking his pilots into the teeth of the anti-fighter defenses of a battleship. Not all of them would be coming home after this strike, he knew.
Flak erupted from all around him as the Rim World’s battleships switched munitions from standard anti-ship projectiles to the anti-fighter cluster rounds. Conventional weapons snarled as he closed, and twenty-four Rim Worlds Mako class interceptors tried to bounce his command on the approach. But the Shilones of Strike Group 124 were waiting and Jorgensen plowed through the cloud of debris they had left behind. A Slayer exploded on his left, another on his right; then the group was through the main flak-belt.
“Visual range launch, Katana Flight. I say again, visual range launch!”
His Slayer streaked towards the ancient Terran battlewagon before him. It rapidly grew from a pinprick in the distance to something the size of a scale model, and then kept growing as the range dropped still more. Thirty kilometers, fifteen, five, one, two-hundred fifty meters!
“Fire!” Jorgensen snarled, as he squeezed the firing trigger on his control stick. Five medium lasers went into barrage fire mode, firing as fast the capacitors could recycle. The nose mounted heavy autocannon buzzed like a chain-saw as it spat armor-piercing shells towards the behemoth in front of him. And sixteen rocket pods spat flame and fire as one hundred and sixty rockets raced for the armored flank of the battlewagon. Grunting, he yanked back the stick and slammed his throttle to the firewall as the sixteen empty pods automatically released, freeing his fighter of their added mass. The Slayer leapt forward as its thrust tripled without the pods drag and screamed across the dorsal surface of the Monsoon, with a bare thirty meters of separation. Then he was clear. Explosions behind him erupted across the surface of the battleship, then something deep inside cut loose. A single massive eruption broke the spine of the ship, ripping it in two; streaming air, flame, wreckage, and bodies in his wake. Eight surviving fighters from his flight followed him as he altered course back to the carriers. Time to get back, reload, and do that again, he thought. Except next time, we won’t have rocket pods—we just used all the ones the carriers had aboard.
September 25, 2767
DCS Amaratsu
Zenith Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Sorenson shook the cobwebs from his head as he glanced around his ruined bridge, a sharp pain emanating from his right side. Smoke from electrical fires hung low in the air, and only the emergency lighting provided illumination. One entire bank of controls on the starboard side had exploded during the chaos, spalling deadly shrapnel across his bridge. The bulkhead behind the controls was actually bulging inwards—but the armor had held, mostly. Helena Mitsushama was dead at her station—decapitated by one of the shards ripped free. Over half his bridge crew was dead, he realized, including his XO. Amaratsu was no longer accelerating, so he floated in zero gravity as he released the straps of his command chair and made his way to the tactical station, trying—and failing—to ignore the pain in his side. His surviving crew was already beginning to recover and get reports from below decks on the damage; from the lurid red lights blazing on all intact consoles he knew it would be bad.
The tactical repeater stilled showed a condensed version of CICs main holotank, and he wiped Helena’s blood off to read the display. It was bad. Turning to the comm-station, he was surprised the comm-links still functioned. Gently moving aside the rapidly cooling young man who had served under him for a year, he signaled the carrier Hiryu. Captain Suchien’s face appeared on screen between bursts of static.
“Captain Sorenson, we thought Amaratsu was dead, sir.”
“We are Jean-Paul, just not quite yet. It’s time to execute the Admiral’s order.”
Jean-Paul Suchien’s face went white. “We are winning, Charles. We can still get you . . . “
“No, their next wave will be arriving any moment. The fighter strike was our best bet, but the Task Group is done. Captain Suchien, I instruct you to pull out Carrier Division Twelve and proceed to your rendezvous point with Admiral Matasuke. Please confirm and acknowledge.”
Suchien looked down off the screen for a moment, and then raised his head. “Yours orders are confirmed, sir.”
Sorenson nodded. “Give Kathryn and the kids my love, Jean-Paul. Now recover every fighter you can and get clear. And tell the Admiral we did our best.”
“I will, old friend. I will. And Charles,” he paused for a moment. “Good hunting and Godspeed.” The screen went blank as Hiryu terminated the transmission. The wounded officer pulled himself back to his command chair, noticing the bubbles of his blood floating in his wake. Ignoring the expanding stain on his uniform, he sat and tightly belted himself in, wincing as the pain in his chest protested against the restraining straps.
Sorenson reached down and flipped the switch on his chair that activated the all-ships frequency, and then a second that would broadcast throughout the ship. Adjusting his boom microphone, he noted that only six of his ships remained operational—if, that is, you counted Amaratsu as operational. The sixth wave was even now exiting jump space—including another ten fresh battleships.
“All ships, all hands. This is Sorenson. Prepare to thrust and brace for impact. Let’s take a few more of these bastards with us. For the Combine! For the Coordinator! BANZAI!”
As he cut the circuit, he looked around his bridge. A junior officer had removed Helena’s body and taken over her station. “Skipper, safeties have been removed from both remaining warheads and the weapons are armed. Missile transfer systems are down, however—we can’t move the weapons from the magazines to the launchers. All other weapon systems are currently inoperable, as well.”
From the helm station, a petty officer spoke up. “Drives are online, but are heavily damaged and can only generate a maximum of 2-g’s of thrust, Sir. Plus we are venting fuel into space from a ruptured line in engineering. Damage control estimates it will take an hour to effect repairs, but we will be out of fuel in twenty-four minutes at the present rate of loss.”
Sorenson forced himself to chuckle. “So after all this, we will run out of gas?”
His bridge crew laughed—gallows humor. He straightened up in his command chair, ignoring the splintered white bone that protruded through his uniform. “Set your course for that big bastard right there helm. Best possible thrust. Gunnery, set special weapon fuses to detonate on our impact.”
“Hai, Captain.”
*****************************************************
Amaratsu was hit four more times as she slowly charged the former Star League Ship Montana. She did not stop, though, and both her remaining nuclear weapons detonated on impact.
September 25, 2767
DCS Mikasa
L-3 Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“Report,” spoke Hideki Matasuke calmly as he hit the acceptance key on his communications screen. He was already sitting up and grabbing for his boots before his conscious mind realized the alert klaxon was sounding throughout the Mikasa.
Captain Abe appeared on the display. “Rim Worlds vessels have begun jumping in-system at the zenith jump-point, Admiral. The task group we assigned there has already engaged the enemy and inflicted significant damage.”
“Numbers?”
“They are being cautious, sir. They are exiting jump in waves of twenty ships each; seven waves so far have arrived. No transports, sir, they are just bringing WarShips to the party it seems.”
Matasuke grunted as he finally seated his heel properly and checked the integrity seals. Damned thing seemed to shrink two sizes every time he took it off! “That is not surprising, Captain Abe—and it is what we planned for. Any sign of the enemy at the nadir point?”
“None, Admiral.”
Matasuke nodded. It would have been helpful for the Rim Worlders to divide their forces—perhaps allowing him to engage one force while the other was out of range; helpful and foolish. He had not thought that their commander would do so, but contingency plans had been drawn up just in case.
He stood, and began fastening his tunic. “Very well, Captain. I will be on the bridge shortly; please inform the Coordinator and the First Lord that the attack is under way. Have the Fleet stand by to execute Operations Order Four; and order Task Group Asta Four to rejoin the main body from the nadir point.”
Captain Abe came to attention and saluted. “Hai, Admiral,” then broke off the transmission.
Buckling the belt of his jacket, Matasuke looked at the pictures of his wife, his children, his grand-children hanging on the wall. He walked over, touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips, and placed them on the picture of his wife, dead now five years from cancer; then bowed his head for moment. Raising it, he turned away and left the silent cabin at a brisk jog.
September 25, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
Zenith Jump Point, Terra
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
Commodore Jerem Daragou looked with grim pleasure over the holographic display projecting the symbolic images of his command. Floating in the display—floating in the ether of the jump point—lay two hundred and ten ships of war, the most powerful flotilla the Rim Worlds Navy had ever assembled at one place, at one time. Commodore Eli Ranson should even now be completing her final jump to Saffel, to ambush the heir of Minoru Kurita and his forces there. In a way, her problems were greater, since Jinjiro could always run. In fact, secretly, Jerem thought that he would—and Ranson’s flotilla would capture nothing—though he had no intention of voicing such thoughts to his Imperial Majesty. Expectation of failure could be considered treason. And Jerem was not a stupid man.
Eli’s command was not nearly as powerful as his—it consisted entirely of older ships the Rim Worlds had built in secret over the past two centuries. Fewer than half of his command—one hundred and four ships—had been launched into service as part of his navy. The remaining vessels had, until very recently, served the Star League or even the Terran Hegemony. Ships recovered from the massive shoals of reserves laid up here in the Terran system, ships in dry-dock captured almost intact on the day of the Coup, ships in building slips at Mars and Titan that Rim Worlds engineers had completed. No, today Jerem had under his command more firepower than any previous naval officer in the service of House Amaris.
But not enough firepower to do what he secretly wanted to do. Kill Stefan Amaris. The man was mad—though his plans had succeeded, so far, at least. But, he just kept pushing. Did he WANT to be at war with all of humanity? Jerem had been dirtside two weeks ago; at the new Imperial Palace being constructed on the Pacific coast of North America. He had been there, when the Emperor received Nicoletta Calderon’s reply to his demand that the divisions of ‘Mechs and armor that he had helped raise and supply for the Periphery separatists to fight the Star League join him on his crusade to rid the universe of Kerensky and the Cameron line. Calderon had said NO, and suggested that the Emperor sue for peace, as rapidly as he could, if he wanted to keep his realm for his heirs. She had told him—in her recorded message—that he, Amaris, was in fact a dead man. That nothing would prevent Kerensky from crushing him for what he had done. And that the Concordat would play no part in his madness.
The Emperor had gone berserk at this ‘betrayal’—and ordered everyone from the Concordat embassy rounded up and fed to his pets in the aquarium. Not even Gunthar von Strang had the nerve to tell the Emperor that the embassy had been empty when they took Terra nine months ago—Nicoletta had recalled everyone in protest over Richard’s use of force against New Vandenberg, nearly a year before. Instead, von Strang rounded up two thousand innocent people from across North America and Europe; and then presented these ‘Taurian diplomats’ to the Emperor in a six hour long blood-bath as the sun set over the ocean to the west of San Diego. Jerem shuddered. Did such a fate await him? Luis Kraal had been a friend—as close a friend as any Jerem had in this scorpion infested officer corps Stefan Amaris had created. He had done nothing to deserve what he had received.
But despite his growing distaste—even hatred—of the man he served, Jerem was a pragmatist. The Emperor forbade any armed ship from approaching closer than the orbit of Mars. And this was Terra. No ordinary Space Defense System here, no, this one dwarfed any other ever constructed. Two hundred ground-based facilities dotted Old Earth itself—another fifty on Luna, with two hundred and fifty more on Mars, Venus, and Titan. The automated M-5 combat drones—robotic WarShips with the firepower and armor of cruisers and the speed and agility of corvettes, the ‘Caspers’ as the Leaguers had called them—they roamed the entirety of the Terran system hunting for targets, just like the Emperor’s pets in their massive tanks. The other Hegemony worlds that had an SDS were supplied with just fifty-four of the damned things—Terra had nearly six hundred defending it. And that did not even include the thousands of drone fighters that each of the Caspers controlled. The sheer numbers had both surprised and shocked him—and Amaris—when they took control of the system back in December; for the public records showed that no more than two hundred and fifty drones had been completed. But, as they had both learned, the Cameron line seemed to have no qualms when it came to lying about their defense infrastructure. So, no, killing Amaris from orbit was not even in the realm of possibility.
Instead, Jerem sat in his command chair of the McKenna class battleship Hand of Destiny—formerly the Shandra Noruff of the Star League Navy. Sat, and waited for the jump clock to count down. He would have offered a prayer for success, but forty years service in the House of Amaris had driven from him all belief in a benevolent god. Hell, though, that he still believed in. He had seen it with his own eyes, not two weeks ago, on the warm shores of the Pacific, as his Emperor’s heir cheered the churning red water. He was a prisoner in Hell, with no hope of ever escaping.
September 25, 2767
DCS Amaratsu
Zenith Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Captain Charles Sorenson watched as yet another massive ship suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Four waves had arrived thus far—eighty ships—and the evenly spaced arrivals showed no sign of slowing. Task Group Asta Three had been assigned to defend the zenith point, but every man and woman assigned to the twenty-eight Combine WarShips knew they were a forlorn hope. Including Sorenson. The jump point had to be defended—they knew that; and they knew that this time they had drawn the short straw. So, here they were. Waiting for two weeks for the attack they knew would eventually come; and now it had.
Twelve minutes ago, the first wave had arrived. Since then the jump point had been a holocaust of beams, shells, and missiles as the Combine vessels at general quarters immediately engaged the ships disoriented from their jump. Those eight vessels had bought time for the remainder of the Task Group to come to action stations—bought and paid for with their lives. Commodore Nagita had died aboard his cruiser Mogami, one of the ships ready and waiting at the jump point. His death left Sorenson as senior officer of the Task Group.
Of the twenty Rim ships of the first wave, Nagita had gutted ten, and damaged the rest. When the second wave had arrived, Sorenson and the other ships were still thrusting for the jump point. But Nagita—with only four of his ships remaining—had switched fire to the fresh opponents, blooding them badly. Another seven of the enemy died. Then the third wave arrived, and before the last ship could finish their translation, only the cruiser Mogami had remained. Two more of the newcomers ended as drifting hulks without power or life support, but Mogami and Nagita and his crew were reduced to an expanding cloud of dust. But they had bought enough time for the remainder of the Task Group to arrive.
The Rim ships had nuclear weapons—and plenty of them. So, Sorenson and the Task Group had to get in close—really close—to prevent the enemy from using them. Knife-fighting range. And thanks to Nagita’s sacrifice, they had. One of Sorenson’s ships exploded on the display, leaving him with fifteen fighting the Rim World’s assault. Those fifteen were firing every weapon they had—as fast as they could—hitting and hurting as many targets as possible. Survival was not even being thought of—every man from Sorenson down to the lowest deck hand knew they were dead men walking. Instead, their goal, Sorenson’s goal, Nagita’s goal, Matasuke’s goal, was to damage enough ships that Admiral Matasuke could stop them short of the planet.
“Hiryu and Soryu report the fighter strike is inbound and will arrive in two minutes, Captain,” his executive officer announced. Good, Sorenson thought, the carriers had been stationed even further out, with only a pair of lightly armed corvettes as escorts. Those four ships had been stationed well out of weapons range—but that increased the flight time of their one hundred and forty-four fighters. The remnants of Nagita’s fighter squadrons swarmed about the leviathans, adding their own sting, but they had depleted their ordnance and most of their fuel. Sorenson’s own fighter screen was adding their own weapons fire to mix already; but those fighters were carried to DEFEND his ships, not carry out offensive actions. They lacked the heavy anti-ship ordnance to effectively challenge enemy capital WarShips. The carriers, on the other hand, their fighters and crews were trained and equipped for exactly this sort of anti-shipping strike. Despite the wealth of firepower his ships mounted, the fighter strike launched by his two carriers would nearly triple his offensive capacity—for a limited time.
“Excellent, Commander, please signal Captain Suchien with my compliments on the quick reaction time of his pilots and deck crews. Guns,” he said, turning to speak to his gunnery officer, “maximum fire rate on all batteries, if you please.”
“Hai, Captain.”
At maximum fire rate, the frigates weapons would begin overheating and be prone to malfunction, possibly even rendered inoperable. No matter that, Sorenson thought. It was unlikely that he would have to answer to yard engineers for such abuse of the Combine’s valuable weaponry—and right now he needed every erg of firepower available. Amaratsu bucked and kicked as her naval autocannon began firing continuously, straining the loading systems and heat sinks to the breaking point. Her naval PPCs and the dual-purpose secondary battery of fighter scale lasers spat coherent energy as quickly as the capacitors could recycle—reducing their life-span dramatically. Six of her eight Killer Whale launchers were hurling missiles as fast as the launchers could reload their tubes. All of her weapons—except the two Killer Whale missile launchers Sorenson kept in reserve—were firing at rates far above their designed limits, and savaging the enemy ships in the process. But even as he watched an enemy Aegis class cruiser explode under the hammering of his guns, he heard a new report from tracking.
“Fifth wave has emerged, Captain. CIC confirms ten of them are battleships.”
The previous four waves—eighty ships—had all consisted of destroyers and cruisers, with a few frigates and corvettes mixed in. That meant the REAL assault was beginning.
“Signal all ships and all fighters—those are the targets. Switch all fire onto the battlewagons.”
Sorenson stood and pulled himself against the thrust of the drives to the gunnery station. He looked at the readouts as they confirmed ship identities against the warbook—three Rim World Thresher class battleships, and seven Star League vessels that Amaris must have captured and placed in service—five old Monsoons, a Texas, and something very interesting. His warbook could not identify it. Sorenson pursed his lips and examined the data—1.2 million tons displacement, lamellar ferro-carbide armor, with a heavy battery of naval PPCs backed up by mid-caliber naval autocannon and a formidable array of capital missile launchers. He stopped and pursed his lips as he considered. The unknown ship had to be one of the League’s new Alaska class battlecruisers. The very latest and most advanced capital warship designed by the League; its very existence had only been rumored about in the Combine. No Alaska’s were in service—but six were supposedly under construction deep in the heart of the Hegemony, and they were the ONLY vessels in Star League service to mass 1.2 megatons. Sorenson patted his young gunnery officer on the shoulder as he made his decision.
“Guns, that’s your target—the Alaska. Release of nuclear weapons is authorized, Helena. Give me two missiles on that ship, please.”
“Hai, Captain.”
Sorenson dragged himself back to his command chair as the latest arrivals began firing at his command. Strapping back in, he turned to his XO. “Have the liaison send a message to the Admiral, Commander. Task Group Asta Three engaging enemy forces—at least one hundred WarShips in five waves. Arrival of more is likely and expected. Commandeered Star League vessels in hands of Rim World force. We will do our duty to the Combine and the Coordinator. Sorenson out.”
As the XO passed along the Skipper’s order, Gunnery Officer Helena Mitsushama locked the two missile launchers held in reserve onto the Alaska. Releasing the safeties on the two nuclear weapons, she turned the firing key and felt the ship buck slightly as the launchers ejected the pair of fifty-ton weapons from the bowels of Amaratsu. Nuclear weapons were in short supply in the Combine fleet—none had been produced for nearly three hundred years. Amaratsu had just four special weapons onboard, but the Skipper said this was a priority target. The Alaska lay just over three hundred kilometers from the Amaratsu—outside of the range where her own weapons would be lethal to herself; and the missiles flew straight and true. Both detonated as they impacted on their target and the balls of fire from two 500-kiloton explosions—fed by escaping oxygen from the broken hull—consumed the vessel. Three other battleships found themselves far too close to the twin detonations. The Texas class ship survived, protected by her heavy armor plating, but was streaming air from several dozen breaches in the hull. A Monsoon and a Thresher were not so lucky—their hulls shattered like glass ornaments as the sleet of debris slammed into them. Another half dozen ships suffered minor damage as well.
And then the six intact capital WarShips rolled to present their own weapons and returned the favor.
September 25, 2767
Slayer Katana Actual
Zenith Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Tai-sa Helka Jorgensen watched from the cockpit of his Slayer as a hail of weapons fire erupted from the Rimmer’s battleline. A frigate—Amaratsu he thought—caught the bulk of the fire, and her drives faltered, spilling atmosphere from scores of hull breaches. The cruiser Atago exploded under a withering hail of fire—leaving nothing heavier than a frigate remaining in the Combine Task Group. Jorgensen was the commander of the combined fighter strike force from Carrier Division Twelve. The one hundred and seven Slayers and thirty-six Shilones arrayed behind him were piloted by highly trained, professional warriors—trained over the past four years by Jorgensen himself.
“Attack groups 121 and 122, arm external ordnance. Our targets are the battleships. 123 follow us in and hammer the survivors. Strike group 124, you’ve got top cover. Keep their fighters off our backs on the attack run.”
Click-click went the transmitter in his helmet as the three group commanders replied. “Katana flight, Katana actual. Designate target Monsoon Beta. Follow me in.”
Click-click went the transmitter as Jorgensen banked his fighter and bored in on an undamaged Monsoon, eleven Slayers following his lead. Weaving his fighter, Jorgensen reached down and flicked the switch that armed the sixteen pods mounted beneath his fighter’s aero-hull. Normally considered a ground-attack weapon, the pods had been loaded aboard the Slayers of Carrier Division Twelve at Jorgensen’s request. Each pod carried ten 76mm hypervelocity rockets, capable of gutting a tank, or letting a ‘Mech know that he had been hit. But sixteen pods—one hundred and sixty rockets—could, if fired at short enough of a range, penetrate even the most advanced naval armor. And his one hundred and eight Slayers carried 1,728 pods—over SEVENTEEN THOUSAND rockets. More than enough to shatter even the armor of the League’s most modern naval designs and wreak horrendous damage to their internal systems. If he lived long enough to get within firing range, of course. For if the rockets were powerful, they were also VERY short-legged, and inaccurate to boot. Most of his colleagues preferred to carry the long-range Harpoon IV standoff attack missile—but each of his Slayers could only carry two of them. And their heavy warhead only did the raw damage of three of his rocket pods. No, for this strike, Jorgensen wanted the heaviest possible damage, even if it meant taking his pilots into the teeth of the anti-fighter defenses of a battleship. Not all of them would be coming home after this strike, he knew.
Flak erupted from all around him as the Rim World’s battleships switched munitions from standard anti-ship projectiles to the anti-fighter cluster rounds. Conventional weapons snarled as he closed, and twenty-four Rim Worlds Mako class interceptors tried to bounce his command on the approach. But the Shilones of Strike Group 124 were waiting and Jorgensen plowed through the cloud of debris they had left behind. A Slayer exploded on his left, another on his right; then the group was through the main flak-belt.
“Visual range launch, Katana Flight. I say again, visual range launch!”
His Slayer streaked towards the ancient Terran battlewagon before him. It rapidly grew from a pinprick in the distance to something the size of a scale model, and then kept growing as the range dropped still more. Thirty kilometers, fifteen, five, one, two-hundred fifty meters!
“Fire!” Jorgensen snarled, as he squeezed the firing trigger on his control stick. Five medium lasers went into barrage fire mode, firing as fast the capacitors could recycle. The nose mounted heavy autocannon buzzed like a chain-saw as it spat armor-piercing shells towards the behemoth in front of him. And sixteen rocket pods spat flame and fire as one hundred and sixty rockets raced for the armored flank of the battlewagon. Grunting, he yanked back the stick and slammed his throttle to the firewall as the sixteen empty pods automatically released, freeing his fighter of their added mass. The Slayer leapt forward as its thrust tripled without the pods drag and screamed across the dorsal surface of the Monsoon, with a bare thirty meters of separation. Then he was clear. Explosions behind him erupted across the surface of the battleship, then something deep inside cut loose. A single massive eruption broke the spine of the ship, ripping it in two; streaming air, flame, wreckage, and bodies in his wake. Eight surviving fighters from his flight followed him as he altered course back to the carriers. Time to get back, reload, and do that again, he thought. Except next time, we won’t have rocket pods—we just used all the ones the carriers had aboard.
September 25, 2767
DCS Amaratsu
Zenith Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Sorenson shook the cobwebs from his head as he glanced around his ruined bridge, a sharp pain emanating from his right side. Smoke from electrical fires hung low in the air, and only the emergency lighting provided illumination. One entire bank of controls on the starboard side had exploded during the chaos, spalling deadly shrapnel across his bridge. The bulkhead behind the controls was actually bulging inwards—but the armor had held, mostly. Helena Mitsushama was dead at her station—decapitated by one of the shards ripped free. Over half his bridge crew was dead, he realized, including his XO. Amaratsu was no longer accelerating, so he floated in zero gravity as he released the straps of his command chair and made his way to the tactical station, trying—and failing—to ignore the pain in his side. His surviving crew was already beginning to recover and get reports from below decks on the damage; from the lurid red lights blazing on all intact consoles he knew it would be bad.
The tactical repeater stilled showed a condensed version of CICs main holotank, and he wiped Helena’s blood off to read the display. It was bad. Turning to the comm-station, he was surprised the comm-links still functioned. Gently moving aside the rapidly cooling young man who had served under him for a year, he signaled the carrier Hiryu. Captain Suchien’s face appeared on screen between bursts of static.
“Captain Sorenson, we thought Amaratsu was dead, sir.”
“We are Jean-Paul, just not quite yet. It’s time to execute the Admiral’s order.”
Jean-Paul Suchien’s face went white. “We are winning, Charles. We can still get you . . . “
“No, their next wave will be arriving any moment. The fighter strike was our best bet, but the Task Group is done. Captain Suchien, I instruct you to pull out Carrier Division Twelve and proceed to your rendezvous point with Admiral Matasuke. Please confirm and acknowledge.”
Suchien looked down off the screen for a moment, and then raised his head. “Yours orders are confirmed, sir.”
Sorenson nodded. “Give Kathryn and the kids my love, Jean-Paul. Now recover every fighter you can and get clear. And tell the Admiral we did our best.”
“I will, old friend. I will. And Charles,” he paused for a moment. “Good hunting and Godspeed.” The screen went blank as Hiryu terminated the transmission. The wounded officer pulled himself back to his command chair, noticing the bubbles of his blood floating in his wake. Ignoring the expanding stain on his uniform, he sat and tightly belted himself in, wincing as the pain in his chest protested against the restraining straps.
Sorenson reached down and flipped the switch on his chair that activated the all-ships frequency, and then a second that would broadcast throughout the ship. Adjusting his boom microphone, he noted that only six of his ships remained operational—if, that is, you counted Amaratsu as operational. The sixth wave was even now exiting jump space—including another ten fresh battleships.
“All ships, all hands. This is Sorenson. Prepare to thrust and brace for impact. Let’s take a few more of these bastards with us. For the Combine! For the Coordinator! BANZAI!”
As he cut the circuit, he looked around his bridge. A junior officer had removed Helena’s body and taken over her station. “Skipper, safeties have been removed from both remaining warheads and the weapons are armed. Missile transfer systems are down, however—we can’t move the weapons from the magazines to the launchers. All other weapon systems are currently inoperable, as well.”
From the helm station, a petty officer spoke up. “Drives are online, but are heavily damaged and can only generate a maximum of 2-g’s of thrust, Sir. Plus we are venting fuel into space from a ruptured line in engineering. Damage control estimates it will take an hour to effect repairs, but we will be out of fuel in twenty-four minutes at the present rate of loss.”
Sorenson forced himself to chuckle. “So after all this, we will run out of gas?”
His bridge crew laughed—gallows humor. He straightened up in his command chair, ignoring the splintered white bone that protruded through his uniform. “Set your course for that big bastard right there helm. Best possible thrust. Gunnery, set special weapon fuses to detonate on our impact.”
“Hai, Captain.”
*****************************************************
Amaratsu was hit four more times as she slowly charged the former Star League Ship Montana. She did not stop, though, and both her remaining nuclear weapons detonated on impact.
September 25, 2767
DCS Mikasa
L-3 Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
“Report,” spoke Hideki Matasuke calmly as he hit the acceptance key on his communications screen. He was already sitting up and grabbing for his boots before his conscious mind realized the alert klaxon was sounding throughout the Mikasa.
Captain Abe appeared on the display. “Rim Worlds vessels have begun jumping in-system at the zenith jump-point, Admiral. The task group we assigned there has already engaged the enemy and inflicted significant damage.”
“Numbers?”
“They are being cautious, sir. They are exiting jump in waves of twenty ships each; seven waves so far have arrived. No transports, sir, they are just bringing WarShips to the party it seems.”
Matasuke grunted as he finally seated his heel properly and checked the integrity seals. Damned thing seemed to shrink two sizes every time he took it off! “That is not surprising, Captain Abe—and it is what we planned for. Any sign of the enemy at the nadir point?”
“None, Admiral.”
Matasuke nodded. It would have been helpful for the Rim Worlders to divide their forces—perhaps allowing him to engage one force while the other was out of range; helpful and foolish. He had not thought that their commander would do so, but contingency plans had been drawn up just in case.
He stood, and began fastening his tunic. “Very well, Captain. I will be on the bridge shortly; please inform the Coordinator and the First Lord that the attack is under way. Have the Fleet stand by to execute Operations Order Four; and order Task Group Asta Four to rejoin the main body from the nadir point.”
Captain Abe came to attention and saluted. “Hai, Admiral,” then broke off the transmission.
Buckling the belt of his jacket, Matasuke looked at the pictures of his wife, his children, his grand-children hanging on the wall. He walked over, touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips, and placed them on the picture of his wife, dead now five years from cancer; then bowed his head for moment. Raising it, he turned away and left the silent cabin at a brisk jog.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Thirty
September 25, 2767
Asta Defense Headquarters
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Stephen walked into the conference room where Minoru waited. As Minoru rose and bowed, he halted and returned the bow. “Lord Minoru, I trust that you have not been kept waiting long?”
Minoru waved the suggestion away. “No, Lord Stephen, I have not. It is a most impressive facility—for such a hasty project.” Minoru looked around the room at the bare ferrocrete walls, floors, and ceiling. The table was good solid Astan feroak, but that and the dozen or so chairs were the only objects not painted a flat haze gray—other than the various pipes running across the ceiling and the lighting fixtures. Minoru imagined that he could feel the weight of the mountain above them—this facility had been carved from bedrock nearly five hundred meters beneath the surface of the planet; 1.2 kilometers beneath the jagged peaks of the granite mountain above.
Stephen smiled and walked across the room to his seat and sat, while Hiroyoshi and Gerald took positions to behind and to either side of his chair. Two of the Coordinator’s own Otomo stood behind him. Stephen looked down and chuckled as he considered the situation—he and his two men at one end of the table, Minoru and his at the other; ‘High Noon’, indeed.
“I thank the Coordinator for his kind words. And yes, Lord Minoru, the facility is completely new, and quite hastily built. General Anders, General Samasov, and Colonel Bradley insisted upon its construction shortly after the liberation. This facility shall serve as the planetary defense headquarters—one that Amaris does not even suppose exists. We are not near any major city, nor any of the SDS facilities. We have our own power, water, and can recycle our air for years without difficulty. The good generals have assured me that sufficient supplies have been laid in to allow us to live in reasonable comfort for up to two years if necessary. And we have full communications—all over buried transmission lines—with every defense installation on the planet.”
Not to mention the hyper-fax taken from the Borodino installed in the highly secure communications room, he thought. Stephen stopped and grinned. “They haven’t gotten around to installing the paneling and carpeting yet, however, my Lord.”
“No, they did not, my Lord. Still, if I must spend this fight ground-side, then this place does appear to have more than adequate protections. And the holographic tank in the command center will allow me to observe the battle in full when it begins.”
Stephen nodded as his smile faded away. “Gerald threatened to punch me in the jaw if I even tried to get anywhere near the capital or any of your ships during this fight, my Lord.” His lips quivered as he paused, then continued. “I don’t even think that Hiroyoshi would have tried to stop him—this time at least.”
Newly promoted Tai-sa Hiroyoshi Tanaka, bowed to the two leaders as both turned their gaze upon him. “You are correct, my Lord Cameron. Indeed, I would have aided First Sergeant Howe had you not agreed to lead the fight from here.”
Minoru nodded. “Yes, Lord Stephen. Young Tanaka and your Sergeant Howe have the right of it. I have other heirs, safe on Luthien. If I am to die, it is no matter. The Dragon lives on, through the product of my loins. You, on the other hand, have only one heir—who is still here, along with your wife. In this very facility. At this very moment. And, at this time, during this crisis, we can not afford a second regency.”
“Hai, Lord Minoru. Marianne and Cassie won’t leave—and it’s too late to try to get them off-world now.”
“And where are Generals Anders, Samasov, and Fujita, Lord Stephen? I was under the impression that there would be a briefing on the current situation.”
“We are waiting upon another, Lord Minoru. When he arrives, the briefing will begin.”
Minoru nodded, and lifted his steaming cup of tea, taking a sip. The two men sat, saying nothing, for several minutes.
Finally, the door opened, and Colonel Tricia Hall wheeled in Commanding General Aleksandyr Kerensky. Stephen rose, followed by Minoru, as the general’s aide wheeled the life-support chair to the table. Anders, Samasov, Fujita, and Bradley followed the pair inside, along with half-a-dozen lower-ranking officers—all of whom had just been most thoroughly searched by the guards outside for weapons. Hiroyoshi had personally ordered that each and every person attending this briefing—save only the Coordinator and Stephen—be searched to ensure that none carried weapons, open or hidden.
Aleksandyr Kerensky looked up from his chair, his face ashen, and slightly sunken. “My Lord, it is I who should rise when you enter.”
“And as I believe I told you before, Aleksandyr, I have a bit of a problem with other people’s expectations and beliefs about how I should conduct my life. I quite simply fail to give a damn about them.”
Colonel Hall locked the chair—which contained medical monitoring equipment and a complete pharmacopia feeding into Kerensky’s body via the tubes inserted into this arms. Stephen and Minoru sat, followed by the officers in service to their two states. Kerensky took a moment to catch his breath, and then looked first at Minoru, then at Stephen.
“I am given to understand that Amaris has sent an attack force, yes?”
“Yes, General Kerensky, he has.”
“And that despite your Fleet’s gallant efforts at the zenith point; he still outnumbers and possesses far greater firepower than your own ships, Lord Minoru?”
“Hai.”
“And the latest news?”
General Anders spoke from across the table, his eyes fixed on the man before him—broken perhaps in body, but never in spirit. “Two hours ago, they completed bringing ships in-system, General Kerensky. Before being destroyed, TG Asta Three managed to inflict critical damage upon or destroy thirty-four enemy vessels—damaging another forty to either a greater or lesser extent. Carrier Division Twelve was the only surviving unit, and it has performed an in-system jump to rejoin Admiral Matasuke’s main body, as has TG Asta Four, which is undamaged. The enemy force—now numbering one hundred and seventy-six WarShips—have split into four Task Forces, each consisting of approximately forty ships. We have identified these Task Forces as Vampire One through Vampire Four. Sixteen of their vessels were too heavily damaged to accompany them; these cripples have been left at the zenith point. These Task Forces are advancing on Asta in mutual support range, at 1-g of acceleration.”
Kerensky nodded, leaned over and whispered in Colonel Hall’s ear. She nodded, stood, and left the conference room.
“And what of Admiral Matasuke’s command, General Anders?”
“Admiral Matasuke has one hundred and twenty-three ships of war, General, consisting of six carriers, six battleships, eight battlecruisers, fourteen cruisers, sixteen frigates, forty-two destroyers, and thirty-one corvettes. Aboard the carriers are twelve carrier fighter groups—each consisting of thirty-six aerospace fighters—armed and equipped for anti-shipping strikes; for a total of four hundred and thirty-two. The other ships of the Draconis Fleet can put another one thousand, three hundred, and thirty-two fighters into space—primarily as Barrier CAP, Fleet Defense, and Strike Escort, but they include another two hundred and forty designed and armed for an offensive strike role. Call it roughly twelve and a half of our aero-regiments for strike missions and another twenty to protect the strikes and the Fleet.”
“The Kurita ships are currently assembled in high orbit of Asta, ready to deploy to intercept the Rim Worlds fleet before they reach firing range of the planet. The ground forces—including the two remaining regiments of our own 3rd RCT—have another four hundred and fourteen fighters between them, slightly less than nine additional regiments. These fighters have only limited experience in deep- or near-space combat; they are ground support units, primarily. They are forming our reserve, just in case the Rim Worlds ships get too close to the planet. And of course we have the SDS installations on-line, jury-rigged though they may be.”
Colonel Hall came back in, as Hiroyoshi listened via his earpiece to the outside details report on what she had retrieved. She walked over to General Kerensky and placed a china saucer and cup on the table, a cup filled with steaming Astan tea. Then she sat once more.
“An impressive force, to be sure, Lord Minoru, Lord Stephen, a most impressive force. Let us consider though, what the Rim Worlds strike force has available. General Anders?”
Anders grimaced. “At last count, not including their cripples at the zenith, General Kerensky, the Rim Worlds naval force approaching Asta has twenty-two battleships and battlecruisers, thirty-eight cruisers, forty-one frigates, forty-nine destroyers, and twenty corvettes. Between them, those ships can deploy two thousand, five hundred and twenty aerospace fighters. Carrier Division Twelve identified at least sixty Leopard and Titan fighter carriers among their DropShips as well, giving the Rim Worlders another seven hundred and twenty fighters. Call it roughly sixty of our aerospace regiments.”
“If my sources of information are correct, General Anders, a good percentage of that force consists of ships that Amaris captured when he took the Hegemony, yes?”
“We have confirmed just about half of their total force does consist of former Hegemony and League vessels, General Kerensky.”
Kerensky nodded and took a sip of his tea.
“And how, gentlemen, do you plan to stop them before they can range on the planet and bombard with nuclear munitions?”
Kerensky looked first at Minoru then across the assembled officers and finally fixed his gaze on Stephen’s face.
“Any damn way we can, Aleksandyr,” Stephen growled. “Any damn way we can. Would you care to give us your assistance in this planning session, sir?”
General Kerensky smiled broadly, his eyes twinkling as his cheeks dimpled, color returning to his face. “Why, most certainly, First Lord. I thought you would never ask.” Then he took another sip of tea.
September 25, 2767
Asta Defense Headquarters
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Stephen walked into the conference room where Minoru waited. As Minoru rose and bowed, he halted and returned the bow. “Lord Minoru, I trust that you have not been kept waiting long?”
Minoru waved the suggestion away. “No, Lord Stephen, I have not. It is a most impressive facility—for such a hasty project.” Minoru looked around the room at the bare ferrocrete walls, floors, and ceiling. The table was good solid Astan feroak, but that and the dozen or so chairs were the only objects not painted a flat haze gray—other than the various pipes running across the ceiling and the lighting fixtures. Minoru imagined that he could feel the weight of the mountain above them—this facility had been carved from bedrock nearly five hundred meters beneath the surface of the planet; 1.2 kilometers beneath the jagged peaks of the granite mountain above.
Stephen smiled and walked across the room to his seat and sat, while Hiroyoshi and Gerald took positions to behind and to either side of his chair. Two of the Coordinator’s own Otomo stood behind him. Stephen looked down and chuckled as he considered the situation—he and his two men at one end of the table, Minoru and his at the other; ‘High Noon’, indeed.
“I thank the Coordinator for his kind words. And yes, Lord Minoru, the facility is completely new, and quite hastily built. General Anders, General Samasov, and Colonel Bradley insisted upon its construction shortly after the liberation. This facility shall serve as the planetary defense headquarters—one that Amaris does not even suppose exists. We are not near any major city, nor any of the SDS facilities. We have our own power, water, and can recycle our air for years without difficulty. The good generals have assured me that sufficient supplies have been laid in to allow us to live in reasonable comfort for up to two years if necessary. And we have full communications—all over buried transmission lines—with every defense installation on the planet.”
Not to mention the hyper-fax taken from the Borodino installed in the highly secure communications room, he thought. Stephen stopped and grinned. “They haven’t gotten around to installing the paneling and carpeting yet, however, my Lord.”
“No, they did not, my Lord. Still, if I must spend this fight ground-side, then this place does appear to have more than adequate protections. And the holographic tank in the command center will allow me to observe the battle in full when it begins.”
Stephen nodded as his smile faded away. “Gerald threatened to punch me in the jaw if I even tried to get anywhere near the capital or any of your ships during this fight, my Lord.” His lips quivered as he paused, then continued. “I don’t even think that Hiroyoshi would have tried to stop him—this time at least.”
Newly promoted Tai-sa Hiroyoshi Tanaka, bowed to the two leaders as both turned their gaze upon him. “You are correct, my Lord Cameron. Indeed, I would have aided First Sergeant Howe had you not agreed to lead the fight from here.”
Minoru nodded. “Yes, Lord Stephen. Young Tanaka and your Sergeant Howe have the right of it. I have other heirs, safe on Luthien. If I am to die, it is no matter. The Dragon lives on, through the product of my loins. You, on the other hand, have only one heir—who is still here, along with your wife. In this very facility. At this very moment. And, at this time, during this crisis, we can not afford a second regency.”
“Hai, Lord Minoru. Marianne and Cassie won’t leave—and it’s too late to try to get them off-world now.”
“And where are Generals Anders, Samasov, and Fujita, Lord Stephen? I was under the impression that there would be a briefing on the current situation.”
“We are waiting upon another, Lord Minoru. When he arrives, the briefing will begin.”
Minoru nodded, and lifted his steaming cup of tea, taking a sip. The two men sat, saying nothing, for several minutes.
Finally, the door opened, and Colonel Tricia Hall wheeled in Commanding General Aleksandyr Kerensky. Stephen rose, followed by Minoru, as the general’s aide wheeled the life-support chair to the table. Anders, Samasov, Fujita, and Bradley followed the pair inside, along with half-a-dozen lower-ranking officers—all of whom had just been most thoroughly searched by the guards outside for weapons. Hiroyoshi had personally ordered that each and every person attending this briefing—save only the Coordinator and Stephen—be searched to ensure that none carried weapons, open or hidden.
Aleksandyr Kerensky looked up from his chair, his face ashen, and slightly sunken. “My Lord, it is I who should rise when you enter.”
“And as I believe I told you before, Aleksandyr, I have a bit of a problem with other people’s expectations and beliefs about how I should conduct my life. I quite simply fail to give a damn about them.”
Colonel Hall locked the chair—which contained medical monitoring equipment and a complete pharmacopia feeding into Kerensky’s body via the tubes inserted into this arms. Stephen and Minoru sat, followed by the officers in service to their two states. Kerensky took a moment to catch his breath, and then looked first at Minoru, then at Stephen.
“I am given to understand that Amaris has sent an attack force, yes?”
“Yes, General Kerensky, he has.”
“And that despite your Fleet’s gallant efforts at the zenith point; he still outnumbers and possesses far greater firepower than your own ships, Lord Minoru?”
“Hai.”
“And the latest news?”
General Anders spoke from across the table, his eyes fixed on the man before him—broken perhaps in body, but never in spirit. “Two hours ago, they completed bringing ships in-system, General Kerensky. Before being destroyed, TG Asta Three managed to inflict critical damage upon or destroy thirty-four enemy vessels—damaging another forty to either a greater or lesser extent. Carrier Division Twelve was the only surviving unit, and it has performed an in-system jump to rejoin Admiral Matasuke’s main body, as has TG Asta Four, which is undamaged. The enemy force—now numbering one hundred and seventy-six WarShips—have split into four Task Forces, each consisting of approximately forty ships. We have identified these Task Forces as Vampire One through Vampire Four. Sixteen of their vessels were too heavily damaged to accompany them; these cripples have been left at the zenith point. These Task Forces are advancing on Asta in mutual support range, at 1-g of acceleration.”
Kerensky nodded, leaned over and whispered in Colonel Hall’s ear. She nodded, stood, and left the conference room.
“And what of Admiral Matasuke’s command, General Anders?”
“Admiral Matasuke has one hundred and twenty-three ships of war, General, consisting of six carriers, six battleships, eight battlecruisers, fourteen cruisers, sixteen frigates, forty-two destroyers, and thirty-one corvettes. Aboard the carriers are twelve carrier fighter groups—each consisting of thirty-six aerospace fighters—armed and equipped for anti-shipping strikes; for a total of four hundred and thirty-two. The other ships of the Draconis Fleet can put another one thousand, three hundred, and thirty-two fighters into space—primarily as Barrier CAP, Fleet Defense, and Strike Escort, but they include another two hundred and forty designed and armed for an offensive strike role. Call it roughly twelve and a half of our aero-regiments for strike missions and another twenty to protect the strikes and the Fleet.”
“The Kurita ships are currently assembled in high orbit of Asta, ready to deploy to intercept the Rim Worlds fleet before they reach firing range of the planet. The ground forces—including the two remaining regiments of our own 3rd RCT—have another four hundred and fourteen fighters between them, slightly less than nine additional regiments. These fighters have only limited experience in deep- or near-space combat; they are ground support units, primarily. They are forming our reserve, just in case the Rim Worlds ships get too close to the planet. And of course we have the SDS installations on-line, jury-rigged though they may be.”
Colonel Hall came back in, as Hiroyoshi listened via his earpiece to the outside details report on what she had retrieved. She walked over to General Kerensky and placed a china saucer and cup on the table, a cup filled with steaming Astan tea. Then she sat once more.
“An impressive force, to be sure, Lord Minoru, Lord Stephen, a most impressive force. Let us consider though, what the Rim Worlds strike force has available. General Anders?”
Anders grimaced. “At last count, not including their cripples at the zenith, General Kerensky, the Rim Worlds naval force approaching Asta has twenty-two battleships and battlecruisers, thirty-eight cruisers, forty-one frigates, forty-nine destroyers, and twenty corvettes. Between them, those ships can deploy two thousand, five hundred and twenty aerospace fighters. Carrier Division Twelve identified at least sixty Leopard and Titan fighter carriers among their DropShips as well, giving the Rim Worlders another seven hundred and twenty fighters. Call it roughly sixty of our aerospace regiments.”
“If my sources of information are correct, General Anders, a good percentage of that force consists of ships that Amaris captured when he took the Hegemony, yes?”
“We have confirmed just about half of their total force does consist of former Hegemony and League vessels, General Kerensky.”
Kerensky nodded and took a sip of his tea.
“And how, gentlemen, do you plan to stop them before they can range on the planet and bombard with nuclear munitions?”
Kerensky looked first at Minoru then across the assembled officers and finally fixed his gaze on Stephen’s face.
“Any damn way we can, Aleksandyr,” Stephen growled. “Any damn way we can. Would you care to give us your assistance in this planning session, sir?”
General Kerensky smiled broadly, his eyes twinkling as his cheeks dimpled, color returning to his face. “Why, most certainly, First Lord. I thought you would never ask.” Then he took another sip of tea.
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Chris OFarrell
- Durandal's Bitch
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- Contact:
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Nice, but I still don't get why Jinjiro didn't have at least a couple of Cruisers stay behind when he ordered the fleet to withdraw. Its not really a big sacrifice to loose two hulls like that, and they would have had plenty of time to vaporize the Rimmers on the ground with Ortillary and let Jinjiro disperse his command into hiding. At the very least, it would have let him fight a glorious campaign that could have become a gigantic ulcer in the belly of that MadMan on Terra.
Still, it wasn't a bad CMOA for him to do the whole BANZAI! thing with his Regiments instead.
Still, it wasn't a bad CMOA for him to do the whole BANZAI! thing with his Regiments instead.
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
And now we see why Kerensky was considered The Badass Mutherfucker of naval fleet engagements.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
“If my sources of information are correct, General Anders, a good percentage of that force consists of ships that Amaris captured when he took the Hegemony, yes?”
Makes you wonder if Hegemony ships have override codes buried somewhere deep in their command systems..... A trick that would probably only work once, but still, worth it to take out the cream of Amaris' fleet.
Makes you wonder if Hegemony ships have override codes buried somewhere deep in their command systems..... A trick that would probably only work once, but still, worth it to take out the cream of Amaris' fleet.
"Only a fool expects rational behaviour from their fellow humans. Why do you expect it from a machine that humans have designed?"
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10413
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Well this is going to be bloody.
Incidentally, why are Frigates apparently rarer than Destroyers? And what exactly is the distinction in the BT universe?
Incidentally, why are Frigates apparently rarer than Destroyers? And what exactly is the distinction in the BT universe?
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
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- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
In BattleTech, frigates are approximately the same size (mass) as many cruisers. Generally speaking, they are slower to accelerate and carry less weapons, but are heaver, with more armor, than destroyers. Plus, frigates usually have docking collars for DropShips; destroyers (usually) do not.Eternal_Freedom wrote:Well this is going to be bloody.
Incidentally, why are Frigates apparently rarer than Destroyers? And what exactly is the distinction in the BT universe?
MA
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Chapter Thirty One
September 30, 2767
Asta Defense Headquarters
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
For five nerve-wracking days, Stephen had watched the icons on the holographic projector crawl towards Asta. With the Rim Worlds forces divided into four separate battle-groups, Admiral Matasuke should have been able to engage any one and defeat it in detail. But they could not afford to try that, not against this enemy. If he had sortied and defeated one—or even two—the remainder would skirt past and strike the planet. No, Matasuke had remained in orbit, until thirty minutes ago. Thirty minutes ago, the one hundred and twenty-three ships of Matasuke’s fleet had fired their thrusters and moved to engage the enemy that had finally crossed the orbit of Sapphire—Asta’s largest moon.
Stephen looked across the command center. There was Minoru, speaking softly with Aleksandyr; the Otomo and Colonel Hall in attendance. Sam Anders engaged in a video conference with Gregor Samasov, still on the surface with his troops—where he had decided to remain. Hiroyoshi and Gerald watching everyone in the room like a pair of hunting raptors. The dozens of personnel—Kerensky’s staff, SLDF troopers, Combine naval and army officers, Astan volunteers—who manned the various stations and coordinated the defense efforts. Stephen swallowed hard. He was proud of these people, his people all. Even the Combine personnel were his people, he realized. He was First Lord, not just of the Hegemony where he had been born, but of everyone throughout the entirety of settled space. And today, his heart swelled with pride at the courage and confidence his people showed.
Admiral Matasuke appeared on one of the monitors on the far wall, and Major Julian Chen—one of Kerensky’s staff that had accompanied him to Asta aboard the Borodino—stood and spoke. “My Lords, General Kerensky, its time.”
Stephen nodded to himself and made his way across the command center to the small platform where two chairs—and space for a life-support chair—had been placed. Colonel Hall wheeled General Kerensky in his chair to the empty space in the middle and Stephen leaned over and grasped the man’s right arm, above the wrist.
“God speed, General, and good hunting.”
“Thank you, First Lord. Lord Kurita?”
Minoru Kurita nodded as he sat besides Kerensky to the left as Stephen did to the right. Kurita clutched in his hand the mahogany case containing the ancient ‘Z Flag’—a swatch of silk cloth nearly eight hundred and fifty years old. The flag that had been raised by Togo at Tsushima; by Nagumo at Pearl Harbor. It had been a gift to Shiro Kurita from the last member of the royal family of Japan centuries before—as a way to bridge the gap between the Combine and their heritage; to ensure that the new Imperial power ruled by those who had served Japan in the past would not forget from where they came. When DCS Mikasa had been commissioned into service two hundred and seventeen years ago, the Coordinator had personally placed the ancient flag into the hands of her commander—charging that officer, and all who would come after, with the honor to defend it. Until yesterday, it had never left that ship. Yesterday, Matasuke sent it to the surface in the hands of an aide, ordered to place it in the hands of the Coordinator himself. Stephen had been there when Minoru received it. He understood the meaning of the gesture. Even if we die here today, the passing of that flag said, what we fight for lives on. The Mikasa will live on, even if this incarnation falls. He understood, and he approved.
It had been decided that General Kerensky would speak on their behalf, so Stephen and Minoru waited. Finally, after an eternity, Kerensky nodded, and the technicians sent the signal.
September 30, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
“Sir, we are receiving a transmission from the planet.”
Commodore Jerem Daragou looked up from the remote conference with his three battle-group commanders. A transmission? Now? His flotilla was less than thirty minutes from weapons range with the Combine ships. In five minutes his fighters would launch to sweep the heavens clear of their aerospace support, leaving his superior numbers and firepower to crush the Dragon’s ships like eggshells, before turning the lovely little planet on his view screen into a burnt cinder.
“Yes, Lieutenant. What do they want?”
“I . . . I think you should see this, sir.” Elias Tambora was stuttering and seemed shaken. Daragou shook his head. The most difficult part of reactivating the old Hegemony and League ships of the reserve—as well as the captured and incomplete modern designs—had been the manpower. Already stretched past the breaking point, the Rim Worlds navy simply did not have enough men to crew them all. Amaris had an answer for that, of course. The dozens—scores—of civilian cargo ships that had helped carry his forces to the Hegemony had been stood down, their crews press-ganged into service as conscripts for the Navy.
That had helped some, and given Daragou trained spacers, but not nearly enough. So Amaris reached down into the Army, and transferred several thousand Army personnel into the Navy. Personnel who had never served aboard a capital warship, personnel who might, today, have six or seven weeks of experience with the equipment they were to operate. That fact worried him, but it was out of his control. Lieutenant Tambora, though, he wasn’t one of the new crew. No, Tambora had served with him for the past five years.
“Put it on the main projector, Lieutenant.”
“Sir.”
Daragou waited as the holo-graphic projector shifted colors then solidified into a view of three men. He sat bolt upright as he recognized two of them. Aleksandyr Kerensky and Minoru Kurita!
“Good morning, gentlemen. I am Aleksandyr Kerensky, Commanding General of the Star League Defense Forces. Here with me—on Asta—are Minoru Kurita, the Coordinator of the Draconis Combine and Stephen Cameron, First Lord of the Star League and Director-General of the Terran Hegemony.”
Daragou snarled. Kerensky, here! The Emperor would reward him beyond all measure if he brought news of the death not only of the Cameron, but of Kerensky and Kurita as well.
“I am Commodore Jerem Daragou, commanding the First Flotilla of his Imperial Majesty’s Navy. Have you a desire to surrender yourself to us and spare this world our wrath, General?”
Kerensky shook his head. “No, Commodore. I only want to convince you to lay aside this madness. Power down your ships and accept boarding parties and you will be interned for the duration. Unless you or your men have committed war crimes against innocent civilians, you will be fairly treated as prisoners of war for the duration, after which you can return to your homes in the Rim.”
Daragou couldn’t help himself; he emitted a bark of laughter. “General, have you not seen the numbers of our two forces? If you do not surrender, then you, and the Coordinator, and the so-called First Lord sitting beside you will die, as will the entire planet. I give you my word, surrender now, and I will neither fire upon nor bomb the planetary surface.”
“Yes, Commodore, quite an impressive force you have. Of stolen ships. Hegemony and League ships for the most part,” he smiled as he said that, and Daragou felt a cold chill run up his spine. He was up to something. Kerensky knew something that he did not, but what?
“Have you never wondered, Commodore, why the Hegemony and the League never seemed to place much emphasis upon defending and guarding the ships placed in the Inactive Reserve; ships freely orbiting in the Terran system, the New Earth system, the Keid system, and others? Why, even before we were engaged against the Taurian Separatists we did not place armed space stations in their midst to keep dishonest people from attempting to hijack our property?”
“Have you never wondered, Commodore, why we would treat so many mega-tons of capital warships in such a cavalier fashion? After all, they were only inactive. As you well know, their K-F cores still function, their maneuvering drives still function, their weapons needed only fresh munitions to operate. So why did we leave them, sitting there alone, without a guard, an open invitation to any thief who could sneak aboard to hijack a cruiser or battleship of the Hegemony?”
Daragou frowned. He had never considered the League’s Naval Reserve in such a light. Where was Kerensky going with this? But the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach grew.
“The reason, Commodore, that we were not concerned with a hijacking was simple. We ensured that it could never happen.” Kerensky nodded to someone off-screen. “You see, whenever a ship of the Hegemony or the League is retired from active service, Commodore, it is deactivated and moth-balled. As part of that operation, all systems and software are upgraded to current standards. During the work to prepare a ship for her long sleep, one of the many, many procedures is the installation of a small, unmarked black box module—one of the many thousands scattered across the entire ship. None of the technicians who installed the module were aware of its purpose, and no records are kept of either the installation or its location.”
“This module was first developed during the reign of First Lord Ian Cameron, two centuries ago, Commodore. Since then, its very existence has been passed along from Commanding General to Commanding Admiral, down to me. No one else in the entire Star League knew of it, so of course you could take no precautions against its activation. I am quite sorry, Commodore, but I simply shall not let you use those stolen ships of our Reserve against us.” And Kerensky’s face broke into a broad grin.
Lieutenant Tambora snapped upright at his station. “Commodore! Every ship in the fleet is receiving a data-stream burst transmission from the planet!”
“Shut down all communications receptors! Shut them all down!” Daragou screamed, but it was far, far too late for that.
September 30, 2767
RWS Tempest
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Aboard the ancient Monsoon class battleship Tempest, the data-stream burst reached the comm receptors less than three seconds after being broadcast. The receptors recognized the signal and relayed it into the ship through the optical fiber cables, doing exactly what the communications system had been designed to do—communicate. This transmission though was not intended for the human crew of the ship, but for the central computer core. So, obedient to the hard-wired instructions, the comm system relayed the transmission directly to the core. More precisely to a single black box module that had been installed one hundred and sixty years earlier when the Tempest had been retired from service. For one hundred and sixty years that module had slept, like a well trained dog, while keeping one ear cocked, waiting for its master’s whistle. Now it heard that whistle, and it awoke.
Not in the least drowsy after its long sleep, the module examined the data-stream. Yes, everything matched the commands etched into its memory, and the confirmation was there as well. Good, now it could finally do its job. The module began to issue commands of its own, written in computer code two centuries before by men long dead. But the module did not know that—and could not have cared if it did. It only wanted to do the job it had been designed to do, like a good dog eager to please.
The first command—issued one second after the transmission reached the ship—shut down every instrument panel and control console on the ship, cutting power to every board and depriving the human crew of any measure of control. It also contacted the computers of each of the DropShips attached to the Tempest’s hull and every aerospace fighter carried onboard and replicated itself into their memory, then activated aboard those ships as well. The anti-viral software of the attached vessels and fighters let the command pass without even trying to halt it; the worm had the proper access codes, after all.
Receiving an acknowledgement that the first task had been completed, the module sent a second command forth. Throughout the Tempest—and her attached DropShips and her aerospace fighters—powered hatches slammed open and locked in place; every powered hatch and cockpit aboard, including those that lay on the outer hull and the half-dozen cargo bay doors. A hurricane of air and heat and more than a few bodies erupted from the Tempest and her parasites as they bled air and life like a living creature would blood.
A third command went out, and the fusion power generators went into emergency shutdown mode. Power throughout the ship failed, and back-up batteries began to come online. In an afterthought, the module sent a command to the fuel transfer system, opening vents and ports on the outer hull, and flushed the tanks to vacuum. Finally, the module reached the fourth and last command function. It confirmed the order, and then transmitted it deep into the heart of the central computer core—without which nothing on the ship would ever again function.
The core recognized the order, and asked for a confirmation. It received the correct one. It was a most unusual order, one it had never before received, but the idiot-savant acknowledged the order as valid and began to implement it. The Tempest shuddered as the core began to reformat, erasing all software and data-banks as the massive computer overwrote itself, selfishly committing suicide.
Within seven seconds of the data-stream burst being transmitted—four seconds after receiving it—the Tempest was an inert piece of metal, cold and dead, drifting through space, as were the six DropShips attached to her hull. Of the six hundred and forty-eight men who comprised her crew, seventeen managed to avoid death from vacuum exposure by donning space suits in time. The rest were not quite so lucky. And this was only one of the sixty-eight ships of the Reserve in Daragou’s flotilla affected by Kerensky’s transmission.
September 30, 2767
DCS Mikasa
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Admiral Matasuke looked with pleasure at the display as the precise Rim Worlds formations disintegrated into chaos. Sixty-eight of the Rim vessels—fourteen battleships, eleven cruisers, twenty-four frigates, and nineteen destroyers—lost power and began to helplessly drift, bleeding air and fuel into space.
“Captain Abe, the Fleet will advance. Target only active Rim Worlds vessels, leave the remainder alone. And, Captain, order the carriers to launch their fighter strike, if you please.”
“Hai, Admiral.”
The Rim Worlds force had lost their decisive numerical advantage; in fact, Matasuke now outnumbered his opponent by fifteen ships. In the weight of ships, however, Daragou still held the superiority; though he would not hold that superiority for long. Once again, Matasuke wished they had held off just three more weeks—for that was when he was expecting the shipment of brand-new nuclear warheads to arrive; warheads that were just now finishing assembly at plants deep in the heart of the Combine. But he had to fight this battle with what he had, so forty-two would have to suffice.
“Pass the word to the battlecruisers and frigates, Captain Abe, release of nuclear weapons is at their own discretion. Make certain they know that each one needs to be on target, we don’t have that many to spare.”
Captain Abe nodded to acknowledge the order as he continued speaking into his boom microphone as Matasuke swiveled his chair to face the communications station.
“Communications, please ask General Anders to send the execute command.”
“Hai, Admiral.”
September 30, 2767
SLS Black Lion
Jump Point KV-112 (Uninhabited)
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
Basil Christophos and Alicia Hall waited on the bridge of the Star League battlecruiser. Arriving at the jump point four days ago, he had sent ahead a signal over the hyper-fax—as some called the black box communications units—to Asta. They had received a reply almost instantly—from none other than General Kerensky himself. Terse transmissions conveyed the situation on Asta, and Kerensky’s orders for himself and Hall. And the order was to wait. Wait while their drives recharged, wait for the command that would bring them instantaneously into weapons range of the enemy.
So, they had waited. For four days, the crews had been standing by at Condition Two—half of the crew manning battle stations with weapons armed and ready, jump coordinates fed into the K/F drive, fighters and assault DropShips ready to launch; while the other half tried to sleep or eat, waiting to come back on duty and take up their share of the load.
He had ordered the troop carriers with his divisions onboard transferred to other ships, but too few docking collars were available for all of them. Half of the DropShips carrying his ‘Mechs and infantry and armor were keeping station with their own drives, a thousand klicks away, along with the unarmed and unarmored JumpShips and lightly protected transports. But he had stayed aboard the Black Lion. He could have left—he was no naval officer, after all—but in the Defense Force, in Kerensky’s Defense Force, officers did not shirk their duty because of technicalities. Truth be told, he thought to himself, nothing could have dragged him away.
The 247th was taking a monumental risk, Hall had explained, using words that a six-year old could have understood. The L-1 Point that was their destination was the smallest of all of the pirate points surrounding Asta. By arriving there, the 247th would be directly between the Rim World ships and the planet—to get to the planet, the Rimmers would have to go through them. But with twelve WarShips making a simultaneous jump, things could get dicey, she had said. Ships entering or exiting jump could do so only at Jump Points, everyone knew that. But the real kicker was that if a substantial mass—such as another WarShip—lay in close proximity of the jump, BAD THINGS happened. Sometimes the ship never appeared and vanished, its fate unknown. Other times a massive explosion occurred, destroying both the arriving ship and the one already present. Sometimes, the arriving ship arrived safely, to find the vessel too close to its jump point torn to ribbons by the still imprecisely understood gravitational forces associated with a hyper-jump. Basil and Hall would be making this jump at the absolute minimum separation between ships. But jumps were seldom so precise. A single error in plotting aboard a single ship before the jump could result in two ships attempting to jump into the same exact coordinates. BAD THINGS, indeed.
Commodore Hall floated across her own bridge to where Basil waited; a message board in her hands. She passed it across to him and he quickly read it, inhaling deeply. It was time. He nodded at her, handing it back.
“Fraser, sound General Quarters and send the ship to action stations,” she barked. “Signal the remainder of the Flotilla to do so as well. Becket, prepare to initiate simultaneous formation jump in four minutes. Start the jump clock.” She floated down into the command chair and opened the all-hands circuit as the lights were suddenly switched to dim red battle lanterns, and the other crew shift began rushing onto the bridge. “Alright, people, listen up! The General has sent us the Word—and the Word is Go. We are going in hot, so stand by and be ready for anything. This is the best ship in the Fleet, and you are the finest crew any captain could want. I’m proud of all of you. Let’s get in there and do our jobs.”
Basil pulled himself down into a station chair and began to fasten the intricate set of straps that would hold him place—regardless of the sudden changes in thrust and vector that the ship may make. As the jump clock continued to count down, he placed his hand on the breast of his uniform, and felt the crucifix beneath. His other hand began to stroke the rosary he held. He began whispering, “Hail Mary, full of grace . . . “
September 30, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Commodore Daragou was in shock. One-third of his flotilla has just been disabled. His decisive superiority had evaporated to nothing. And on the projector display, the Combine ships were accelerating and launching fighters.
“Battle-groups two, three, and four launch all fighters and engage the Draconis ships!” He barked as he turned to his executive officer. “Harley, pass the order for our battle-group to go to maximum acceleration, and load nuclear weapons in all launch tubes—programmed for saturation coverage of the northern continental mass of Asta. Hold our fighters back, but I want them ready to go on a seconds notice—we may need them to cut us a path.”
“Sir.”
Daragou forced himself to look back at the projector. He would be lucky to extract twenty ships from this mess. But, if he plastered Asta from orbit—killing Cameron, Kerensky, and Kurita—then maybe the Emperor would not feed him to his fish.
September 30, 2767
Slayer Katana Actual
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Jorgensen grimaced as yet another of his flight exploded to his left. Six hundred and seventy-two fighters were part of this strike—the largest aerospace operation in which he had ever participated. Another five hundred and forty provided cover, while the remaining five hundred and fifty eight were trying to keep the Rim fighters off of the Fleet. Unfortunately, even with the surprise Kerensky had sprung, the enemy had almost two thousand fighters of their own in space, over half of them trying to stop HIM. Or so it seemed. And to make matters worse, the surviving Rim Worlds vessels were firing nuclear weapons non-stop. As he weaved his fighter through the fire, yet another nuclear detonation announced the death of one of Kaga’s attack groups.
There had been no rocket pods available to resupply his group, so this strike was loaded with Harpoon stand-off missiles instead. But it was going to take a lot more than a single pass with a pair of the long-ranged weapons to stop the enemy.
The deck crews aboard Hiryu had time to unpack replacement fighters, so at least he had a full complement of fighters. And even more important, was the Fleet doctrine that every carrier must embark two full crews for each fighter they carried. So the replacement pilots of the replacement fighters under his command were men and women he had worked with, men and women he trusted to get the job done right.
But this furball was pure chaos—and suddenly his attack groups were under fire from enemy Makos. Then the Shilone’s of Strike Group 124 appeared, and he was out of the fire. A dozen Slayers had not been so lucky, but he still had nine arrayed behind him. His display crackled with static—interference from all of the nuclear weapons was rapidly becoming a problem—but cleared, giving him a solid look at six enemy ships just off his port-side. Four cruisers escorted by a pair of destroyers.
“121 and 122, we are taking those cruisers. 123 try to keep those damn Makos off of us until 124 gets here. Press the attack, boys and girls. No one goes home with so much as a single shell left in the magazine. Flight leaders, paint your targets and prepare to release Harpoons, then we follow the birds all the way in.”
Hurried acknowledgements crackled across the static filled radio. Jorgenson banked hard, bearing down on the Sovetskii Soyuz class cruiser that now lay ahead of him; nine other of the heavy attack craft following in tight formation. Flak began exploding all around them as the cruiser spotted the incoming strike. A constant tone sounded in his helmet as the seeker heads of the two missiles he carried locked on the target. Green lights across the board showed the rest of Katana flight was locked as well. He squeezed the trigger and felt the Slayer jolt as the two heavy missiles dropped and began to accelerate rapidly towards the cruiser.
“Missiles away! Go to max thrust and follow me in!”
A piece of flak caught his right wing, but the armor held. One, then two, then three of the fighters behind him exploded. His display cleared, identifying the two destroyers riding herd on the cruisers—Brilliant class. Frak me, he thought. I had to pick the cruiser group with a pair of anti-aerospace destroyers as escorts.
The Harpoons bored in, and eighteen explosions lit up the flanks of the heavy cruiser. Still more were impacting on the other three big ships—and at least some of his people had identified the Brilliants. Dozen of explosions wracked those ships as well.
Freed of the drag of the big missiles, Jorgensen’s Slayer charged forward at maximum acceleration, as he crossed the inner threshold of the flak belt. He was pressed back in his seat by the crushing hand of gravity, straining to draw breath as the ships expanded in his gun-sights. Five of his fighters were still behind him. As he reached weapons range, he opened fire, the autocannon spewing shells and the lasers spat bolts of coherent light. Still more explosions—but far smaller ones—began erupting on the cruiser.
Suddenly, his fighter was hit, and began to spin. Red lights flashed on his display, as the stick went dead and the engine died. Three Makos screamed past, but his four surviving fighters kept boring in. Another shot hit his fighter and Jorgensen looked down in horror as the life support system began dumping his oxygen reserve into the cockpit. An electrical spark from the damaged systems ignited the gas and he screamed as his own fighter roasted him alive.
Only fourteen Slayers and eleven Shilones would survive the strike and return to Hiryu and Soryu—none of the enemy cruisers did.
September 30, 2767
SLS Black Lion
L-1 Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Basil breathed a sigh of relief when the systems stabilized and the plot showed that they were in Asta, and in one piece. In fact, all of Hall’s ships had come through, according to the plot—but dozens of lurid red icons began to appear as well, and very close. He turned towards her command chair, but before he could speak she began barking orders.
“Launch all fighters and assault ships! Weapons, target the McKenna and the Alaska! Maneuvering, keep us between them and the planet!”
A ragged chorus of ‘aye-ayes’ answered that string of orders from Captain Hall. The Black Lion began shuddering as fifty heavy naval autocannon opened up in rapid-fire mode—consuming ten tons of ammunition in less than a minute. The ship rocked hard as dozens of beams and shells impacted the heavy armor plating, and then the Alaska class vessel in the holotank detonated under the combined fire of her ships. Across the bridge a cheer went up at the red icon winked out.
“Alright, people, that was good. Now pick another target, damn it, and do it again!”
She turned her head to look at Basil. “General, sir, I bet now you wish you’d stayed with your divisions.”
“Not on your life, Cap . . .”
“Incoming!” screamed a voice from Tracking—and the entire ship lurched, lights flickering as the very hammer of the gods slammed into the side of the Black Lion, and everything went black for Basil.
September 30, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Daragou cursed viciously as the twelve brand new, fresh Star League ships popped into existence between him and the planet. The twenty-two ships of his battle-group had them outnumbered and outgunned, but they reacted so fast, faster by far than his crews did. Before the hyper-space emergence wave had even settled they opened fire, rocking the Hand of Destiny with just a dozen hits. Swift Death was not so lucky—she took the brunt of the fire from two Sovetskii Soyuz class ships, as well as a pair of Essex class destroyers and a Black Lion class battlecruiser. Even as the Swift Death exploded, the Star League Navy ships began launching their fighters and assault ships—and there were a lot of them.
“Order our fighters to keep theirs off my back, damn it, Harley! Weapons, target that damn Black Lion!”
The McKenna class battleship skewed as the helm turned them broadside onto the League ships. Then its twenty-four heavy Naval PPCs spat coherent energy, splintering armor plate and spilling air from the battlecruiser.
Daragou pounded his fist on the command chair. “Yes, now fin . . .” a massive explosion caused the bridge to shake, and damage alarms began to howl, interrupting his order. The enemy Potemkin had completed her own turn, and returned nearly the same amount of fire into the Hand of Destiny. “Destroy that ship, weapons, NOW!” he screamed, forgetting about the Black Lion for the moment.
September 30, 2767
DCS Mikasa
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Smoke from an electrical fire stung Admiral Matasuke’s eyes as he peered at the display set near his knee on his command chair. Mikasa had taken heavy damage from the Rim Worlds fighters, despite the best efforts of his pilots and weapon crews. Both sides’ aerospace complements had engaged in an orgy of destruction over the past twenty minutes—both were now spent, racing away trying to find a functioning bay in which to land and refuel, before their tanks ran dry and they joined the drifting debris.
Nearly two-thirds of Matasuke’s ships were air-streaming wrecks; or worse, expanding clouds of dust and debris. But of the eighty-six Rim Worlds ships that had turned to engage him, only eleven battered, broken hulks remained. Twenty-two enemy ships though had evaded his forces during the fight and were pushing hard for the planet. He had let them go; knowing Commodore Hall and her flotilla were arriving there momentarily. And they had. Commodore Hall’s ships had stopped dead the Rim Worlders driving for the planet, but at a frightful price. All of Hall’s ships were battered derelicts, those that still existed at least. Only six Rim Worlds ships in that force remained—a McKenna, a Thresher, two Dauntless class Rim Worlds frigates, and two Lola III destroyers, all of them streaming air from multiple hull breaches. And they were moving towards the planet again.
He pivoted his chair towards Captain Abe as he considered his options. There were not many. “Captain Abe.”
“Admiral?” he replied, his face tight from the pain of his newly broken right arm, courtesy of the last series of hits that had nearly broken Mikasa in half.
“Signal General Anders. Have General Samasov launch the reserve fighters from the surface; we won’t be able to stop those six ships in time.”
Before the order could be passed, yet another explosion erupted through the hull of the Mikasa, as a badly damaged Rim Worlds cruiser fired into her side. Two Combine cruisers and a frigate—with perhaps the total firepower of an undamaged light cruiser remaining between them—targeted the Rim Worlds ship and it died in a eye-stunning glare of light.
“Hai, Admiral.”
Matasuke looked at the display, at the enemy ships creeping closer to the point where they could bring their weapons to bear on the planet. And he hoped—he hoped and he prayed that the order had been sent in time.
September 30, 2767
SLS Black Lion
High Orbit, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Emergency lighting glowed red across the shattered bridge of the battlecruiser. Bodies floated in zero-g as the ship drifted. Commodore Alicia Hall looked over her ruined command in a state of shock. She had no intact weapons left and the drive was capable of only a half-g of acceleration. Her ship’s armor had been shattered; she was streaming atmosphere from scores of breaches in the hull. The K-F drive was off-line; it was unlikely her ship would ever leave the Asta system. The remainder of the 247th wasn’t any much better off—the Aleksandyr Nevsky, a Potemkin class, had been lost with all hands. Both of her cruisers were broken wrecks; the frigate Constellation had gone up when her magazines detonated, her sister ship President was tumbling away, without power or life-support. Of her six destroyers, only the Reuben James—a Lola III class ship—had any functioning weapons remaining, but her maneuvering drives had failed completely. Her tracking systems were still functioning and she could see she had failed. The enemy ships were limping towards planetary orbit. Six of them, all hurt badly, but still capable of maneuvering; perhaps still capable of firing nuclear weapons against the planet. She closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle; none of her ships could catch them short of their firing point—or do anything other than ram if they did. Please, God, don’t let this have been in vain, she pleaded, as she looked down at the lifeless body of General Basil Christophos, SLDF.
September 30, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
High Orbit, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Commodore Daragou coughed as the last of the acrid smoke was pulled from his bridge by the powerful fans set in the ducts behind the bulkheads. Emergency lighting showed his systems were on the brink of failure—and his other ships were in worse condition. But his missile launchers were still functional, and the magazine containing the nuclear weapons was intact. But he was the only ship in his broken and battered battle group that could claim that. That damn Star League naval officer had delayed him, and shattered his battle-group. But neither he nor the Draconis ships could stop him now.
“Harley, load nuclear bombardment rounds into all launch tubes. Fire the moment you enter range.”
“Aye-aye, Sir,” his XO replied from the gunnery station. His weapons officer had died during that last exchange of fire, so Harley had taken over. Good. Just five more minutes and he would have the range.
“Sir,” an exhausted voice called out from Tracking. “Sir, we have four hundred and fourteen fighters inbound from the surface, headed on a reciprocal bearing. They will intercept in two minutes and twenty seconds.”
Daragou’s shoulders dropped. Three quarters of his weapons were gone, so was ninety percent of his armor. He had severe internal damage. And only fourteen fighters—nearly out of fuel and munitions—left in his entire battle-group. He lowered his head and made the only decision he could.
“Communications. Is the transmitter still working?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Broadcast our surrender on all channels. Maneuvering kill our forward momentum, and put us in stable orbit out of weapons range of the surface, then shut down the drives. Harley, disarm the nukes and safe the tubes.”
His bridge crew looked at him, disbelief in their eyes. Daragou stood. “It’s over, people. We will spend the rest of the war in a P.O.W. camp, and then hopefully go home after that damn madman we call an Emperor has be. . .” CRACK! The sharp discharge of a pistol echoed across the bridge as the front of Daragou’s skull erupted in a fountain of blood, brains, and bits of bone.
Commander Harley Eversol glared across the bridge from behind the smoking barrel of the pistol that he had just fired into the back of Daragou’s head. “Belay that traitor’s order. Maneuvering go to maximum thrust on all drives; full speed ahead. NOW, sailor.”
As the bridge crew leapt to follow his orders, Harley turned back to his control panel and locked a pair of nuclear weapons onto the incoming fighters. Time to plough the road, he thought. Three minutes, we only need to survive for three more minutes. Then he turned the firing key.
*****************************************************
The engagement was short and vicious on both sides. The Rim Worlds forces fired a dozen nuclear weapons into the midst of the Combine fighters, killing over two hundred. Then the aerospace fighters assigned to General Samasov broke past the missile barrage and entered their own range, salvoing more than twenty thousand rockets, and adding their own weapons to the carnage. When the explosions died away, there was only tumbling debris and dust left where the Rim ships had been.
September 30, 2767
Asta Defense Headquarters
North Continent, Asta
Terran Hegemony
For five nerve-wracking days, Stephen had watched the icons on the holographic projector crawl towards Asta. With the Rim Worlds forces divided into four separate battle-groups, Admiral Matasuke should have been able to engage any one and defeat it in detail. But they could not afford to try that, not against this enemy. If he had sortied and defeated one—or even two—the remainder would skirt past and strike the planet. No, Matasuke had remained in orbit, until thirty minutes ago. Thirty minutes ago, the one hundred and twenty-three ships of Matasuke’s fleet had fired their thrusters and moved to engage the enemy that had finally crossed the orbit of Sapphire—Asta’s largest moon.
Stephen looked across the command center. There was Minoru, speaking softly with Aleksandyr; the Otomo and Colonel Hall in attendance. Sam Anders engaged in a video conference with Gregor Samasov, still on the surface with his troops—where he had decided to remain. Hiroyoshi and Gerald watching everyone in the room like a pair of hunting raptors. The dozens of personnel—Kerensky’s staff, SLDF troopers, Combine naval and army officers, Astan volunteers—who manned the various stations and coordinated the defense efforts. Stephen swallowed hard. He was proud of these people, his people all. Even the Combine personnel were his people, he realized. He was First Lord, not just of the Hegemony where he had been born, but of everyone throughout the entirety of settled space. And today, his heart swelled with pride at the courage and confidence his people showed.
Admiral Matasuke appeared on one of the monitors on the far wall, and Major Julian Chen—one of Kerensky’s staff that had accompanied him to Asta aboard the Borodino—stood and spoke. “My Lords, General Kerensky, its time.”
Stephen nodded to himself and made his way across the command center to the small platform where two chairs—and space for a life-support chair—had been placed. Colonel Hall wheeled General Kerensky in his chair to the empty space in the middle and Stephen leaned over and grasped the man’s right arm, above the wrist.
“God speed, General, and good hunting.”
“Thank you, First Lord. Lord Kurita?”
Minoru Kurita nodded as he sat besides Kerensky to the left as Stephen did to the right. Kurita clutched in his hand the mahogany case containing the ancient ‘Z Flag’—a swatch of silk cloth nearly eight hundred and fifty years old. The flag that had been raised by Togo at Tsushima; by Nagumo at Pearl Harbor. It had been a gift to Shiro Kurita from the last member of the royal family of Japan centuries before—as a way to bridge the gap between the Combine and their heritage; to ensure that the new Imperial power ruled by those who had served Japan in the past would not forget from where they came. When DCS Mikasa had been commissioned into service two hundred and seventeen years ago, the Coordinator had personally placed the ancient flag into the hands of her commander—charging that officer, and all who would come after, with the honor to defend it. Until yesterday, it had never left that ship. Yesterday, Matasuke sent it to the surface in the hands of an aide, ordered to place it in the hands of the Coordinator himself. Stephen had been there when Minoru received it. He understood the meaning of the gesture. Even if we die here today, the passing of that flag said, what we fight for lives on. The Mikasa will live on, even if this incarnation falls. He understood, and he approved.
It had been decided that General Kerensky would speak on their behalf, so Stephen and Minoru waited. Finally, after an eternity, Kerensky nodded, and the technicians sent the signal.
September 30, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
“Sir, we are receiving a transmission from the planet.”
Commodore Jerem Daragou looked up from the remote conference with his three battle-group commanders. A transmission? Now? His flotilla was less than thirty minutes from weapons range with the Combine ships. In five minutes his fighters would launch to sweep the heavens clear of their aerospace support, leaving his superior numbers and firepower to crush the Dragon’s ships like eggshells, before turning the lovely little planet on his view screen into a burnt cinder.
“Yes, Lieutenant. What do they want?”
“I . . . I think you should see this, sir.” Elias Tambora was stuttering and seemed shaken. Daragou shook his head. The most difficult part of reactivating the old Hegemony and League ships of the reserve—as well as the captured and incomplete modern designs—had been the manpower. Already stretched past the breaking point, the Rim Worlds navy simply did not have enough men to crew them all. Amaris had an answer for that, of course. The dozens—scores—of civilian cargo ships that had helped carry his forces to the Hegemony had been stood down, their crews press-ganged into service as conscripts for the Navy.
That had helped some, and given Daragou trained spacers, but not nearly enough. So Amaris reached down into the Army, and transferred several thousand Army personnel into the Navy. Personnel who had never served aboard a capital warship, personnel who might, today, have six or seven weeks of experience with the equipment they were to operate. That fact worried him, but it was out of his control. Lieutenant Tambora, though, he wasn’t one of the new crew. No, Tambora had served with him for the past five years.
“Put it on the main projector, Lieutenant.”
“Sir.”
Daragou waited as the holo-graphic projector shifted colors then solidified into a view of three men. He sat bolt upright as he recognized two of them. Aleksandyr Kerensky and Minoru Kurita!
“Good morning, gentlemen. I am Aleksandyr Kerensky, Commanding General of the Star League Defense Forces. Here with me—on Asta—are Minoru Kurita, the Coordinator of the Draconis Combine and Stephen Cameron, First Lord of the Star League and Director-General of the Terran Hegemony.”
Daragou snarled. Kerensky, here! The Emperor would reward him beyond all measure if he brought news of the death not only of the Cameron, but of Kerensky and Kurita as well.
“I am Commodore Jerem Daragou, commanding the First Flotilla of his Imperial Majesty’s Navy. Have you a desire to surrender yourself to us and spare this world our wrath, General?”
Kerensky shook his head. “No, Commodore. I only want to convince you to lay aside this madness. Power down your ships and accept boarding parties and you will be interned for the duration. Unless you or your men have committed war crimes against innocent civilians, you will be fairly treated as prisoners of war for the duration, after which you can return to your homes in the Rim.”
Daragou couldn’t help himself; he emitted a bark of laughter. “General, have you not seen the numbers of our two forces? If you do not surrender, then you, and the Coordinator, and the so-called First Lord sitting beside you will die, as will the entire planet. I give you my word, surrender now, and I will neither fire upon nor bomb the planetary surface.”
“Yes, Commodore, quite an impressive force you have. Of stolen ships. Hegemony and League ships for the most part,” he smiled as he said that, and Daragou felt a cold chill run up his spine. He was up to something. Kerensky knew something that he did not, but what?
“Have you never wondered, Commodore, why the Hegemony and the League never seemed to place much emphasis upon defending and guarding the ships placed in the Inactive Reserve; ships freely orbiting in the Terran system, the New Earth system, the Keid system, and others? Why, even before we were engaged against the Taurian Separatists we did not place armed space stations in their midst to keep dishonest people from attempting to hijack our property?”
“Have you never wondered, Commodore, why we would treat so many mega-tons of capital warships in such a cavalier fashion? After all, they were only inactive. As you well know, their K-F cores still function, their maneuvering drives still function, their weapons needed only fresh munitions to operate. So why did we leave them, sitting there alone, without a guard, an open invitation to any thief who could sneak aboard to hijack a cruiser or battleship of the Hegemony?”
Daragou frowned. He had never considered the League’s Naval Reserve in such a light. Where was Kerensky going with this? But the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach grew.
“The reason, Commodore, that we were not concerned with a hijacking was simple. We ensured that it could never happen.” Kerensky nodded to someone off-screen. “You see, whenever a ship of the Hegemony or the League is retired from active service, Commodore, it is deactivated and moth-balled. As part of that operation, all systems and software are upgraded to current standards. During the work to prepare a ship for her long sleep, one of the many, many procedures is the installation of a small, unmarked black box module—one of the many thousands scattered across the entire ship. None of the technicians who installed the module were aware of its purpose, and no records are kept of either the installation or its location.”
“This module was first developed during the reign of First Lord Ian Cameron, two centuries ago, Commodore. Since then, its very existence has been passed along from Commanding General to Commanding Admiral, down to me. No one else in the entire Star League knew of it, so of course you could take no precautions against its activation. I am quite sorry, Commodore, but I simply shall not let you use those stolen ships of our Reserve against us.” And Kerensky’s face broke into a broad grin.
Lieutenant Tambora snapped upright at his station. “Commodore! Every ship in the fleet is receiving a data-stream burst transmission from the planet!”
“Shut down all communications receptors! Shut them all down!” Daragou screamed, but it was far, far too late for that.
September 30, 2767
RWS Tempest
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Aboard the ancient Monsoon class battleship Tempest, the data-stream burst reached the comm receptors less than three seconds after being broadcast. The receptors recognized the signal and relayed it into the ship through the optical fiber cables, doing exactly what the communications system had been designed to do—communicate. This transmission though was not intended for the human crew of the ship, but for the central computer core. So, obedient to the hard-wired instructions, the comm system relayed the transmission directly to the core. More precisely to a single black box module that had been installed one hundred and sixty years earlier when the Tempest had been retired from service. For one hundred and sixty years that module had slept, like a well trained dog, while keeping one ear cocked, waiting for its master’s whistle. Now it heard that whistle, and it awoke.
Not in the least drowsy after its long sleep, the module examined the data-stream. Yes, everything matched the commands etched into its memory, and the confirmation was there as well. Good, now it could finally do its job. The module began to issue commands of its own, written in computer code two centuries before by men long dead. But the module did not know that—and could not have cared if it did. It only wanted to do the job it had been designed to do, like a good dog eager to please.
The first command—issued one second after the transmission reached the ship—shut down every instrument panel and control console on the ship, cutting power to every board and depriving the human crew of any measure of control. It also contacted the computers of each of the DropShips attached to the Tempest’s hull and every aerospace fighter carried onboard and replicated itself into their memory, then activated aboard those ships as well. The anti-viral software of the attached vessels and fighters let the command pass without even trying to halt it; the worm had the proper access codes, after all.
Receiving an acknowledgement that the first task had been completed, the module sent a second command forth. Throughout the Tempest—and her attached DropShips and her aerospace fighters—powered hatches slammed open and locked in place; every powered hatch and cockpit aboard, including those that lay on the outer hull and the half-dozen cargo bay doors. A hurricane of air and heat and more than a few bodies erupted from the Tempest and her parasites as they bled air and life like a living creature would blood.
A third command went out, and the fusion power generators went into emergency shutdown mode. Power throughout the ship failed, and back-up batteries began to come online. In an afterthought, the module sent a command to the fuel transfer system, opening vents and ports on the outer hull, and flushed the tanks to vacuum. Finally, the module reached the fourth and last command function. It confirmed the order, and then transmitted it deep into the heart of the central computer core—without which nothing on the ship would ever again function.
The core recognized the order, and asked for a confirmation. It received the correct one. It was a most unusual order, one it had never before received, but the idiot-savant acknowledged the order as valid and began to implement it. The Tempest shuddered as the core began to reformat, erasing all software and data-banks as the massive computer overwrote itself, selfishly committing suicide.
Within seven seconds of the data-stream burst being transmitted—four seconds after receiving it—the Tempest was an inert piece of metal, cold and dead, drifting through space, as were the six DropShips attached to her hull. Of the six hundred and forty-eight men who comprised her crew, seventeen managed to avoid death from vacuum exposure by donning space suits in time. The rest were not quite so lucky. And this was only one of the sixty-eight ships of the Reserve in Daragou’s flotilla affected by Kerensky’s transmission.
September 30, 2767
DCS Mikasa
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Admiral Matasuke looked with pleasure at the display as the precise Rim Worlds formations disintegrated into chaos. Sixty-eight of the Rim vessels—fourteen battleships, eleven cruisers, twenty-four frigates, and nineteen destroyers—lost power and began to helplessly drift, bleeding air and fuel into space.
“Captain Abe, the Fleet will advance. Target only active Rim Worlds vessels, leave the remainder alone. And, Captain, order the carriers to launch their fighter strike, if you please.”
“Hai, Admiral.”
The Rim Worlds force had lost their decisive numerical advantage; in fact, Matasuke now outnumbered his opponent by fifteen ships. In the weight of ships, however, Daragou still held the superiority; though he would not hold that superiority for long. Once again, Matasuke wished they had held off just three more weeks—for that was when he was expecting the shipment of brand-new nuclear warheads to arrive; warheads that were just now finishing assembly at plants deep in the heart of the Combine. But he had to fight this battle with what he had, so forty-two would have to suffice.
“Pass the word to the battlecruisers and frigates, Captain Abe, release of nuclear weapons is at their own discretion. Make certain they know that each one needs to be on target, we don’t have that many to spare.”
Captain Abe nodded to acknowledge the order as he continued speaking into his boom microphone as Matasuke swiveled his chair to face the communications station.
“Communications, please ask General Anders to send the execute command.”
“Hai, Admiral.”
September 30, 2767
SLS Black Lion
Jump Point KV-112 (Uninhabited)
Empire of Amaris (Terran Hegemony)
Basil Christophos and Alicia Hall waited on the bridge of the Star League battlecruiser. Arriving at the jump point four days ago, he had sent ahead a signal over the hyper-fax—as some called the black box communications units—to Asta. They had received a reply almost instantly—from none other than General Kerensky himself. Terse transmissions conveyed the situation on Asta, and Kerensky’s orders for himself and Hall. And the order was to wait. Wait while their drives recharged, wait for the command that would bring them instantaneously into weapons range of the enemy.
So, they had waited. For four days, the crews had been standing by at Condition Two—half of the crew manning battle stations with weapons armed and ready, jump coordinates fed into the K/F drive, fighters and assault DropShips ready to launch; while the other half tried to sleep or eat, waiting to come back on duty and take up their share of the load.
He had ordered the troop carriers with his divisions onboard transferred to other ships, but too few docking collars were available for all of them. Half of the DropShips carrying his ‘Mechs and infantry and armor were keeping station with their own drives, a thousand klicks away, along with the unarmed and unarmored JumpShips and lightly protected transports. But he had stayed aboard the Black Lion. He could have left—he was no naval officer, after all—but in the Defense Force, in Kerensky’s Defense Force, officers did not shirk their duty because of technicalities. Truth be told, he thought to himself, nothing could have dragged him away.
The 247th was taking a monumental risk, Hall had explained, using words that a six-year old could have understood. The L-1 Point that was their destination was the smallest of all of the pirate points surrounding Asta. By arriving there, the 247th would be directly between the Rim World ships and the planet—to get to the planet, the Rimmers would have to go through them. But with twelve WarShips making a simultaneous jump, things could get dicey, she had said. Ships entering or exiting jump could do so only at Jump Points, everyone knew that. But the real kicker was that if a substantial mass—such as another WarShip—lay in close proximity of the jump, BAD THINGS happened. Sometimes the ship never appeared and vanished, its fate unknown. Other times a massive explosion occurred, destroying both the arriving ship and the one already present. Sometimes, the arriving ship arrived safely, to find the vessel too close to its jump point torn to ribbons by the still imprecisely understood gravitational forces associated with a hyper-jump. Basil and Hall would be making this jump at the absolute minimum separation between ships. But jumps were seldom so precise. A single error in plotting aboard a single ship before the jump could result in two ships attempting to jump into the same exact coordinates. BAD THINGS, indeed.
Commodore Hall floated across her own bridge to where Basil waited; a message board in her hands. She passed it across to him and he quickly read it, inhaling deeply. It was time. He nodded at her, handing it back.
“Fraser, sound General Quarters and send the ship to action stations,” she barked. “Signal the remainder of the Flotilla to do so as well. Becket, prepare to initiate simultaneous formation jump in four minutes. Start the jump clock.” She floated down into the command chair and opened the all-hands circuit as the lights were suddenly switched to dim red battle lanterns, and the other crew shift began rushing onto the bridge. “Alright, people, listen up! The General has sent us the Word—and the Word is Go. We are going in hot, so stand by and be ready for anything. This is the best ship in the Fleet, and you are the finest crew any captain could want. I’m proud of all of you. Let’s get in there and do our jobs.”
Basil pulled himself down into a station chair and began to fasten the intricate set of straps that would hold him place—regardless of the sudden changes in thrust and vector that the ship may make. As the jump clock continued to count down, he placed his hand on the breast of his uniform, and felt the crucifix beneath. His other hand began to stroke the rosary he held. He began whispering, “Hail Mary, full of grace . . . “
September 30, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Commodore Daragou was in shock. One-third of his flotilla has just been disabled. His decisive superiority had evaporated to nothing. And on the projector display, the Combine ships were accelerating and launching fighters.
“Battle-groups two, three, and four launch all fighters and engage the Draconis ships!” He barked as he turned to his executive officer. “Harley, pass the order for our battle-group to go to maximum acceleration, and load nuclear weapons in all launch tubes—programmed for saturation coverage of the northern continental mass of Asta. Hold our fighters back, but I want them ready to go on a seconds notice—we may need them to cut us a path.”
“Sir.”
Daragou forced himself to look back at the projector. He would be lucky to extract twenty ships from this mess. But, if he plastered Asta from orbit—killing Cameron, Kerensky, and Kurita—then maybe the Emperor would not feed him to his fish.
September 30, 2767
Slayer Katana Actual
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Jorgensen grimaced as yet another of his flight exploded to his left. Six hundred and seventy-two fighters were part of this strike—the largest aerospace operation in which he had ever participated. Another five hundred and forty provided cover, while the remaining five hundred and fifty eight were trying to keep the Rim fighters off of the Fleet. Unfortunately, even with the surprise Kerensky had sprung, the enemy had almost two thousand fighters of their own in space, over half of them trying to stop HIM. Or so it seemed. And to make matters worse, the surviving Rim Worlds vessels were firing nuclear weapons non-stop. As he weaved his fighter through the fire, yet another nuclear detonation announced the death of one of Kaga’s attack groups.
There had been no rocket pods available to resupply his group, so this strike was loaded with Harpoon stand-off missiles instead. But it was going to take a lot more than a single pass with a pair of the long-ranged weapons to stop the enemy.
The deck crews aboard Hiryu had time to unpack replacement fighters, so at least he had a full complement of fighters. And even more important, was the Fleet doctrine that every carrier must embark two full crews for each fighter they carried. So the replacement pilots of the replacement fighters under his command were men and women he had worked with, men and women he trusted to get the job done right.
But this furball was pure chaos—and suddenly his attack groups were under fire from enemy Makos. Then the Shilone’s of Strike Group 124 appeared, and he was out of the fire. A dozen Slayers had not been so lucky, but he still had nine arrayed behind him. His display crackled with static—interference from all of the nuclear weapons was rapidly becoming a problem—but cleared, giving him a solid look at six enemy ships just off his port-side. Four cruisers escorted by a pair of destroyers.
“121 and 122, we are taking those cruisers. 123 try to keep those damn Makos off of us until 124 gets here. Press the attack, boys and girls. No one goes home with so much as a single shell left in the magazine. Flight leaders, paint your targets and prepare to release Harpoons, then we follow the birds all the way in.”
Hurried acknowledgements crackled across the static filled radio. Jorgenson banked hard, bearing down on the Sovetskii Soyuz class cruiser that now lay ahead of him; nine other of the heavy attack craft following in tight formation. Flak began exploding all around them as the cruiser spotted the incoming strike. A constant tone sounded in his helmet as the seeker heads of the two missiles he carried locked on the target. Green lights across the board showed the rest of Katana flight was locked as well. He squeezed the trigger and felt the Slayer jolt as the two heavy missiles dropped and began to accelerate rapidly towards the cruiser.
“Missiles away! Go to max thrust and follow me in!”
A piece of flak caught his right wing, but the armor held. One, then two, then three of the fighters behind him exploded. His display cleared, identifying the two destroyers riding herd on the cruisers—Brilliant class. Frak me, he thought. I had to pick the cruiser group with a pair of anti-aerospace destroyers as escorts.
The Harpoons bored in, and eighteen explosions lit up the flanks of the heavy cruiser. Still more were impacting on the other three big ships—and at least some of his people had identified the Brilliants. Dozen of explosions wracked those ships as well.
Freed of the drag of the big missiles, Jorgensen’s Slayer charged forward at maximum acceleration, as he crossed the inner threshold of the flak belt. He was pressed back in his seat by the crushing hand of gravity, straining to draw breath as the ships expanded in his gun-sights. Five of his fighters were still behind him. As he reached weapons range, he opened fire, the autocannon spewing shells and the lasers spat bolts of coherent light. Still more explosions—but far smaller ones—began erupting on the cruiser.
Suddenly, his fighter was hit, and began to spin. Red lights flashed on his display, as the stick went dead and the engine died. Three Makos screamed past, but his four surviving fighters kept boring in. Another shot hit his fighter and Jorgensen looked down in horror as the life support system began dumping his oxygen reserve into the cockpit. An electrical spark from the damaged systems ignited the gas and he screamed as his own fighter roasted him alive.
Only fourteen Slayers and eleven Shilones would survive the strike and return to Hiryu and Soryu—none of the enemy cruisers did.
September 30, 2767
SLS Black Lion
L-1 Jump Point, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Basil breathed a sigh of relief when the systems stabilized and the plot showed that they were in Asta, and in one piece. In fact, all of Hall’s ships had come through, according to the plot—but dozens of lurid red icons began to appear as well, and very close. He turned towards her command chair, but before he could speak she began barking orders.
“Launch all fighters and assault ships! Weapons, target the McKenna and the Alaska! Maneuvering, keep us between them and the planet!”
A ragged chorus of ‘aye-ayes’ answered that string of orders from Captain Hall. The Black Lion began shuddering as fifty heavy naval autocannon opened up in rapid-fire mode—consuming ten tons of ammunition in less than a minute. The ship rocked hard as dozens of beams and shells impacted the heavy armor plating, and then the Alaska class vessel in the holotank detonated under the combined fire of her ships. Across the bridge a cheer went up at the red icon winked out.
“Alright, people, that was good. Now pick another target, damn it, and do it again!”
She turned her head to look at Basil. “General, sir, I bet now you wish you’d stayed with your divisions.”
“Not on your life, Cap . . .”
“Incoming!” screamed a voice from Tracking—and the entire ship lurched, lights flickering as the very hammer of the gods slammed into the side of the Black Lion, and everything went black for Basil.
September 30, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Daragou cursed viciously as the twelve brand new, fresh Star League ships popped into existence between him and the planet. The twenty-two ships of his battle-group had them outnumbered and outgunned, but they reacted so fast, faster by far than his crews did. Before the hyper-space emergence wave had even settled they opened fire, rocking the Hand of Destiny with just a dozen hits. Swift Death was not so lucky—she took the brunt of the fire from two Sovetskii Soyuz class ships, as well as a pair of Essex class destroyers and a Black Lion class battlecruiser. Even as the Swift Death exploded, the Star League Navy ships began launching their fighters and assault ships—and there were a lot of them.
“Order our fighters to keep theirs off my back, damn it, Harley! Weapons, target that damn Black Lion!”
The McKenna class battleship skewed as the helm turned them broadside onto the League ships. Then its twenty-four heavy Naval PPCs spat coherent energy, splintering armor plate and spilling air from the battlecruiser.
Daragou pounded his fist on the command chair. “Yes, now fin . . .” a massive explosion caused the bridge to shake, and damage alarms began to howl, interrupting his order. The enemy Potemkin had completed her own turn, and returned nearly the same amount of fire into the Hand of Destiny. “Destroy that ship, weapons, NOW!” he screamed, forgetting about the Black Lion for the moment.
September 30, 2767
DCS Mikasa
Asta Local Space
Terran Hegemony
Smoke from an electrical fire stung Admiral Matasuke’s eyes as he peered at the display set near his knee on his command chair. Mikasa had taken heavy damage from the Rim Worlds fighters, despite the best efforts of his pilots and weapon crews. Both sides’ aerospace complements had engaged in an orgy of destruction over the past twenty minutes—both were now spent, racing away trying to find a functioning bay in which to land and refuel, before their tanks ran dry and they joined the drifting debris.
Nearly two-thirds of Matasuke’s ships were air-streaming wrecks; or worse, expanding clouds of dust and debris. But of the eighty-six Rim Worlds ships that had turned to engage him, only eleven battered, broken hulks remained. Twenty-two enemy ships though had evaded his forces during the fight and were pushing hard for the planet. He had let them go; knowing Commodore Hall and her flotilla were arriving there momentarily. And they had. Commodore Hall’s ships had stopped dead the Rim Worlders driving for the planet, but at a frightful price. All of Hall’s ships were battered derelicts, those that still existed at least. Only six Rim Worlds ships in that force remained—a McKenna, a Thresher, two Dauntless class Rim Worlds frigates, and two Lola III destroyers, all of them streaming air from multiple hull breaches. And they were moving towards the planet again.
He pivoted his chair towards Captain Abe as he considered his options. There were not many. “Captain Abe.”
“Admiral?” he replied, his face tight from the pain of his newly broken right arm, courtesy of the last series of hits that had nearly broken Mikasa in half.
“Signal General Anders. Have General Samasov launch the reserve fighters from the surface; we won’t be able to stop those six ships in time.”
Before the order could be passed, yet another explosion erupted through the hull of the Mikasa, as a badly damaged Rim Worlds cruiser fired into her side. Two Combine cruisers and a frigate—with perhaps the total firepower of an undamaged light cruiser remaining between them—targeted the Rim Worlds ship and it died in a eye-stunning glare of light.
“Hai, Admiral.”
Matasuke looked at the display, at the enemy ships creeping closer to the point where they could bring their weapons to bear on the planet. And he hoped—he hoped and he prayed that the order had been sent in time.
September 30, 2767
SLS Black Lion
High Orbit, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Emergency lighting glowed red across the shattered bridge of the battlecruiser. Bodies floated in zero-g as the ship drifted. Commodore Alicia Hall looked over her ruined command in a state of shock. She had no intact weapons left and the drive was capable of only a half-g of acceleration. Her ship’s armor had been shattered; she was streaming atmosphere from scores of breaches in the hull. The K-F drive was off-line; it was unlikely her ship would ever leave the Asta system. The remainder of the 247th wasn’t any much better off—the Aleksandyr Nevsky, a Potemkin class, had been lost with all hands. Both of her cruisers were broken wrecks; the frigate Constellation had gone up when her magazines detonated, her sister ship President was tumbling away, without power or life-support. Of her six destroyers, only the Reuben James—a Lola III class ship—had any functioning weapons remaining, but her maneuvering drives had failed completely. Her tracking systems were still functioning and she could see she had failed. The enemy ships were limping towards planetary orbit. Six of them, all hurt badly, but still capable of maneuvering; perhaps still capable of firing nuclear weapons against the planet. She closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle; none of her ships could catch them short of their firing point—or do anything other than ram if they did. Please, God, don’t let this have been in vain, she pleaded, as she looked down at the lifeless body of General Basil Christophos, SLDF.
September 30, 2767
RWS Hand of Destiny
High Orbit, Asta
Terran Hegemony
Commodore Daragou coughed as the last of the acrid smoke was pulled from his bridge by the powerful fans set in the ducts behind the bulkheads. Emergency lighting showed his systems were on the brink of failure—and his other ships were in worse condition. But his missile launchers were still functional, and the magazine containing the nuclear weapons was intact. But he was the only ship in his broken and battered battle group that could claim that. That damn Star League naval officer had delayed him, and shattered his battle-group. But neither he nor the Draconis ships could stop him now.
“Harley, load nuclear bombardment rounds into all launch tubes. Fire the moment you enter range.”
“Aye-aye, Sir,” his XO replied from the gunnery station. His weapons officer had died during that last exchange of fire, so Harley had taken over. Good. Just five more minutes and he would have the range.
“Sir,” an exhausted voice called out from Tracking. “Sir, we have four hundred and fourteen fighters inbound from the surface, headed on a reciprocal bearing. They will intercept in two minutes and twenty seconds.”
Daragou’s shoulders dropped. Three quarters of his weapons were gone, so was ninety percent of his armor. He had severe internal damage. And only fourteen fighters—nearly out of fuel and munitions—left in his entire battle-group. He lowered his head and made the only decision he could.
“Communications. Is the transmitter still working?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Broadcast our surrender on all channels. Maneuvering kill our forward momentum, and put us in stable orbit out of weapons range of the surface, then shut down the drives. Harley, disarm the nukes and safe the tubes.”
His bridge crew looked at him, disbelief in their eyes. Daragou stood. “It’s over, people. We will spend the rest of the war in a P.O.W. camp, and then hopefully go home after that damn madman we call an Emperor has be. . .” CRACK! The sharp discharge of a pistol echoed across the bridge as the front of Daragou’s skull erupted in a fountain of blood, brains, and bits of bone.
Commander Harley Eversol glared across the bridge from behind the smoking barrel of the pistol that he had just fired into the back of Daragou’s head. “Belay that traitor’s order. Maneuvering go to maximum thrust on all drives; full speed ahead. NOW, sailor.”
As the bridge crew leapt to follow his orders, Harley turned back to his control panel and locked a pair of nuclear weapons onto the incoming fighters. Time to plough the road, he thought. Three minutes, we only need to survive for three more minutes. Then he turned the firing key.
*****************************************************
The engagement was short and vicious on both sides. The Rim Worlds forces fired a dozen nuclear weapons into the midst of the Combine fighters, killing over two hundred. Then the aerospace fighters assigned to General Samasov broke past the missile barrage and entered their own range, salvoing more than twenty thousand rockets, and adding their own weapons to the carnage. When the explosions died away, there was only tumbling debris and dust left where the Rim ships had been.
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Eternal_Freedom
- Castellan
- Posts: 10413
- Joined: 2010-03-09 02:16pm
- Location: CIC, Battlestar Temeraire
Re: The Cameron Legacy: The Fall of the Star League
Yeah...very very bloody. Am I right in thinking that a good chunk of Amaris' Navy is now dead and gone?
Baltar: "I don't want to miss a moment of the last Battlestar's destruction!"
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.
Centurion: "Sir, I really think you should look at the other Battlestar."
Baltar: "What are you babbling about other...it's impossible!"
Centurion: "No. It is a Battlestar."
Corrax Entry 7:17: So you walk eternally through the shadow realms, standing against evil where all others falter. May your thirst for retribution never quench, may the blood on your sword never dry, and may we never need you again.